With the munchkin in bed and a steady stream of crap on TV (how can that be possible with 100+ channels?!), the man and I are left with nothing but our home movie collection from which to select the night’s viewing. There’s some to-ing and fro-ing as we bicker between us until I pick up a film I’ve fancied re-watching for awhile, one of my all-time favourites: The Fisher King.

My husband groans.

“You want to watch that again?”

I shrug. “I just fancied it.”

“But it’s a love story.”

“So?”

“You don’t get enough of that crap with your books?”

“What’s wrong with a love story?”

“It’s boring. Stupid. Pointless. Take your pick.”

“Oh for God’s sake … look, if that was the case, why are there so many romantic comedies?”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t bloody watch them.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I gesture wildly to our groaning DVD collection. “I defy you to find one film here that doesn’t have a love story in it one way or the other.”

I don’t catch him, but I swear he rolls his eyes.

“Look, regardless of what you may think, love’s at the centre of almost everything.”

He sighs patiently. “Whatever, Vik.”

“Find one, then!”

“What?”

“Name me one film we own that doesn’t have a love story in it somewhere.”

He snorts, indulging me with that maddening smile of his that suggests that he’s placating an idiot. With the same smug grin, he turns to the shelves and runs his eyes over the titles: Star Wars, Natural Born Killers, Cars, Meet the Parents, About A Boy, Ocean’s Eleven …

“Um …”

His superior grin is fading now: Top Gun, The Lion King, High Fidelity, Silent Hill, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Grease (embarrassing, I know, but it’s my guilty pleasure film), a billion James Bond movies …

I grin. “Well?”

… Monster, Spiderman, Memoirs of a Geisha, Monster Inc., The Goonies, Never Been Kissed, Silent Hill, Labyrinth (whoops – another guilty pleasure), As Good As It Gets …

“Have I made my point?” I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty smug myself now.

“Shut up.” He turns away – no doubt primed to stomp off to the couch – but turns back sharply, a title catching his eye. Suddenly he’s jumping in the air – yes, my thirty-four-year-old husband is leaping about like our child thirty years his junior – and waves a black DVD case in my face.

“HA! Ha! I got one! The Exorcist! There’s no love in the Exorcist!” He throws it down onto the floor as though hammering home the winning touchdown.

I sigh. “You’re a sad, sad man, babe.”

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What I love about reading romance – well, you know, besides the love itself – is the breadth and depth of choice. Simply enter a bookshop, inhale that heady scent of aisle upon aisle of clean, beautiful pages, and you’ll know what I mean. Pick up any of the romance novels on offer and you’ll be transported into one of a thousand different worlds, featuring a million different people all working their way through a gazillion different scenarios.

And every single one of them will be different.

As a reader who has publicly admitted to coasting her way past the safe shores of What She Knows, it’s actually a little overwhelming to think that my own slice of romance cake is merely a teeny, tiny sliver of what’s out there. And as I grow bolder, grabbing the biggest spoon I can find to really dig in and sample that cake, I can’t help but be amazed at how many different tastes are on offer, how vast that choice really is.

Where else other than the Romance aisle can you pick up two books from the same genre and end up with two COMPLETELY stories? One funny, one serious, one a gritty true-to-life tale, the other a flight of pure fantasy? So few genres offer the reader a choice – a real choice – between modern day and period pieces, happy endings and sad ones, stories of heartbreak and betrayal and mystery and horror and triumph. There are sub-genres upon sub-genres, all of them there to satisfy that particular itch for that particular reader.

And yes, we all have our favourites. The authors and scenarios and stories that are tried and tested and we know won’t disappoint, but just how amazing is it to be able to, at any point, take a leap any which way and try something new – whilst still remaining in safety beneath the romance umbrella?

It’s awesome, isn’t it?

Readers and writers of romance alike still often face that (ridiculous) prejudice that deigns to set our genre of choice as inferior to others, but when I look at what’s on offer and how wonderfully diverse our reading selection really is, I’m so proud to have a part in it – however small it may be.

Now pass me that spoon!

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It seems that I only did it the other day but the time has come – yet again – for me to have the dreaded ‘clear out’. No, I’m not talking about the wardrobe, or the kids’ bedroom or even the box-strewn garage. I’m talking about my bookshelves. Sob.

I’ve put it off long enough. As I sit here and type, I can see a dozen or so books shoved precariously on top of the once-were-very-neat lines, with further titles thrown on top of the case and others shoved into the gap between the floor and the bottom shelf (I wish I was lying). I think if I tried to pull even one book out of there right now the entire contents would fall on my head, bookcase and all.

Although there’s a part of me that always loves sorting through my books and reacquainting myself with all those lovely and not-so-lovely people that kept me company (it’s like settling into a comfy pair of jogging pants and snuggling down in front of the fire), I generally hate everything about it. It’s like Sophie’s freaking Choice.

I spent hours, days and sometimes weeks of my life caring about these people. Worrying about them, their thoughts, their feelings. Some moved me to tears. The thought of selling them or giving them away almost makes me sick to my stomach, but I buy so many that short of moving to a new house (which’ll never happen – I buy too many bloody books to up the mortgage any time soon), I have to get rid.

And so begins the ranking process. I generally split my book collection into three piles – ‘Throw This Away and I’ll Cry – DON’T DO IT’, ‘I Think It Was Okay’ and, finally, ‘Throw It, Throw It Away NOW’. I’m sure it comes as no surprise that the former pile always outnumbered the latter 10-1, with the centre pile swelling with uncertainties as I wonder a) what that book was about and b) if it’s worth retaining. I almost never fail to re-read these all over again, just in case they’re fantastic and well worth hanging onto. If this doesn’t defeat the purpose of a clear out than I have no idea what does quite frankly.

So, what does it take to make the cut and be in that very first pile? You know, sometimes I’m not sure that even I know (I know that in the past I’ve retained books that, on re-read, turned out to be completely hideous). Which, in turn, always makes me wonder: what is it about these books that make them so instantly unforgettable at that particular time in my life? What touched me so?

If you had to sort out your own book collection now, how would you go about deciding what stays and what goes? What is it about your favourite books that makes them so worth retaining?

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Although I like to pretend that I’m adventurous and amazing in my literary choices, that I choose new titles and authors with reckless abandon, I have a confession to make.

I think I’m the Missionary position of the reading world.

There. I said it.

Finding something new is too much sweat, hassle and waaaaay too much hard work. More times than not, it’s easier to slip into something worn and comfortable with an author I know because I know where I am. It’s safe, it’s predictable and it’s easy.

It’s also mind-numbingly BORING.

I usually only realise that I’m in a rut several months down the line, and usually at a point where it’s almost impossible to turn back. (Although I have been known to hack off a shortcut or two on rare but enjoyable occasions!). This is no exception. If someone was to ask me if I enjoyed reading sci-fi romance, or gothic literature, or any of the other 1001 sub-genres around, I’d shoot back a straight and uncompromising ‘no’. But in all honesty, that response is nothing but assumption. I assume I won’t like it because most of the novels I’ve enjoyed the most are contemporaries, but it’s actually completely groundless. Knowing that it’s groundless doesn’t help me at the bookstore however, as I stand there, dithering (bookstores are the only places on earth where I still permit myself to dither), and desperately trying to whittle my mountainous ‘maybe’ pile to a more manageable ‘purchase’ pile. At the end of the day both my time and my money are finite and so more often than not, I’ll opt for something safe and familiar and ever-so-slightly dull.

Like I said, the Missionary.

I used to be a member of an amazing book club which had such a fabulous selection – and all at the most fantastic prices – that I felt comfortable dipping into new genres and authors. I felt obliged to quit it when my first son came along (no spare money + newborn + no free time = a very miserable V) and when I went to rejoin very recently, I was devastated to find that it had disappeared under the might of a book club merger. NOOOOO! Now what the hell am I supposed to do?! My one tried and tested means of experimentation gone!

This is where you come in.

I love to read. And I love to read romance. But as I now so rarely have the luxury to pour over bookshelves for hours while I agonise over my choices, I need a way – please, God, any other way! – that can help me branch out a little. I know I can’t be the only romance reader out there who’s loyal to her genre, but secretly, wouldn’t mind a little bit on the side.

So what do you do? What must a novel incite in you to urge you to make that heady cross-genre leap?

(Oh, one last thing . . . Don’t take my teasing all that seriously – we all know that there’s nothing wrong with a little missionary now and then!)

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Four weeks ago, I found myself rather unexpectedly in hospital. As is so often the case with these things, a quick, routine day surgery turned into a three hour extravaganza and when I came ’round following the anaesthetic, I was informed by my surgeon – with surprising relish – that I wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. I paled. Bugger. Husband, please go get me something to read. Now!

He did well. He brought in a couple of TBR titles that had been sitting on my bookshelf and, determined to make good of a bad situation, I thought of how often I’d fantasised about being stuck just like this – in bed and with nothing to do but read, read, read until my eyes burst or maybe caught fire. Once visiting hours were over (and the painkillers had kicked in), I settled down as best I could and picked up the book closest to me. I think that the coma patient in the next room must have heard my groan.

Being confined to a catheter and crappy hospital bed (not to mention on a six bed ward with no bloody TV) meant that I couldn’t just up and change my mind about . . . well, about anything. Which was why, on the first Saturday night in hospital, I was stuck in bed with no visitors to rescue me from THAT book – the one I’d been putting off for almost as long as I’d owned it.

This particular title I’d started three times before, each attempt resulting in an exasperating deferral back to the bookshelf. From what I’d already read, it was beautifully written with the seemingly perfect balance of romance and real life for me to fall desperately in love with everything in that imaginary world . . . everything, that was, besides the heroine.

I. Didn’t. Like. Her.

As a romance reader, I engage in this particular genre because I like (need?) to escape. I like to live other lives, particularly if they’re full of love and lust and ludicrously gorgeous men. And as a rule, I’m not particularly fussy on who they are, where they live or what they do – as long as the essentials – did I mention the love, lust and ludicrously gorgeous men? – are intact, I like to think that I’m pretty easy to please. Turns out, I’ve found another essential to add to my scant list – if She’s not likeable, I’m not liking the book. Period.

That’s not to say that I don’t dig flaws. My own characters have their fair share, and I think it’s difficult to maintain any sense of realism if your leading cast could double as the robots from Stepford Wives. I certainly don’t deny myself a little escapism from time to time, and if that means becoming someone who lives five thousand miles away and being paid a salary with more noughts than a lottery win, then all the better (particularly if that someone has a sexy guy in the wings, too). That said, they still have to be likeable and tick all the boxes that, to my own fickle and exacting standards, I expect from friends in my non-fiction world. That means that spiteful and cruel narcissists are definitely out.

Of course, we’re all different, and we all have differing standards and priorities, but that heroine – whilst demonstrating a little growth at the story’s end – didn’t seem to learn enough for me to ever stop truly disliking her (and in the end I didn’t like him much either, fearing of his decidedly dodgy tastes in women). It resulted in a very lukewarm reading experience, but I think that what disappointed me most was that the author was undoubtedly talented with a strong voice and a satisfying storyline . . . but thanks to that two-dimensional and utterly unfriendly female role, I doubt I’ll ever pick up a book by that particular writer again.

And so begs the question . . . am I alone in this? Am I the only one who has been turned off a book by an unconvincing cast even though it promised so much? How important is it to you that you like your leading characters, even if you strictly can’t relate to them? And the final question mark of this essay . . . it is even possible to fall in love with a book when you can’t even find it in you to like the leading roles?

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Besides the usual – my first boyfriend (Ian), my wedding day (not to Ian), the first time I got drunk (connected to Ian) – I have an amazing incapacity to remember anything important. The unimportant things – old telephone numbers (Ian’s) or the calorie count of a Snickers bar (280 – nothing to do with Ian) – have clogged my brain. I’d blame childbirth, but anyone who knows me will attest to that being a lie. I’ve always been crap at remembering stuff.

I do, however, remember the very moment I first picked up a romance book.

I was twelve years old, right on the cusp of my thirteenth birthday. In the middle of June my brothers and I were stuck inside my family’s small caravan on a cliff overlooking Cardigan Bay and I remember, with surprising vividness, that I was sick – sick of the rain, sick of my brothers and sick to death of the bloody chickenpox that had plagued me and brought an end to any hope I’d had of dancing with a boy (Ian) at the Clubhouse’s Under-16’s disco.

I was lonely and miserable and boooooooored.

I’d already outgrown my childhood paperbacks and had, for years, been regularly perusing my parents’ bookshelves. I had already lost several nights sleep to King’s Christine and Carrie but thanks to that particularly unpleasant summer, scabby and lovesick and crammed into a poky room with two younger brothers, I’d exhausted my own book supplies ten days too soon. Either I had to find myself some new reading material or I was going to hurt a sibling for there was NO WAY that I was going to tolerate the latter without a serious supply of the former.

As Mum and Dad rented the ‘van throughout the year to help fund the tenancy, Mum’s complimentary bookshelf – a rickety bamboo shelf taped to the wall above an old television set – had swollen over the years. Along with her offerings of well-thumbed horror books and Danielle Steel novels, visitors had kindly left behind books they too had finished. It was here, jammed between Now and Forever and Salem’s Lot, that I found my first Mills and Boon novel.

I can’t have been a third of the way through when my mother ‘found out’. She went ballistic. I’d already been exhibiting too much interest in the lad (Ian) at the other end of the caravan field, and I don’t think that she was keen to expose her barely-teenaged daughter to a tide of errant penises and meaningful glances. She confiscated it, along with the remaining risqué titles from the bookshelf, and subjected me to a long tirade about how romance books were garbage, pointless, and cheap to buy because they were cheap. They taught me nothing and were a waste – of my time and my money. They were written for sad and lonely spinsters with no other means of titillation.

I had been a reader of romance for less than three hours and I was already ashamed.

(And far too scared to ask why it was okay to read Danielle Steel and not M&B).

Although, in hindsight, I can (kind of) see her point, I’ll never forget her reaction. Even then, I couldn’t quite understand why it was acceptable for me to read a novel about demonic cars and corpses but not one of love and romance. How was a horror book better than romance – or any genre, for that matter? Surely all that mattered was that it kept me entertained and out of trouble (and Ian’s caravan)? In the end all she did was pique my interest. And my sneakiness.

I exhausted my pocket money on second- and third-hand Silhouette books, roaming car boot sales and bric-a-brac stalls. Trips to the library were discreet, the books carefully hidden away under the sweaters in my wardrobe. When I began to write, I did it in big, loopy longhand in a notebook that I tucked behind the headboard of my bed. Anything and everything to do with romantic fiction was hidden. Secret.

Unfortunately it didn’t end with my mother. My reading choice always shocked people. I’m the first to admit that I am not, by nature, inherently sweet or romantic, yet I never could understand why people found it so surprising. Even in university I found myself concealing romance novels behind my headboard, my love of love once again a dirty secret in order to protect the scant cool points I’d stacked up. S&M and would have been more acceptable than M&B.

As a comparatively young romance reader, Chick Lit changed my life. Not only did it give me what I felt romance of the time sometimes lacked – women with balls – but it brought with it a new acceptance. While still wary (did you think I’d forget my mother’s lecture in a hurry?) I began to realise that I wasn’t alone. Millions of women – smart, funny and beautiful women, women with great lives and good jobs and beautiful children and gorgeous husbands – were reading this stuff right along with me. It was okay to love the chase and arguments and fantastic make-up sex because the women sat across the train from me were reading it too. My mother had it all wrong.

I look back at the twelve year old me and I’m so proud of her. For sticking with romance. For believing in it. It would have been so easy for her to have taken her mother at her word – as most little girls so unquestionably do – and never have picked up a romance novel again.

I’m so grateful that she was stubborn and willful and allowed herself to fall in love with romance.

p.s. I’m definitely not still in love with Ian. (Honest).

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