I recently had to process a bunch of sketchy romance novels in the library because, after a lot of soul searching, I realized that even though the books were awful and sexist and I would probably be doing a public service by not adding them to the library collection, I still had to. Because that’s what librarians do. They promote information freedom, even the information they don’t like.
But I still felt icky after processing fifteen of them. They had titles like Bedded and Blackmailed by the Ruthless Roman Billionaire (I made that title up, but would be unsurprised to see it in print soon) and seemed to hinge on blackmailing women to get them in bed or marrying a woman to get some random familial vengeance. Huh?
Turns out, not all romance novels are created equal:
Miss Print: “These books made me miss the romance novels that at least pretend to be real books.”
Tori: “Do any of them really accomplish that though?”
Miss Print: “Well, it’s kind of like the difference between watching a romance movie at 2 am on cable TV or watching one at three in the afternoon on Lifetime.”
Tori: “Good point.”
Miss Print: “Yeah, I kind of impressed myself. I just came up with that now.”