I had a phase—which lasted from approximately age 11 until well after my first YA romcom was published in 2020—in which I firmly believed in a hierarchy of books that went something like this:
First : Non-fiction – and by non-fiction I mean impressively well-researched educational books and biographies of historical figures. These are, quite obviously, the only books serious people read (the same serious people who, when asked if they’ve seen any good movies lately, invariably recommend a documentary).
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Runner-Up by 3/10ths of a point: Important Books – literary works rife with ennui, often scorning cliches like character arc and plot; probably hard to get through; teachers assign these and then grade you on your ability to identify the Christ figure and the central metaphor. These books are beloved by people who attend film festivals and just generally think deeply and understand the hidden meaning in things.
Distant third place: Fun Books – commercial fiction, comedic hot takes by former SNL stars, and anything that made me laugh or that I actually found enjoyable.
Absolute Loser : Romance novels (or, as my mom likes to call them, “that trash”).
In this hierarchy, romcoms don’t even have the academically redeeming qualities of tragic endings and tortured characters that a romantic drama might boast. Romcoms don’t get Newbery honors or win Pulitzers. In the realm of literature, the romantic comedy is just a small step up from Bazooka Joe comics. To this day, my kind, intelligent, and serious-minded friends firmly classify them as “a total waste of time.”
And I believed them.
As a young teen, I believed that the time I spent watching Meg Ryan movies and sneaking stacks of Harlequin romances out of the musty basement of the public library (yes, I checked them out. I’m not a monster) made me less. Less smart. Less serious. Less mature.
In college, I believed them when I decided not to major in literature because, as much as I loved reading, I didn’t want to spend my college years being forced to analyze Important Books.
I believed them when I got my first e-Reader and rejoiced that I could finally read books I loved on the train after work without the other commuters instantly knowing that I was one of those vapid grown women still reading about someone being rescued from an oncoming taxi after twisting her ankle because of her impractical shoes and eventually falling in love and getting married.
I believed them when my first book was published, and I talked about it with the disclaimer, “It’s just a silly romcom. Total fluff.” And then I’d change the subject to something terribly impressive, like, “Have you read Neil Degrasse Tyson’s new book, though?”
The thing is, I love Astrophysics for People in a Hurry. And I love Austen and Dickens and Bronte. I can even, with anguish about the human condition, tell you the central metaphor in Lord of the Flies. It’s not that I don’t want to read those books or don’t think everyone should have full access to every genre. I just wish I hadn’t spent my entire life thinking that those were the only legitimate things I should read.
Because, it turns out, figuring out relationships is one of the toughest problems we humans consistently encounter. And laughing is important for mental health. And happy endings quench our universal thirst to hope—in the midst of the grind and grime of life—that everything will turn out okay.
This is especially true for tweens and teens. Boys and girls alike have a gaping need for stories that help them make sense of the new relational landscape they’re entering. And, at a time when depression and anxiety are skyrocketing and things are looking fairly bleak for planet earth, teens deserve a mental break. They should—without reproach—get to read hopeful, hilarious, swoony stories. Stories with the basic message: your quirks make you lovable, mistakes are just stepping stones to your happily ever after, true love is real. Books that are the emotional and mental equivalent of Tiffany’s New York, about which Holly Golightly so exquisitely said, “Nothing very bad can happen to you there.”
Everyone, including teens and tweens, should get to enjoy these fluffy books without judging themselves or feeling that these books somehow have less value than Crime and Punishment. Let’s be honest—I’m just as likely to find out the brooding boy in my English class is a secret prince as I am to find myself in Russia, slowly descending into madness after murdering someone with an axe. So, in terms of relatable human experiences, which has more merit? Who can say, really?
I hear you loudly thinking, “G—can I call you G?”
Sure. Thanks for asking.
“G, these romcoms give kids the wrong idea about life. They romanticize behaviors that, in real life, are dangerously antisocial.”
You aren’t entirely wrong (though stalker-y plot lines have, thankfully, gone out of fashion). But hear me out. In a 13-year-old’s world, where just talking to your crush often feels like a catastrophic event, it can be incredibly cathartic to read about someone commandeering the school’s PA system to tell their soulmate how madly they love them with the whole school listening in. When you’re at the stage in life when you constantly wonder if anyone will ever find you desirable, imagining that someone might chase you down in the rain and thoroughly kiss you is a balm for the soul. Of course these situations are exaggerated and the behaviors wouldn’t fly in real life. But have you read any Shakespeare?
“Okay,” you silently concede, “Shakespeare is pretty far-fetched. But what about those predictable romcom happy endings? Where’s the academic rigor in that?”
Well, maybe it’s not rigor, but it is delightful. Of course we know that the ending will be happy but, in the best written romcoms, we can’t imagine how the mess will get untangled to get there. While its clear from the first chapter who will fall in love with whom, the flawed characters have 300 pages worth of false starts, roadblocks, and self-sabotage to overcome along the way. That’s what keeps you turning the pages—that desperate, “How will they ever figure this out?” Which leads to something else that I think is especially formative for young readers: figuring it out. I love hearing my readers screeching, “Use your words! Just talk to him!” Because that’s what I sometimes want to yell at them. Beyond that, book boyfriends let a teen fall in love with zero chance of rejection or heartbreak. They’re in Relationships 101, learning the basics of grown-up interaction, and romcoms are like a risk-free research project.
(Aside: Honestly, I thought about doing research about brain science so that I could impressively quantify the healing power of laughter, the direct correlation between comedy and empathy, and the exact dopamine levels measured in consistent romance readers. But you’re all librarians. You could probably search all that up way faster than I could. I’m a storyteller, and I just can’t be bothered.)
The point is, I think my internal book hierarchy is a pretty common misapprehension. And I would like to see it go to wherever Betamax players live now. Teachers and librarians have a huge role to play in de-shaming Fun Books and even—fluffiest of all the fluffers—romcoms. It might not feel like it, but kids listen to you. They hear your book recs. They learn from you which books have “educational value.”
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So how about we collectively decide to shelve those romcoms face out on the endcap, talk about them in English class, and put them on summer reading lists? Let’s recommend them to the boys, who are also wondering what the deal is with dating. And when they do pick up those fluffy books, we could say, “Good choice! Great book. So relatable. I’d like you to tell me the central metaphor.”
On second thought, let’s just leave out that last bit.
Meet the author
G. F. Miller absolutely insists on a happy ending. Everything else is negotiable. She is living her Happily Ever After with the love of her life, three kids, two puppies, and some chickens. She cries at random times. She makes faces at herself in the mirror. She believes in the Oxford comma. And she’s always here for a dance party.
About Not If You Break Up With Me First
Two friends who have unhappily found themselves accidentally dating try to drive the other one to call things off in this witty and heartfelt middle school romance.
Childhood friends Eve and Andrew are destined to be together—everyone says so, especially their friends and classmates who are all suddenly crush-obsessed. So when Eve and Andrew’s first eighth grade school dance rolls around and Eve, feeling the pressure, awkwardly asks Andrew to go with her, everyone assumes they are Officially Dating and Practically in Love. Overwhelmed, Eve and Andrew just…go with it.
And it’s weird. Neither of them wants this dating thing to mess up their friendship, and they don’t really see each other that way. But they also don’t want to be the one to call things off, the one to make things super awkward. So they both—separately—pledge to be the worst boyfriend or girlfriend ever, leaving it to the other person to break up with them. It would be genius…if the other person weren’t doing the exact same thing.
ISBN-13: 9781665950015
Publisher: Aladdin
Publication date: 06/04/2024
Age Range: 10 – 18 Years
Filed under: Guest Post
