Are romance novels still dangerous books?
Your sneak peek at the new foreword for Dangerous Books For Girls: The Bad Reputation of Romance Novels, Explained
A few years ago I wrote a beloved book called Dangerous Books For Girls: The Bad Reputation of Romance Novels, Explained. The title says it all. But given how much things have changed for the world and for romance in the last eight years, I thought it was time for an update. This is the new foreword to the book, which also includes a new essay, The Truth About Historical Accuracy: The Subversive Work of Historical Fiction. Happy reading!
I recently watched season two of Shonda Rhimes’s adaptation of Bridgerton on Netflix, where for a moment, it was the most watched show ever. Dear Reader, I trust that I don’t need to explain the significance of Shonda or Netflix or Bridgerton or what a heady combination of all those words in one sentence is for those of us who have been kicking around Romancelandia for some time, who have been in the trenches of blog comments, ferociously discussing whether lady readers have the brain power to distinguish between fantasy and reality. Now, we are recommending romances for Oprah and even The New York Times reviews romance novels. We’ve come a long way baby!
And just like that, I couldn’t help but wonder: does romance still have a bad reputation?
Are romance novels still dangerous books for girls?
These days, there is a willingness for our culture at large to engage with the romance genre with a little less snark and a little more open-mindedness. Possibly unpopular hot take: I think we can thank Fifty Shades of Grey, which was too big for mainstream media to ignore, and the recently trendy illustrated covers, which make romance seem cute, chic, cool and thus “safe.” We can also thank people at various media outlets who themselves are romance readers and who created space for the genre on their platforms.
I also think romance readers are more openly unapologetic in their love for the genre and have significantly less tolerance for other people’s bullshit about our reading habits. Good. One simply cannot get away with slagging off the genre without attracting the ire of Romancelandia. It is not recommended to attract the ire of Romancelandia.
But I think the romance genre is still dangerous to patriarchal white supremacy, even as it can also be a tool to uphold it.
I first wrote Dangerous Books For Girls: The Bad Reputation of Romance Novels, Explained in 2010-ish, as my master’s thesis and it was heavy on the origins of the novel and publishing industry as well as fears of delicate young white ladies getting ideas about their own autonomy (and anatomy). I rewrote it as a collection of essays and published that version in 2015, the heyday of Fifty Shades of Grey, Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In and the Obama years. How the world has changed since then.
This book was written before #MeToo and serious considerations around what it means to consent, before a serious reckoning about diversity, inclusion and representation in romance, before the spectacular implosion of Romance Writers of America (RWA). Before #WeNeedDiverseBooks and the tragic death of George Floyd and the reckoning it inspired. Before the pandemic and many other BFD and OMFG things that shall not be named.
In many ways, this book is dated. I intend to let it be so.
I cringe at how earnestly I celebrate Lean In without examining the racial and classist dimensions to the concept of women and work and their life choices. Or what it really even means to have a choice. In 2015, I was not familiar with Intersectional Feminism, which is “a prism for seeing the way in which various forms of inequality often operate together and exacerbate each other,” according to Kimberlé Crenshaw, an American law professor who coined the term in 1989.
In 2015, I hadn’t considered how “by women, about women, for women” is unnecessarily reductive and exclusionary. Not everyone strictly identifies as male or female, man or woman. Not every romance reader or writer identifies as a woman. The most recent stats I’ve seen show that 18% of the readership is male. Given the stigma surrounding men and romance, I have a hunch that number is much higher. Good! And while the romance novel has historically been portrayed as the domain of white, heterosexual women, we ought to ask if it should be or needs to be (probably not). What does a romance genre look like when there is space for all kinds of identities?
From 2017 to 2021, I had the honor and privilege of reviewing romance novels for NPR. Every month, I sifted through dozens and dozens of pitches for new releases. I discovered new authors and books on Twitter. And I made it a point to read beyond my usual go-to’s of Regency historical romance. I also made it a point to read more diverse books by diverse authors and featuring characters of color, those who identify as LGBTQIA+ or those who are differently-abled. For every three books I reviewed in my monthly column, there were a dozen that I started but didn’t quite make the cut, but overall I read a lot of great romance novels. It was a joy to recommend them to other readers.
By reading so widely, I have come to understand that the romance genre isn’t just empowering to women; it is empowering to any marginalized group in the same way. It does so by giving them authority over their stories, visibility on their terms, nuanced and empathetic depictions of characters, unapologetic joy on the page and the happy ever after. The genre provides a framework to tell stories that empower.
We are collectively redefining what “happy ever after” (HEA) looks like. It is no longer just marriage and babies. And when the HEA is no longer about just marriage and just babies, we can write romance novels about people for whom marriage and babies do not necessarily apply. Queer historicals, for example. Or women beyond childbearing years. In Romancelandia, we have adopted the “happy for now” (HFN) ending, which may not have wedding rings and sleeping babies, but definitely has an emotionally uplifting and optimistic conclusion, which is what really matters. To me, the HFN means more happiness for more characters.
But as I write this new forward, Roe v. Wade has recently been overturned, stripping away a constitutional right to bodily autonomy from half the population. There are also horrendous efforts to curtail LGBTQIA+ and Trans rights. Books are being banned from school libraries—often books that celebrate love and diversity. Too many people in America still wake up wondering if they are considered fully human in the eyes of the law and society. The world is such that many of us need a break from the doomscrolling; we need to get lost in the pages of a romance novel.
Many defenses of the romance genre begin with the fact that it’s a billion dollar industry. I have written more than a few of those myself, but no longer. Romance is valuable because—full stop. No genre—or human—needs to justify it’s worth by the amount of money it makes. But it’s still important to consider the connection between romance novels and money and value.
When a person writes a romance novel, when a publisher buys a romance novel, when a reader gives their time to a romance novel, a statement is being made about who is considered lovable and who is considered valuable. I do mean actual cash value—a writer’s time, a publisher’s advance, a reader’s money.
Historically, the genre has been a safe space for women to define and create their own value. We have written novels about women, which have sold well, which have put money in the pockets of lady authors, which has given them power and allowed them to expand the market. Rinse, repeat.
It is important that other presently marginalized groups get to define and create their own value via romance. It is important that these books get the attention of reviewers and shelf space and that these authors get money in their pockets. It is important that readers and authors help expand this market. Rinse, repeat.
Authors and readers: we are not passive participants in this. We make choices when we write and when, and what, we read. We send a message when we purchase a book, review it and tell our friends. When a person writes a romance novel, we are making a statement about who we believe is lovable. Are HEAs really only for dukes and other rich white men (unless you’re in Shondaland)? What are we saying when we write novels romancing cops and billionaires? Does love really only exist in the eleven years of Regency England and fictional small towns in contemporary America? Who deserves a happy ever after?
On a similar note, we are also making statements about truth, love and value in historical fiction and romance when we make claims about “historical accuracy.” This edition includes a new essay, The Truth About Historical Accuracy: The Subversive Work of Historical Fiction, which examines this idea especially as it pertains to the history of women and other marginalized groups and how they are represented—or not—in our genre.
When Shonda made her version of Bridgerton, it gave us all a lot to talk about, especially her colorblind casting. There was an explosion of think pieces about Black people in the Regency and the truth about Queen Charlotte. We did research and we all learned something—the Regency wasn’t as white as we might have thought. The duke was Black and the romance still worked. We had earnest conversations in the comments of social media posts about whether it mattered that the book said the duke had blue eyes and then Regé-Jean Page made us realize it did not matter. We had a debate about what Daphne does to Simon and the stunning lack of consent. We compared the original printed pages to the TV show.
And just like that, we all know a little more about race and the Regency, about consent, and space has been made in the minds of readers for more stories that incorporate this new knowledge. The formula and the framework held, and the genre and the readership moved forward.
So, are romance novels still dangerous? Only if you are trying to hold on to a past that never really existed.
I believe that the romance novel format is as subversive as ever, even as it is no longer a shy, Regency lady worried about her reputation. The romance genre these days feels like a heroine who is still not quite Respectable, but it doesn’t matter because she has a circle of those who love her, for herself, just the way she is. Clinch, flaws, scandal and all. Now she moves through the world with the confidence and freedom that comes from being openly, nakedly, unapologetically loved. May she use her power to create a happy ever after for all.
Psst: The new Dangerous Books for Girls is on sale now! Click here to order your copy today.
Thanks for this, Maya. It makes me think about the word “dangerous,” implying risky behavior with outcomes good or bad hanging in the balance. One of the riskiest things most of us non-warriors do is to put ourselves out there for love, with all of the vulnerability that entails. Disaster and hurt are possible outcomes, but happy ever after is also possible. Worth the risk, worth the danger!