…And yet, people absolutely love it. My first introduction to the world of Romance Novels left me entirely unimpressed. Its reviews however? Glowing. In this blog, I unpack why that could be.
When I first embarked on my literary tryst with the Romance genre, I chose The Spanish Love Deception by Elena Armas as my maiden voyage. I knew this book was, as the kids say-
“tik-tok famous”- but there was little else I cared to find out, deeming this qualification to be high enough praise to proceed with my enterprise. I very quickly, like REALLY quickly, about 3 pages in- learned that a little more research would have spared my poor eye a world of pain, seeing how they struggled to do any actual reading amidst the vigorous calisthenics of eye-rolling and cringing that they were perpetually engaged in through the course of this book. I promised myself that I would earnestly read it to the very end when I began this challenge, but I must admit- I found myself glossing over details and skipping over entire pages at some points. At the end of 448 pages, needless to say, it wasn’t encouraging. The experience of unpleasantness and disappointment from this book was so dire, I could hardly bring myself to analyze it. FOR MONTHS.
I mean, my inherent fondness for procrastination does also share some of the credit for the delay, but let’s focus on the point that I am simply taking too long to make- this book was not good. It contains the complex intersection of every staple trope of the genre there is; namely- enemies to lovers, fake romance, a wedding as a key plot device, a forbidden workplace yearning, a slow burn build up and of course- an exotic backdrop to boot. And in between this intersection, there seems to be a story meandering aimlessly to claim its place somewhere in the scribble of letters. The dialogue seemed derivative, and far too manufactured- designed to elicit lust, or even affection- rather than genuinely stirring any of those emotions through strong characterisation or an undeniably powerful story. The “steamy romance” at the centre of it all, between fiery Latina protagonist Catalina Martin and her perfectly built, tough as nails co-worker, with a surprisingly soft emotional core- Aaron Blackford, whose banter while sometimes clever and charming, only serves to unveil the most linear of plots- girl meets boy, girl misunderstands boy, boy loves girl all along, girl misunderstands love for hate, girl discovers otherwise in a comedy of errors in a coincidentally romantic location, boy and girl get together and get very, ahem…physical. The girl lets the boy go but is urged to make a big gesture and get him back. The boy is only too happy to take her back and boom, they live happily ever after.
I rated it a dismal 2 on 5- and decided to validate that opinion by my trusty friend- the internet, and let’s just say- validation I did not receive. Instead, I found book-stagram, book-tok, and bookwitter(?) and the rest, buzzing with only positive things to say about the book. Rather than snort derisively at the alpha-male-with-a-heart fantasy of Aaron Blackford, post after post lauded the depiction of a man who could so deeply love and care for someone, while so successfully hiding it under the outward facade of coldness, only to allow her the space she needs, and protect her reputation for the benefit of her continued professional advancement in the workplace they both share, and where they are- in the eyes of all else, including our heroine- bitter rivals. There’s clearly something about a man that secretly roots for a woman’s growth and success, and works to facilitate without claiming an ounce of credit that seems to continually contribute to some sort of fantasy wish fulfillment for romance readers. And honestly? This part I really get. Who doesn’t need a fairy god-hunk every once in a while? The other parts? Not so much. At every turn, wilful misunderstanding even in the face of clear logic seems to be the wheel that moves every chapter. This book could’ve been an email- and yet it wasn’t. And people are largely thankful for that fact. Upon being faced with this contradiction to my generally spiteful rant about why this book is a complete skip- I decided to assess my bias head on.
In 1855, Nathaniel Hawthorne, of “Scarlet Letter” fame, wrote this in a frustrated letter to his publisher:
“America is now wholly given over to a damned mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash–and should be ashamed of myself if I did succeed.”
Today, over 167 years later- this view still holds true, as avid romance readers continue to thrive in shadowy pockets of the internet, defending their favorite novels and characters in passionate 30 second videos against jibes by critics with upturned noses- much like myself. It’s been seen as a lowbrow pastime, a guilty pleasure- and honestly, the only reason for this is- that the audience for and the creators of romance novels still remain predominantly female, or as Hawthorne calls them- “a damned mob of scribbling women.”
Now, the “criticism of romance novels is misogynistic” stance is nowhere near original. It’s been heard, discussed and dissected ad-nauseam. Even sacrosanct chambers of academic excellence are inviting a more literary, open approach to the most popular of paperbacks.
What I’m trying to address here is not the inherent, but internalized misogyny behind my own critique of them. On one level, it’s so tempting (not to mention, easy) to dismiss romance novels, while giving oneself the self righteous succor of the fact that “needing a man” is not feminist enough- or not really what women should aspire to.
Who am I, or anyone else to decide what is though?
In 1792, Mary Wollstonecraft, the quintessential proto-feminist, lamented women who loved romance in her defining work- “Vindication of The Rights of Woman” highlighting the seductive dangers of sentimental and sensational fiction written by “stupid novelists, who, knowing little of human nature, work up stale tales, and describe meretricious scenes, all retailed in a sentimental jargon, which equally tend to corrupt the taste, and draw the heart aside from its daily duties.”
She believed women were better off when occupied with intellectual pursuits, and striving to claim an equal place with men. She wasn’t alone. George Eliot (or Mary Ann Evans) who wrote under a male pseudonym and gave us cultural phenomenons like Middlemarch and The Mill on the Floss- wrote a seering essay called “Silly Novels by Lady Novelists” in 1856, where she said her fellow female writers undermined the intellect of the average female, and substituted “vagueness for depth, bombast for eloquence, and affectation for originality.”
In far less eloquent words, it’s exactly what I said in the first part of this blog. The formulaic nature of the romance novel seemed a travesty to women who were trying to carve a place for themselves in a world where men were quite literally trying to erase them- from the narrative in most cases, and in more violent ones- from existence. Women, especially those who had fought and garnered an audience of attentive readers for themselves, had to dispel feminine stereotypes, even if that meant lambasting or becoming more punitive to their own sex in the process for their indulgence or enjoyment of pretty much anything else. It’s more than a little disappointing to admit that the overtly critical review I began with was driven by the same impulse.
My internal monologue while reading the Spanish Love Deception was completely along the lines of “women, please do better”, or “oh god, not the same old played out thing. Why can’t these people be more interesting?”
But, why do they have to be? And at what point do we stop holding women to the standards that we simply do not hold for men?
Men’s proclivities are at worst ignored, and at best encouraged. From video games, to sports, or even literary pursuits that glorify violence, gore, or adrenaline pumping activities where women are relegated to side characters that offer themselves up to the man, much as a form of fuel (not unlike food)- in his adventure. They’re the prize the hero has to claim, or the cause he’s fighting for- but none of these things ever highlighted in favor of his fight. Women aren’t dimensional human beings at all. They’re flat characters designed for ego flattery. And yet, films with this plot drive widespread acclaim and profits at the box office. Books of this genre fly off the shelves to become household names, and games with these sequences are glorified to central life events and not just hobbies to unwind. Women however, share their hobbies with other women of the same mind. And defend it in the public sphere like mad women at the stake.
To put it simply- male interests are cool, and female interests are lame.
In all of the above critiques, women who enjoy romance novels are seen immediately to be, well- stupid. It’s no wonder that no one (myself included) wants to be associated with a camp like that. But I think, in 2024, in THIS VERY economy- we need to question what we really detest- women who enjoy romance novels, or women who enjoy…period? The work of a worthy female is to blaze a trail, smash the glass ceiling or strike a blow to the patriarchy. It isn’t to giggle, to be driven to distraction, or (gasp) to desire. Perish the thought!
As a woman, I know that every single moment of the time I spend in a day that isn’t productively engaged, or an easy win for the capitalist engine- contributes to 100% of my joy. Be it lighting a scented candle at the end of the day, or just sipping on a silly little sweetened beverage- it’s a part of my day that I cherish as being simply my own. There’s a unique connection we share with our indulgences- whatever they may be. It’s our chance to be truly what we see ourselves
to be, and not what is expected of us or even appreciated. Our hobbies, indulgences and passions are a factory reset for a mind continually inundated with a constant barrage of standards and expectations.
With this altered attitude, let me now take a stab at another way of looking at this book:
A smart, ambitious girl is stranded in a paradise-like location with an attractive man that centers her needs, displays emotional depth and has no desire to take away from her success- rather, only to further it. He harbors a loyal, single minded affection for her while allowing her to come around to knowing and loving him on her own terms and gets to share a steamy, almost perfect equation with him in a world that prioritizes bodies without shaming them. Their emotional intensity is at par with the physical, and the end indicates an ability to live separate yet unified lives that only signal success.
What isn’t fun about ALL of that? In a world that systematically deprives and belittles women to the point that their own internal monologues are harsh and critical of their own womanhood- it’s nice to be put first. It’s nice to envision a world where having it all isn’t an imposition, but an easy, unimaginably fun process. If the norm is offensive, why won’t the formulaic literature tip the scales to the brazenly fun?
If stupidity is defined by a satisfaction of the senses, or an imaginative fancy- then I think we should all aim to be a little stupid every single day, and laud women for setting such a stellar example of selfhood within consistently trying circumstances. I know I do.
I’m glad my first foray into romance allowed me to step out of the stereotype into something more comfortable. While it still wasn’t the best read in terms of structure and dialogue, in my opinion- I walk away from it now, less derisive- and more appreciative of what the author has endeavored to do. Elena Armas writes not out of formal training, but simply an overwhelming love of the genre. As a member of the Latinx community, she wished to see a heroine that looked like her, grace the pages of the stories she loved- and took matters into her own hands. The autonomy of authorship shines through, and her love does too. She took this from a digital publication that wasn’t touted to be much more, to an internet sensation that virtually pushed Simon & Schuster to acquire it as a bonafide publication. There’s something to be said about moxie- something she, her protagonist and her venture- all possess in droves. Thanks for standing up for female joy, Elena- in whatever way you knew and understood it. I hope we can find ways to keep exploring it in diverse ways, in all its nuances and its many permutations and combinations.
My overall score? Still 2 on 5. But really, who am I to judge?
