When I think of romance novels, I imagine Fabio. (Anybody remember Fabio?) Long, blond hair, chisel chin, beefy muscles, and white shirts with lace at the cuffs. I picture damsels in distress and euphemisms galore. I cringe just thinking about it. It’s a very popular genre and I’m happy people have their joys, but yuck.
I have also recently come to the realization that I do, in fact, read romance novels. Through a series of events, I rediscovered a series of books I had started years ago. I happily borrowed the first two from the library (just like I did all those years ago) and discovered this edition’s cover design was romance. The one I remember was fantasy style.
I began looking for recommendations based on some of what I read, and lo and behold, it’s romance. Well, mostly. Sort of. See. I’m not a Plain Jane. Vanilla romance novels are dull. Add some dark fairies and secret magics and I’m a bit more apt to pick it up. Add some self discovery and respectful communication and I’m sold.
With this discovery, I’ve decided to indulge myself this Summer and read all for fun. Being me, I’m focusing on a few series’s. Fever by Karen Marie Moning. Bridgerton by Julia Quinn. Anita Blake by Laurell K. Hamilton, which I’m rereading to catch up to where I left off a few years ago. There’s a couple of murder mystery series that I enjoy too that I’m allowing. One is a coffeehouse mystery, the other set in a small Irish village.
Bring on Summer!
The Accidental Domestic Goddess 