I still remember how I came to romance as a genre. As is the case for many of the romance readers I know, my introduction came via another person. When I was fourteen, I had a part-time page job at the local public library. My friend Melanie worked in the same place. Melanie was a year older and I used to think she was incredibly sophisticated. In truth, we both used to giggle about boy bums, and roll our eyes at the librarian who followed us to make sure our work was done. Being library pages, we had the opportunity to check out each other’s reading material on a regular basis.
Melanie read different books than I did. I had always been drawn to stories about mythology, history and ghosts. Melanie, on the other hand, used to borrow huge stacks of pretty pink books with loving couples on the covers. That’s right, she read hundreds of Mills and Boon romances.
I questioned her about them one day. “What’s up with the pink books?”
Melanie’s eyes grew big and her voice became hushed. “Ohmigod. You haven’t tried these? Look!”
She pulled one off the shelf and flipped to a point somewhere in the middle. She told me to read the passage.
I blushed. The hero and heroine were doing things I’d only ever imagined doing with Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran.
Besides,” said Melanie, “I love these books because there’s always a happy ending.”
A happy ending?
Even at the young age of fourteen, I had learned that wasn’t always possible in life. So, I gave romance a try. After all, Melanie read reams of the stuff, and she was the coolest person I knew. I asked for her recommendation, but another romance quickly caught my eye. There was a castle on the cover, and the blurb piqued my interest with its description of the noble hero. Which romance did I read first?
Robyn Carr’s The Troubadour’s Romance.