I read Maya Oeverman’s op-ed about Sarah J. Maas with interest as I have also noticed a trend on social media toward “spicy” novels –– and, as Oeverman points out, an increasingly young audience for this nearly (and sometimes actually) pornographic content. 

As someone who does have a soft spot for romance novels, I certainly think some can be a lovely sort of escapism, so by no means am I advocating to eliminate the genre. Interestingly, recent conversation about romance’s role in women’s empowerment has increased, as has the genre’s diversity. Debates about what constitutes accessible literature and a legitimate literary canon often intersect with questions about the popularity of romance novels. However, the writing can sometimes leave something to be desired and often examples of the genre exhibit harmful internalized misogyny. These concerns are all beyond the scope of this opinion. 

Here, I hope to address how some classic literature offers a more pragmatic understanding of love and human relationship as compared to modern romance novels.

My caveats include, but are not limited to: the Brontë sisters (Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester are not ideal, caring men), the fact that some modern novels do address relationships realistically (authors like Fredrik Backman are a good example) and finally, sometimes we want to read about unrealistic love, and that is okay. 

All media we consume carry narrative expectations, providing models for how human relationships work and how we should live out certain kinds of stories. Narrative expectation (as I am using the phrase) is the idea that everyone has an idea about what their own behavior and the behavior of others should look like. They then act in accordance with those expectations or interpret others’ actions in light of those expectations, regardless of their accuracy. (Shout out to Jennifer Holberg’s Victorian literature class!)

The Sexual Violence Prevention and Education Ambassadors of Calvin (SPEAC) recently held an event about stalking as it relates to the movie “10 Things I Hate About You,” in which the ideal romance portrayed exhibited harmful characteristics similar to stalking behavior. A woman’s no was not heeded, but it was okay, because the man won her over in the end. This creates harmful narrative expectations; if a man is to ask a woman out, he expects that persistence will win her over in the end. Or, vice versa, a woman says no, and yet expects him to continue to pursue her. The movie does nothing to encourage reflection and offer the viewer an opportunity to see how that specific narrative expectation surrounding courtship is actually negative. 

This same narrative thread — sometimes with added harms like emotional manipulation, abuse or control — can be found in countless romance novels today. If the interpretation of violent behavior becomes an expectation of love, that can be insanely harmful. 

Even beyond extreme cases, romance novels that paint a rosy, easy picture of an interaction, a courtship and a conflict in the final third that resolves happily — Hallmark romances, in the broadest sense of the term — still create expectations counterproductive to communication. Said romances assume certain ideas about courtship and yet do not create an opportunity to reflect on how those are not necessarily shared and therefore potentially problematic. 

In contrast, novels like “Middlemarch” and “Anna Karenina” highlight the way an internal assessment of people’s actions according to established expectations, while normal, is often harmful to true and lasting connection.

One pair of protagonists in Middlemarch, Rosamund and Lydgate, each fulfill their respective narrative expectations, and for some time, it works. They live into the romantic ideal of the statuesque, goddess-like courted and the lowly, worshipful courter. When they do get married, there is conflict about money and lifestyle. Instead of communicating with each other about these problems, they continue to try to fool themselves into the idealistic narrative and inaccurate expectations with which they came into the marriage through sex and physical affection. They are quite unhappy. 

In comparison, author George Eliot offers another couple, who are arguably the most content. Mr. and Mrs. Garth don’t worship each other, but have a jovial, teasing sort of relationship in which they actually converse with each other and enjoy each other’s company instead of simply having sex. They offer an alternative model to the above relationship built on physicality and unrealistic expectations. 

As I seek to live into my own relationship well, the modern romances I have read have not given me the tools to do so. They did not offer me a solution to my anxious mis-reading of texts. They did not give me the tools to identify what realistic and unrealistic expectations I was holding. They created a narrative around physicality that made me nervous. And overall, they too easily offered a space for unnecessary and unfair comparison on both sides of a relationship. 

When I looked for models or narratives to aid my understanding, I instead turned to classic novels like “Middlemarch” and “Anna Karenina”. When I started internally constructing his dislike for me after he used a period at the end of a sentence, I thought of Anna Karenina’s inaccurate, nearly crazy misinterpretation of her partner Lensky’s behavior — which led to her death! — and was able to take the words at face value instead of focusing on punctuation. When I started comparing myself to some of the modern protagonists I’ve read about who are witty and suave and confident, I remembered Lydgate and Rosamund, and how their attractive facades led to their unhappiness together. Instead, I chose to model Mrs. Garth.

While modern romance is fun, it is generally not useful. Having a steady diet of narratives that are conscious of the ways humans actually interact in relationships is valuable, even necessary.