Perchance to dream....
I am a student of English Literature, sent to Oxford from the United States to delve into the theatrical worlds of William Shakespeare and modern British dramatists. So if I'm holed up in my room late at night with my nose buried in a book, what am I studying? Shakespeare's tragic heroes? The importance of Harold Pinter's silences? Of course not. I'm more likely lost in the world of a trashy romance novel.
It's an addiction. No joke. I went for two weeks without reading one and went through mild withdrawal. It's not that I missed the intellectual stimulation because I don't read these novels for any literary reasons. I know the plot even before I open the book: a couple meets and are instantly attracted to each other. It might at first be lust combined with a certain derision that quickly manifests itself in the first physical contact, and by the time they finally shag, they have fallen in love with each other but won't admit it. They then undergo some kind of crisis moment because they are scared to be in love, which is followed by a brief separation before the person who doubted wises up and finally asks for them back. If the person who instigated the doubt is the male partner, he produces a ring and they live happily ever after. If it's the type of romance novel with a Fabio-esque muscle man flexing on the cover, they might literally ride into the sunset, but I have never bought the type with such a cover. Even I have standards with my smut.
Why do I keep reading these books? For the ideal romance? Perhaps. It's mainly that when I'm reading such books, I'm not required to think. If I already know the plot, the character types, and the ending, what else does my mind need to do than process the words? For guys, it's the same thing as reading adventure novels such as those by Tom Clancy or Clive
Cussler: they're all the same story with slightly different plots and situations. I also enjoy reading these kinds of books from time to time, but
I don't always like to read about war and murder.
To me, romance novels are brain candy. Some people might unwind by zonking out in front of the TV, but instead I lose myself in the ridiculous worlds of idealized smut. Reality is barely a factor, so it's much more pleasant than watching the news, and they're more interesting than the "reality TV" drivel that's currently taken over the BBC. I know love in the real world isn't the same as love in romance novels. I'm above that, but I'd like to believe that it always works out for the best and that, in the course of say three weeks, I could be happily engaged to the person put on this earth simply to make me happy. And as anyone else who is going to be alone for Valentine's Day knows, this isn't how the world works.
Still, I hold no malicious feelings towards these characters because they are just that: characters. If these were actual people who so easily found love, then I would never chose to read about them because it would remind me how unlucky the rest of the 99% of us are. That's the beauty of disbelief. I don't feel jealousy, only the slim chance that someday it might happen to me, which is why as soon as I'm done with the current trashy novel, I'll go and pick up another one. If I'm not going to get chocolates on Wednesday, then I might as well pick up some brain candy.
15th Feb 2001