That One Time I Read Romance Novels for 4 Months

I have an English degree. Sometimes, this is a cool thing, like when people ask if they need to add a comma somewhere (no) or what Shakespeare meant in Sonnet 116 (no idea) and, you know, that sort of English-major-y type stuff.

Most of the time, though, this is a trivial thing.

I majored in English because a bunch of books by a bunch of dead white guys seemed interesting to me, and I wanted to know what they had to say, and then I wanted to know what old white professors had to say about the dead white guys.

I might sound like I'm joking, but that is a fairly accurate summary of what happened during my four years of college.

I also majored in English because other than writing, I'm not very good at many other subjects. If I could have written more papers about math instead of doing math, I might have a different story to tell you, but I gave my TI-83 calculator to my brother during my senior year of high school (and I haven't seen it since), so allow me to feign ignorance when you talk to me about balancing my checkbook BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. NUMBERS? HUH?

Don't get me wrong - I loved being an English major! I didn't have class before 10am. I could find my books for fifty cents a pop at used bookstores. My classes never required full attendance (Mostly because I avoided the professors who took attendance....) so I spent a lot of class hours sleeping in my bed every quarter. Other than reading and writing papers, I didn't even have homework.

It was awesome.

When I actually went to class, I studied a lot of wonderful literature. John Milton, Anne Bradstreet, John Donne, and Sherman Alexie are some of my favorite writers, and had it not been for my major, I would never have picked up any of their works.

Reading English lit books day-in and day-out can take a toll on you, especially when you can't find the Cliff Notes versions, so I decided to stop taking English classes for a little bit. I wanted to read books that weren't assigned and discover authors who weren't Pulitzer prize winners. I started reading personal blogs more regularly. I picked up the occasional magazine and newspaper. I wanted to read fluff and enjoy reading fluffy stuff again.

That is when I decided to read romance novels, and those, my friends, are the fluffiest and some of the best damn books I've ever read.

When I say these books were of the romance variety, I'm talking, like, England regency era novels with, like, horse-drawn carriages and butlers and parasols and shit. There were rogue bachelors with family fortunes and scullery maids with hidden, royal lineage and a lot of cravats and corsets. The woman was always beautiful and free of love handles, and the man was dashing or daring or devilish, and they always ended up married after a lot of courting and riding in carriages and going to balls, etc.

I don't even know why I'm telling you this because that is sort of humiliating to admit, but then again, I am that girl who wrote a paper about sparkly vampires and spoke on that very same subject in front of a group of English literature smartypants-types in a giant auditorium. Had it not been for me, they never would have known about Edward Cullen and his impossibly perfect hair.

You're welcome, Stephenie Meyer.

But yeah, the one quarter that I decided to take a "break" from my English courses and register for a bunch of "fun" courses (SCI-FI FILM? NOT FUN! NOT FUN!) was the same quarter I reserved every Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn novel at my city library to balance my brain against the upcoming tide of Beowulf and Paradise Lost.

Despite what you might think of my college experience, I have never done drugs, so I don't know what that's like, but I think that the addictive quality that makes, uh, drugs addictive must have been sprinkled onto all of their books. I have read everything those women have ever written, and that's like 50 corset-ripping novels apiece because romance novelists? PROLIFIC TO THE NTH DEGREE!

Because there are so many romance novels and romance writers out there, I can see why The People Who Decide What is Good English Literature turn a blind eye toward them and ignore one of the biggest sections at any Barnes & Noble. There is just too much to read, and after awhile, all of the novels start to bleed together into one giant MidnightKissofStolenEmbracesForeverandAlwaysTheSequel. I get it.

But romance novels are happy, and they make for happier readers and happy people don't kill other people, so really what is so smutty and awful about reading a fluffy romance novel and believing that it is a legitimately good book?

Now that I'm all graduated and not around my  English major peers, I have the confidence to give a voice to my fellow romance novel aficionados and tell the rest of the world to not judge a book by its airbrushed, mustachioed and bicep-bulging cover because it is probably better than that one book about a bunch of random people going on a pilgrimmage to visit a shrine.

Actually, any book is probably better than The Cantebury Tales.

I have a degree in this sort of stuff, so I have the authority to make such claims.