Romance Novels. Seriously.

Your soul needs them

Blame Courtney Milan. I started following her on Bluesky. Funny, smart, acerbic, and I like her politics a lot. Eventually I visited her web site, and the “Where to start” page.

And the kindle editions were dirt cheap on Amazon.

What I found were stories with brilliant, smart, female protagonists back in the days of corsets and long skirts, bumbling English men embarrassed to be Lords or nobles, and a whole village of Japanese-Britons.

And of course, tons of history on subjects that I never knew existed.

What really made these books work for me - and I now know that you don’t write a romance novel, you write a series of them with recurring characters - was something that reflects the bizarre and terrifying times that we’re living in: escapism.

Right now, for me, the predictable outcomes, the flowering of romance, the inevitable but much delayed physical intimacy, all serve to take my mind away from the likes of Trump and Musk, and climate disaster, and capitalism.

And I hadn’t realized just how much I needed that release.

Now, I’ll admit that Milan’s books are decidely feminist, which always works for me, and fairly anti-capitalist, which is even more appealing these days. At a time when most of the mainstream media is owned by and sells the story of capitalism as the only possible route to success, these messages sing to me, warm my heart, and convince me that yes, I can possibly make a change.

Now, once you’ve worked your way though a half dozen Milan romances, here’s another suggestion. These days all of the books I’m reading tend to be recommended by other writers on Bluesky. The one that I am devouring at this minute is Mexican Gothic, by Silvia Moreno-Garcia.

Oh my god! It has been a very, very long time since I started a book and refused to put it down, but this is just that. I read half of it yestserday in one sitting, and am desperate to get home and finish it tonight.

Here’s a blurb:

After receiving a frantic letter from her newly-wed cousin begging for someone to save her from a mysterious doom, Noemi Taboada heads to High Place, a distant house in the Mexican countryside. She's not sure what she will find -- her cousin's husband, a handsome Englishman, is a stranger, and Noemi knows little about the region. Noemi is also an unlikely rescuer: She's a glamorous debutante, and her chic gowns and perfect red lipstick are more suited for cocktail parties than amateur sleuthing. But she's also tough and smart, with an indomitable will, and she is not afraid: Not of her cousin's new husband, who is both menacing and alluring; not of his father, the ancient patriarch who seems to be fascinated by Noemi; and not even of the house itself, which begins to invade Noemi's dreams with visions of blood and doom. Her only ally in this inhospitable abode is the family's youngest son. Shy and gentle, he seems to want to help Noemi, but might also be hiding dark knowledge of his family's past. For there are many secrets behind the walls of High Place. The family's once colossal wealth and faded mining empire kept them from prying eyes, but as Noemi digs deeper she unearths stories of violence and madness.

Finally, a big recomendation for what maybe the finest birthday present that I’ve seen in ages: a subscription to the London Review of Books. The real printed paper hasn’t even arrived in the mail yet, but I’ve been devouring the on-line version - and their archives.

If you like reading, and if you have my kind of far-reaching curiosity, this is somewhere you really want to put your money. Yes, it’s that good.

The point of this post is twofold: first, it’s a bit of a placeholder while I finish off a couple of actual paid writing gigs. Second though is to urge you to be good to yourself, do things that warm and preserve your soul, and draw you away from the torrent of outrage that seems be the news today.

You’ll be glad if you do.