Summer reading isn’t complete without a romance novel, says author Kirsty Greenwood
There’s only one thing better than losing yourself between the pages of a brilliant novel: losing yourself between the pages of a brilliant novel while sprawled beneath a hot yellow sun, the scent of briny ocean, SPF 50 and some sort of barbecued meat wafting occasionally beneath your nose. Perfection.
Hailing from a perennially gray and squelchy town in the northwest of England meant the chance to read books while basking in Actual Real Sunshine was something I took very seriously. As a teenager I would prep for upcoming family vacations, not by choosing which clothes I should take or looking up the island we were visiting, but by meticulously researching which novels I intended to ignore everyone in favor of. I would approach this task with total dedication: reading sample chapters, gathering intel from my bookish friends and haunting the local bookshop. Then I’d make handwritten "finalist lists" until, eventually, I had myself a carefully curated stack of paperbacks to stuff into my suitcase. My beloved summer reads.
On vacation I’d set up base on a sun lounger and read those paperbacks the way they were meant to be read (you absolutely must look away now if you believe in book spine conservation): ice cream in hand, mint chocolate chip plopping onto the pages, corners hastily dog-eared as I paused to cool off in the pool, soggy (and later on, crunchy) edges when I could no longer bear to be away from the story, sun-faded ink, midpoint chapters clinging on for dear life because the binding glue had melted in the sun. My God, did I go to town on those paperbacks.
Like most book nerds, I like to read widely − everything from navel-gazing lit fic to thrillers with a gripping twist to weighty classics I pretend to enjoy more than I do for the cachet. But for beloved summer reading? It was always and will always be romance novels, thank you please. You see, romance novels and summertime go together like Mai Tais and teeny cocktail umbrellas. Like campfires and s‘mores. Like this essay and examples of things that go together.
Romance novels are made to give their readers joy. Yes, some of the best pack a deep punch, pairing love stories with themes such as mental health, identity, motherhood, self-actualization or grief. But the end goal of all these books is joy – unabashed, indulgent, heart-thumping, horny-making, I-feel-seen, obsessed-forever, life-affirming joy. There’s no pretense in this genre, not from writer and certainly not from reader.
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We are reading a romance novel for the same reason we go on summer vacation: We intend to have a damn good time. We want to lean into the desire to feel good without worrying we ought to be doing something worthier. We want butterflies in the belly, memorable encounters with new people, new scents, new feelings. We want to get swept away, have game-changing sex, be a different us, indulge without shame or guilt, escape the ordinary for a little while, and forget the mundanities of life. We want to give over to our emotions. We want to fall in love over and over and over.
No other genre can give us all that like romance can. The joyful emotional journey romance delivers is the entire reason I write romance. My desire to create a classic, escapist summertime novel was a major inspiration for my newest romantic comedy, "The Love of My Afterlife."
My protagonist, the misanthropic Delphie, dies right on page one (so far, so joyful!). When she enters the afterlife, she’s unexpectedly given 10 days back on Earth to find her soulmate and get him to kiss her. If she succeeds, she gets to stay alive. If not, she will die a second time and remain in the afterlife for all eternity. One little problem: The only thing she knows about this soulmate is his first name. And he has no idea she even exists.
What follows for Delphie is a journey of adventure, self-discovery and big romance, not only with the love of her life but with herself. There’s anticipation and flirting, bravery and fun, laugh-out-loud scenes, butterflies in the belly and, yes, game-changing sex. All of this set against the backdrop of a vivacious London in the middle of a sizzling heat wave.
My biggest hope is that I’ve written the kind of novel sure to make its way into many suitcases this summer. That it will be read poolside, cocktail in hand, ice cream splodges on the pages. Total happy indulgence. A beloved summer read.
May your own summer and its accompanying book choices bring you pure, unadulterated joy. Happy summer!
