I’ve always said I wanted to get married in the New York public library, not just because the journalist in me is convinced I’m a Southern Californian Carrie Bradshaw, but because I want to be surrounded by the greatest love stories ever. 

As long as I can remember, I’ve always gravitated towards books where I can feel an emotional connection. Third grade me knew I was done for when I started hysterically crying to my mom because I wanted so desperately for the red rainbow fairy to be with the handsome lagoon mermaid mermaid. Why couldn’t he leave the water…they love each other?

I love to read about two characters who need each other so intensely that they can’t breathe without the other. Characters who (dramatically) clutch their chest because they can actually feel their heart breaking. Who simply feel overwhelmed when they watch the other sleep (shout out Gus in January from “Beach Read”). Characters whose favorite everything is just each other.

I enjoy romance novels to read them not only fall in love, but to read the main characters fall in love with themselves. 

I clearly knew I was a hopeless romantic from a young age. But, I was reintroduced to the genre at a time where I  struggled to find the light in situations happening in my own life. I’m not exactly sure how to put it into words but I felt dull. Static. 

I was scared to pick up a romance book because only moms in book clubs who down bottles of rosé read those…right? I was sitting at the desk of my High School job, where I worked as a gift wrapper for an oddly expensive boutique that doubled as a car wash gift shop and opened “28 Summers” by Elin Hilderbrand. One of the older women who also worked there left the book behind and I was contemplating my entire life, so I read. 

And I couldn’t stop. And I haven’t stopped since.  

I’m not sure why romance is often referred to as a guilty pleasure because, if anything, I found a loving community that braces the happy endings in the, yes, sometimes predictable books. But you always hear, never underestimate the power of a happy ending. With the thousands of tropes and genres, I’ve been introduced to a whole new world. Tense sports romances, fantasy worlds, historical pieces, beach reads, silly romcoms and even the occasional spice that is sometimes very much needed.  

Romance books offered me, yes, an escape from my real life, but in a way that put my own life into perspective. Sure, I may now have obsessively high expectations (which probably isn’t healthy either)  but I found joy in the small details in my life. They opened me up to different perspectives and experiences I never would have if I didn’t fall into the spiral of romance reading. 

I read romance because I want to laugh, cry, feel butterflies and go into cardiac arrest all at the same time. I read romance for the emotion. It’s raw, relatable, open, tender, intense, real and magical. It’s the confident  lead cracking open the grumpy sunshine. It’s the contrast of danger and comfort. It’s the desperate resistance to not fall in love, even though they’ve already fallen. It’s the car headlights across a bedroom window for a late night drive, the secret pick-ups behind malls and silent picnics under the sun. It’s all these different personalities and emotions coming together. I love it. 

I love audibly gasping when the two characters finally admit their  feelings. I love crying so hard with the main character that I can’t even see the words I’m reading. I love smiling, so big, my roommates are convinced I just received the best news. I get those mom book clubs, now. I’ve got my bottle and I’m ready to join.