Valerie Schultz: Fluffy romance novel is busy mind's vacation
| Wednesday, Sep 02 2009 06:40 PM
Last Updated Wednesday, Sep 02 2009 06:42 PM
When I was in college, my roommate turned me on to Georgette Heyer novels. After we'd spent the semester wading through thick textbooks overflowing with classical and modern plays, dramatic theory, literary criticism, philosophy and theology, she lent me one of her stowed-away "trashy novels", thereby giving me permission to romp in the frothy surf of Regency romance.
In Georgette Heyer novels, passion runs deep between the melancholy lord of the manor and the impoverished but genteel damsel who catches his eye quite by accident (or is it fated?). The bodice is never actually ripped in these rather chaste romances, but the adventure is well-paced, and the ending is satisfyingly fairy-taled. In what became our end-of-semester ritual, a Georgette Heyer novel felt like a day at the beach.
I will never forget, however, the disappointed look on the face of a man I admired when he saw what I was reading: Georgette Heyer! He didn't know how to respond to it. He had obviously mistaken me for a creature of higher thought and more discriminating taste.
We all have our hidden vices.
I have always been a reader: the weird kid in the neighborhood who read densely printed books instead of playing outside, who devoured the newspaper every morning, who adored school. I still read in every spare moment, of which there are far fewer than when I was student.
But I must confess that although I am a lifelong lover -- indeed, savorer -- of the written word, there are times when I still want to dive into the literary equivalent of marshmallow fluff. Although I haven't read a Georgette Heyer novel in years, I am partial to spy novels and political intrigue. I enjoy the occasional crime novel, or a murder mystery.
The books I now think of as trashy novels are the ones that actually make a better movie than a book: Grisham legal thrillers, or Jason Bourne adventures. About once a year I read a David Baldacci novel, which usually involve smart, good-looking people in Washington, D.C., who have met the fictional president, and who aren't cowed by the experience.
In these novels, pacing is everything: the characters are usually paper-thin, the plot pretty mundane, and the dialogue abysmal. A reader must be prepared to overlook factual errors and the occasional grammatical misstep. A reader, in short, must be in a forgiving mood, rather like a gourmet indulging in a Hostess cupcake. We know they're bad for us, quite disgusting, really, but every now and then, they just taste so good.
Aficionados of quality literature usually yield the summer to lighter writing: the "beach novel" is one that has little substance or lasting merit but that sells well and satiates a brain on vacation from the real world. But I submit that serious readers need to take a small break during every season, whether reading with one's toes in the ocean in summer or with one's feet toasting in front of a fireplace in winter. The intellect needs the occasional rest from its highbrow pursuits of excellence. The heart needs some adrenaline-laced pap to get it pumping. The gut needs some overly sweetened endings to feel pleasantly full.
And I know I'm not alone: someone besides my mother is buying all those hard-backed, soft-boiled, hastily written novels available at Costco, thereby sending them to the top of the New York Times bestseller list. We are a nation of indulgers. Just as Hostess is still in the cupcake business, writers of trashy novels are still getting published.
The written word is undergoing a revolution, between the ubiquitous Internet and futuristic devices like Kindle. Newspapers and periodicals cut costs, try to adapt to a changing readership, and still go under. Fewer people than ever read for pleasure. But we remaining readers will always love to crack the spine of a nice, mindless read. Washing it down with a cup of tea and maybe-just-cupcake only completes the experience.
These are Valerie Schultz's opinions, not necessarily those of The Californian.
