Picture this: a selfish woman with a grating personality meets a man pining for his dead wife and spoiling his little daughter to the point that she’s passed unbearable and on her way to loathsome. And somehow the woman and the man fall in love and they all live happily ever after.
I’m guessing that’s what happened. I don’t know.
When I was in high school my friends and I would read during lunch (if we didn’t have homework to do or tests to study for). While I was reading Dean Koontz and Stephen King (or whatever was due for Sci-Fi class), my friends were reading and swapping romance novels. I didn’t partake because they didn’t interest me. I’d read the backs of them and raise an eyebrow and pass them back. I couldn’t understand then how they could read them, but I didn’t say much about it. To each their own and such.
However, in my latest quest to read outside of my comfort zone, I decided to try reading a romance novel for the first time. I was dedicated, determined, and ready to accept the challenge. Who knows? I thought. Maybe I’ll like it.
Yeah, a lot of things have changed since I was in high school. I’ve changed a bit since high school.
My ability to enjoy romance novels is not one of those changes. I made it like five chapters and went…yeah, no. If I don’t care about two people with unlikable personalities and whether or not they get together as it’s acted out on Facebook, I’m not going to want to read about it in novel form.
And so, I abandoned my attempt, wiser, but a little disappointed with myself that I didn’t have the fortitude to finish it.
So, thanks anyway, romance genre, but I’ll leave you to the folks that love you.