I get irritated when people get all uppity about romance. Puttin’ on airs about how any book that brushes romance is-you know- ikcy, or junky. To each his own, I say. Read what you enjoy reading and keep your Snobtules to yourself.
Romance enters all kinds of stories in all kinds of ways, serving different purposes. Just like any element of a good story, the romantic elements must make as much sense and be as true to character as any other story component.
Most of the books I love have some romantic element. Romance and affairs of the heart are so much a part of being human that I question a story’s validity if the characters are not somehow, someway, thinking about, if not engaging in, romance.
There is so much more to the human heart than the act of sex. Romance is not sex. Romance is falling in love, being in love, falling out of love, finding that you’re still in love, choosing to not commit to a relationship for whatever reason, growing old and contented together, never finding The One, unreciprocated, heartbreak, strong and empowering partnerships.
This snippet from Lamentation by Ken Scholes made me cry:
(the character is trying to fall asleep)
“Windwir’s destruction found that grief and worried it, creating inside of him a longing for home and rest that he could not remember ever knowing before.
“He jumped when she slid alongside of him into the narrow bedrolls. She moved as silently as a Gypsy Scout, perhaps more so. And when she had entwined her arms and legs with his, she pinned him down and kissed him on the mouth. ‘For a great and mighty general,’ she whispered, ‘you are not so very bold.’
“Rudolfo returned her kiss, amazed at how in the moment he finally longed for home, home appeared and welcomed him.”
**persniffle!**
