Okay, peeps.
I had the greatest, most fantastic, mostly unbelievable, but all-the-way amazing, unicorn kind of weekend. So amazing, ‘tis hard to believe it was real.
To set the stage: Little Man spiked a fever and was home from school on Friday, which forced us to stick close to home all weekend to just chill (with the exception of Chica’s XC meet).
Now.
Usually, this sounds like a solid plan, but then oodles and gobs of to-do’s keep me from actually chilling.
But, not this time!
I had such a long stretch of time, just lounging in my bedroom and reading (with the doors open and the rest of the fam all happy and settled and entertained) but not bugging me, that I honestly couldn’t believe it.
Every increment of time that passed felt like a gift. A GIFT, I tell ya.
At one point, the hubby even texted me from upstairs like: “What is happening???? How has nobody come to harass you????” And I was like: Don’t even think about me down here, or you’ll break the spell!
I literally had two solid hours without interruption, just reading (reading, reading!) in my clean bedroom, on my clean and delicious smelling sheets, nestled beside my soft, new body pillow cover, and it was HEAVEN.
And that heavily vibe was all the more heightened because I had the chance to marathon read a random new book I’d downloaded (all vampires and romantacy and combat) that might not have held my interest without such an extensive stretch of time to marinate in it all.
I read all afternoon, and late into the evening, and I actually finished the darn book within 48 hours, totally entertained and content.
But, wait. There’s more!
I somehow managed to keep the amazing vibes going by starting yet another new book on Sunday…that I proceeded to finish within 36 hours!
A book that had me CACKLING out loud so many times that I startled poor Coda puppy, repeatedly. It was amazing. Such witty dialogue, a fantastic, efficient pace, lovable characters, and all the happy, romantic feels.
And the cherry on top of my unicorn kind of weekend, with two wonderful reading experiences??? This incredible author’s note at the end of this book. It had me smiling like a fool, and fangirling SO much over the accuracy that I typed it all up.
That’s right. Busy-arse woman that I am, I still took the time to type this whole shebang up to post here, because I LOVE this author for putting pen to published words regarding this very topic.
Okay, without further delay…the author’s words on a topic SO NEAR AND DEAR to my heart:
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Exiting news: I’ve chosen the hill I’m going to die on. And it’s the hill of standing up for love stories.
If you read the Author’s Note at the end of my book Hello Stranger, where I mounted a defense of love stories that accidentally turned into a manifesto, you might be wondering, “Is she still thinking about this?”
To which I reply: Yep.
Still thinking about it. Still talking about it. Still trying to insist that hopeful stories about human connection have cultural value.
I mean, of course I am.
If you’re a writer, and if you’ve spent your life reading and loving and studying and obsessing over stories, and if the stories that you genuinely, authentically love the most—by a mile—just happen to be the stories that are the most disdained, the most dismissed, the most ridiculed, and the most eye-rolled at…you’re gonna have some work to do.
What does it say about you if the stories you would save in a fire are generally regarded as ridiculous?
Does that make you ridiculous?
I’ve asked myself this question. Seriously. Literally. I’m no stranger to self-criticsm. If loving love stories makes me foolish, I’d rather know it than not.
I’ve contemplated it.
And my answer? Objectively? To that question?
No.
Of course not. No.
I’m not perfect, but I’m not ridiculous.
But the minute I say that, I flip around and think, “Well, but nobody thinks they’re ridiculous. Even ridiculous people.”
So I look up “ridiculous” in the dictionary. Just to be sure. And the definition is “very foolish.”
Am I very foolish?
I mean—and I say this as a person who is not always on my own side—the answer’s just: no.
I have my moments. I forget what day it is. I double-book appointments. I’ve made some very questionable fashion choices.
But I don’t lack human dignity. I’m not shallow. Or uninformed. Or contemptible.
I’ll go further and say that I am, in fact, a bit deep. I read poetry. I wonder about the meaning of it all. I overthink things. I look up the world “ridiculous.” And when the definition of that word is “foolish”…I look that up, too. And then I dispassionately consider if I would describe myself as “unwise,” “stupid,” “silly,” “idiotic,” “half-witted,” “brainless,” or “mindless.”
And again—except for “silly,” which, in my opinion, gets a bad rap—all those are a no.
I’m saying there’s a disconnect. A disconnect between what I know is true and what the world keeps insisting.
I don’t need to tell you that as a culture we regard romance novels as the lowest category in do fiction, do I? You already know it, the way we all do.
And yet, I just keep thinking we’re wrong.
For a long time, I maintained that romance novels were no worse than any other kind of novel: no more ridiculous than wars in the stars, no more unrealistic than superheroes in bodysuits, no more nerdy than wizards in the forest, no more impossible than a zombie apocalypse.
But now I’m changing my mind. Maybe it’s not just that love stories aren’t any worse than other kinds of stories…
Maybe they’re better.
Maybe love is more valuable than we think.
Maybe stories that help us see our best possibilities are exactly what this bedraggled world needs.
Because love stories let us witness infinite ways that characters master pro-social behavior.
And now I’m headed back to the dictionary again: “Pro-social behaviors” are ones that benefit “another person, group, or society as a whole.”
Love stories can be built out of infinite plots involving almost anything—ghosts, murder, pirates, movie stars, firefighters, whatever—but one inevitable truth about them is that, no matter what, the behaviors that drive the story toward its Happily Ever After are pro-social ones.
Our lovers might not be good at love when they start out. But if they want that happy ending, they damn well better figure it out.
And so, over the course of the story, they master the many arts of listening, and connecting, and nurturing, and caretaking, and trusting, and appreciating, and savoring, and sharing, and empathizing. They have to overcome their prejudices, to learn to apologize, forgive each other, and sacrifice.
When we read love stories, we get to see kindness in action. And human compassion. And connection made visible. And people choosing to be the best versions of themselves in the face of it all.
Love stories show us people getting better at love—in real time.
The same cannot be said of, say, serial killer stories.
It’s not nothing to witness acts of goodness. In fact, it creates an expansive, uplifted, physical feeling in our bodies that psychologist Jonathan Haidt calls “moral elevation.” It impacts us—and changes us. This is documented.
Witnessing other people doing good makes us want to do better ourselves.
And don’t forget: We learn by watching.
Researcher Helen Fisher has studied love scientifically—most notably by doing brain scans of people in love as they look at photographs of the people they’re in love with—and she concluded that romantic love is not an emotion. It is a human drive, like hunger or thirst.
It’s not just something Hallmark made up to sell Valentine’s cards. It’s not a construct of the patriarchy. It’s a deeply embedded, essential component of the human experience.
And so I just keep coming back to this question: If we didn’t insist that romantic love was more ridiculous than zombies…would we be better at it?
I’m not saying everyone has to read love stories. I’m not going to march into the living room and rip that fighter pilot novel out of my husband’s hand to replace it with a Julia Quinn. The stories we need call to us from deep places in our psyches. And we find them with our hearts more than our heads. Your inner compass will guide you to the particular stories that you need to hear.
What I want to say is just this: If you’ve been shamed away from reading love stories? Hello, friend. Come over to the fun side.
The ridicule? It’s wrong. In that way the world has of being so very wrong about so many things.
Come hang out with me on my hill of love stories. I said it was the hill I was going to die on, like some great battle was destined to rage there—but, you know what? Let’s not do that. Let’s give ourselves a happy ending instead.
Let’s spread out a picnic blanket, and eat cupcakes, and drink something fizzy. Let’s let the sun warm our skin, and the wind ruffle our hair. Let’s immerse ourselves in hope, and joy, and goodness—and just read and read and read.
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Insert mic drop, ‘cause there’s nothing else to say. :)
Happy Halloween Eve, peeps!
More mañana.
Over and out.
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