Bitter prize

I’ve confessed to loving romance novels in the past. I love to be transported to a place where all the men have handsome, deep eyes like liquid amber pools in which the perfectly manicured heroine finds herself drowning. It’s fun. Good, mindless fun. And besides, having a Masters degree in literature, I’ve read more serious fiction than most would in a lifetime. Not bragging, just saying is all.

Enter the lush promise of the romance novel. I am promised to be transported to a place of perfect imperfection, where quirks are charming, and no one has as many nervous tics as David Sedaris. Women inherit dilapidated country homes from great aunts and their amazingly handsome and strong neighbor turns out to be a talented carpenter, willing to work for free for the promise of just one, perfect, rosebud kiss. Robust business men who always seem to have time to workout but never time to look for love suddenly discover that the woman who volunteers at his pet charity is a blossom waiting to be plucked by his dappled gray eyes.

Until God comes along.

Walking the dog the other morning, I discovered a box of books set out on the curb. “Score! Free books!” I shouted, really hoping no one would notice me in my dog-walking outfit, yelling to myself. I rooted through the books, and they were his and hers. Half the books were Michael Crichton and his ilk, and the other half were florid pink-covered romance novels. Pay dirt.

I picked the pinkest cover to read first, The Healing Season. It promised to be a period piece set in London around 1815, involving a scandalous stage actress and a staid surgeon. Very inviting. I read and read, waiting for the love connection to blossom, but they always missed each other at every turn. As I got near the end of the book I realized two things: 1. I’d gone too far to quit; 2. This was unrequited love. A person—a normal person—does not read a romance novel for unrequited love. I railed against the heavens that I had been so abused.

And then I discovered the real plot. The doctor developed an inoperable brain tumor; the actress entered a brutal arrangement with a man who promised to get her headline roles in London’s respectable theater. Prayer—PRAYER!—saved them both. Through the power of prayer, the brain tumor healed itself, after the protagonist found himself filled with the Holy Spirit. Escaping her torturer, the stage actress was taken in by a religious mission, and she too found redemption in Jesus’ love. Thus, the two were redeemed and made whole by God, suddenly on the last page of the novel, able to wed chastely and wholly in the eyes of the Church.

Boring! No bodice ripping there. In fact, that was the exact opposite of bodice ripping, I’d say.

OK. On to garbage book two. Trouble in Paradise. “Is this a religious title?” I wondered. But the dust jacket assured me it involved a bohemian artist who moved to the country to write fiction who swoons to her cowboy neighbor, ensnared by his limpid brown eyes. Lied to again! Regarding our authoress, on page 21, “For months, she’d felt God calling to her to put her faith into words on paper, to tell stories that would exemplify God’s power over evil.”

Who is this cruel trickster who brought me tantalizing promises of morality abandoned for love, but instead delivered love abandoned for morality? How could they do this to me?

I’m going to offer the books to my sister’s church. After that, back to the trash. At least The Healing Season was well-written, but it left me bitter that no women’s garments were rendered asunder in fits of passion. Ah well. I guess I need to visit the “morally bankrupt” section of the bookstore.