I lucked out in that one of the first romance novels I read was Paradise, by Judith McNaught (a stripped copy bought from a sidewalk vendor in New York City. Hey, I was 14 and a foreigner; I had no idea what a stripped book was! I think I assumed the sidewalk vendor was the book version of those outlet stores that sell brand clothes with minor damage). Anyway, I've actually reread this one quite recently, and it's as good as I remembered.
Before Paradise, I *had* read some romance novels from my mom's shelves and some my grandma lent me (ever heard of Corin Tellado, the Spanish romance author even more prolific than Nora Roberts?). They were pretty bad, and even then, I realised they were bad. But they were novels where the romance was *the focus* of the book, and I loved that idea. Previously, I'd been reading books with romantic subplots and reading them pretty much just for the romance, so getting a book where the romance was the main thing and whatever else there was, was just a minor subplot, was wonderful.
So there I was, reading either insipid Corin Tellados or books about asshole heroes and doormat heroines, when I was blown away by Paradise. Reading it was a revelation. It showed me what a romance novel could be, and that there were books out there that were about the romance, but in which I wouldn't have to tolerate horrible characters and stupid plots just to get to read about two people falling in love.
Knowing this kept me a romance reader through all those dark pre-Internet years in which practically all the romance novels I could get in my local bookstore were by Catherine Coulter and her ilk.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-11-27 05:40 pm (UTC)Before Paradise, I *had* read some romance novels from my mom's shelves and some my grandma lent me (ever heard of Corin Tellado, the Spanish romance author even more prolific than Nora Roberts?). They were pretty bad, and even then, I realised they were bad. But they were novels where the romance was *the focus* of the book, and I loved that idea. Previously, I'd been reading books with romantic subplots and reading them pretty much just for the romance, so getting a book where the romance was the main thing and whatever else there was, was just a minor subplot, was wonderful.
So there I was, reading either insipid Corin Tellados or books about asshole heroes and doormat heroines, when I was blown away by Paradise. Reading it was a revelation. It showed me what a romance novel could be, and that there were books out there that were about the romance, but in which I wouldn't have to tolerate horrible characters and stupid plots just to get to read about two people falling in love.
Knowing this kept me a romance reader through all those dark pre-Internet years in which practically all the romance novels I could get in my local bookstore were by Catherine Coulter and her ilk.