Michelson, A. (2021) - The Politics of Happily Ever After

American Journal of Cultural Sociology (2021) 9:177–210
https://doi.org/10.1057/s41290-020-00126-7
ORIGINAL ARTICLE
The politics of happily‑ever‑after: romance genre fiction

as aesthetic public sphere
Anna Michelson1
Accepted: 27 November 2020 / Published online: 13 January 2021

© The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Limited part of Springer Nature 2021
Abstract
How does the romance reading community understand the genre in relation to socio-
political concerns? This paper draws on interviews, observations of romance writ-
ers’ conferences, and a variety of text data to explore how popular romance fiction
functions as an aesthetic public sphere, a site of political discourse. While I find
that romance novels and the romance community address a range of sociopolitical
issues, readers and writers debate whether they should address these issues. Some
think romance should only provide entertainment, while others embrace the gen-
re’s potential for active engagement with sociopolitical issues. These expectations
play out in both romance novels and in community relations. Despite debate over
the ideal purpose of romance, there is widespread agreement among readers that the
genre is fundamentally about hope and the belief that love—and romance reading—
can transform the world. This research extends the aesthetic public sphere concept
to popular genre fiction, showing that romance is a particular kind of reading experi-
ence that allows readers to engage with serious sociopolitical issues with the prom-
ise of a happily-ever-after.
Keywords Reading · Romance · Aesthetic public sphere · Civil society
Introduction
Romance is one of the most widely read fiction genres. It is a billion-dollar industry
that accounts for nearly a quarter of all U.S. fiction sales (Leach 2019; Romance
Writers of America 2019b). A common definition states, “Two basic elements com-
prise every romance novel: a central love story and an emotionally satisfying and
optimistic ending” (Romance Writers of America 2019b). The “emotionally satis-
fying and optimistic ending,” otherwise known as the “happily-ever-after” (HEA
* Anna Michelson
annamichelson@u.northwestern.edu
1
Department of Sociology, Northwestern University, 1810 Chicago Avenue, Evanston, IL 60208,
USA
Vol.:(0123456789)
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A. Michelson
in writer parlance), is a defining feature of romance genre fiction, especially in

the United States (Griswold and Bastian 1987; Vivanco 2016). Scholars have long
argued that romance novels have significance beyond intimate relationships, from
Cawelti’s (1976) assertion that romance fiction is about a just society where the
good are rewarded and the wicked are punished to more recent explorations of the
genre’s relation to capitalism, war, and politics (Kamble 2014; Roach 2016; Viv-
anco 2016). Popular romance studies is coalescing as a robust interdisciplinary field
(Frantz and Murphy Selinger 2012; Gleason and Murphy Selinger 2016), yet soci-
ologists have remained largely silent about how a cultural sociology approach might
enrich understanding of romance as a reading practice and as community.
This paper seeks to fill that gap by exploring how popular romance fiction can
function as an aesthetic public sphere, a site of civil society and idea exchange. The
aesthetic public sphere concept builds from Habermas’s public sphere to articulate
entertainment media’s capacity to “permit articulated dissent and advocacy” (Jones
2007, p. 88). Jacobs (2012) writes that “aesthetic publics provide a space for com-
mentary about important matters of concern” and they “work at the level of the
social imaginary, providing important meaning structures and cultural scripts that
individuals use in order to make sense of themselves and the world around them”
(p. 323). This project examines both the social imaginary presented in the pages of
romance novels and the social world of the romance community in order to under-
stand how genre fans make meaning of romance fiction and its relation to politics.
Why study romance fiction in this context? Scholars have explored the capacity
of numerous entertainment forms to function as aesthetic public spheres, including
videogames and television shows (McKernan 2013, 2015; Jacobs and Wild 2013;
Wu 2011). Romance is a unique kind of aesthetic public: it is primarily produced
and consumed by women, novels are characterized by requisite happily-ever-afters,
and it is often interpreted as escapist, banal, or regressive reading. I explore the ques-
tion “How does the romance reading community understand the genre in relation to
sociopolitical concerns?” by drawing on 32 semi-structured interviews, observations
of three romance writer conferences, 20 notable romance novels, reader response on
the Smart Bitches, Trashy books website, and analysis of the Romance Writers of
America (RWA) publication Romance Writers Report. “Political” is understood in
a broad sense as “relations of conflict and power” (Squires 2004, para. 1). Women
have been traditionally excluded from the civil sphere (Alexander 2006; Squires
2004), but that does not render them or their sites of conversation apolitical—the
personal is political.
I find that romance addresses a range of sociopolitical issues, from niche topics
like football-related brain injuries to broad issues such as feminism and immigration
(Prokop 2019a; MacLean 2017; Herrera 2019). However, not everyone agrees that
romance is an appropriate site for these topics. The polarizing Trump presidency
and prominent diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI)1 conversations have brought
1
The acronym DEI was the term preferred by RWA’s external diversity consultant and board members
during the 2019 national conference. Community conversations about DEI go back to the earliest days of
RWA (founder Vivian Stephens, a Black woman, advocated for more diversity in romance publishing).
However, I maintain that the sustained discussions and institutional responses (however inadequate) mark
a new phase.
The politics of happily‑ever‑after: romance genre fiction… 179
debates over the meaning and purpose of romance reading to the fore. Some see
romance fiction as a form of engagement with political issues. At the same time, oth-
ers believe romance should primarily be a source of entertainment and escape from
political concerns. All genre fans probably have some expectation of entertainment
when they pick up a romance novel. The promise of happily-ever-after offers readers
a particular kind of “enchantment,” or “the experience of total absorption in a text,
of intense and enigmatic pleasure” (Felski 2008). Readers differ in their expecta-
tions, however, as to whether romance fiction should only entertain or whether it
should engage with sociopolitical issues. “Should” is key here—entertainment and
engagement describe broad expectations for what both books and the romance com-
munity should look like. Should romance novels depict serious issues like immi-
gration, school shootings, or sexual harassment? Should the reading and writing
community discuss and ameliorate a history of marginalization? These different
expectations lie at the heart of romance’s status as aesthetic public sphere—should
romance be a site of political discourse, or should it only be a site of entertainment?
Though often in contention, my analysis shows that engagement and entertain-
ment expectations coexist. Sometimes readers turn to romance as a temporary break
from sociopolitical engagement, consistent with Thumala Olave’s assertion that
“rather than an escape from life, reading fiction is a support to it” (Thumala Olave
2018, p. 418). Whether readers approach romance as entertainment or engagement,
there is consensus that the dominant message of romance fiction is hope. For many,
the reading experience blends into the “real world” with a belief that love will make
the world a better place. This paper aims to bring cultural sociology theory to popu-
lar romance studies, and to contribute to the cultural sociology of reading by explor-
ing romance as a particular type of reading experience and as an aesthetic public
sphere.
A cultural sociology of romance reading
This paper responds to Thumala Olave’s (2018) call for a cultural sociology of read-
ing to explore the social, ethical, and political dimensions of reading. Many types
of fiction give readers “models of the good life” and “occasions to reflect upon their
position and commitments towards others” (Thumala Olave 2018, p. 430). Romance
reading, however, is unique because every novel depicts some vision of “the good
life” in the promised happily-ever-after. This emphasis on the HEA contributes
to the genre’s reputation as escapist or regressive. Critics have long derided the
romance genre for bad writing and problematic gender relations, as romance scholar
Pamela Regis (2003) documents. Both Regis (2003) and Kamble (2014) note that
some scholars make claims about “the” genre or “romance novels” in general while
only studying a specific part of the genre, such as historical romances or Harlequin
category romances. This study aims to understand “the genre” broadly as a bounded
(yet porous) multidimensional domain that unites a variety of texts and people in
common commitment to the HEA.
Reading is communication between writer and reader, and it also situates these
actors and the text in a broader relationship with the social world (see the cultural
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A. Michelson
diamond in Griswold 2013). For example, Childress (2017) demonstrates that

readers’ interpretations of novels can change after group discussion. Long (2003)
has shown that book clubs are important sites of discussion and idea exchange for
women in particular. What romance fiction, specifically, does for female readers
has long been a concern. Radway (1984) argued that the act of reading romance
was a way for a women to claim leisure time and emotional sustenance in a patriar-
chal context that otherwise demanded her domestic and emotional labor. Similarly,
Modleski (2008) argues that while romance upholds a patriarchal structure it func-
tions as a female revenge fantasy, with romantic love bringing a strong man to his
knees. Thurston (1987) argues that romance can serve as sexual fantasy and con-
nected the rise of sexually explicit romances to the feminist movement. A recent
anthology explores the question Love as the Practice of Freedom? (Gleason and
Murphy Selinger 2016), and Vivanco (2016) argues that all romance novels are
inherently political as they deal (implicitly or explicitly) with power relations.
Cultural sociology is well poised to explore the relational dimensions of the
romance genre. Though not cultural sociologists, Fletcher et al. (2018) fruitfully
mine sociological theory by drawing on Becker’s (2008) “art worlds” to introduce
a “genre worlds” framework. A genre worlds approach recognizes the multidimen-
sional nature of genre as “a sector of the publishing industry, a social formation, and
a body of texts” (p. 997). Using Australian popular romance as a case study, they
identify three key features of the genre world: it is both national and international,
highly professionalized, and “built on a dynamic of real and imagined sociality” (p.
998). As Fletcher et al. (2018) rightly point out, to date scholars have disproportion-
ately focused on romance as text rather than industry or social formation.2
Genre as community
By focusing on the romance reading community, I seek to build on sociological

work that has established the relationship between genre and social formations in
other areas. For example, Lena (2012) shows how music communities coalesce
around shared genre expectations. Wohl (2015) demonstrates that “community
sense” is developed through group negotiation over acceptable taste. Romance read-
ers approach a text with specific expectations for a what a romance novel should be
and what the reading experience should be like, forming an “interpretative commu-
nity” (Fish 1980). This kind of community is amorphous but nonetheless real. As
Fish says, “The only “proof” of membership is fellowship, the nod of recognition
from someone in the same community, someone who says to you what neither of
us could ever prove to a third party: “we know”” (p. 173). The romance commu-
nity is vibrant despite, or perhaps because of, its status as one of the least respected
literary genres (Lois and Gregson 2015; Regis 2003). While the genre may signal
poor taste to those outside the community, those in it share mutual appreciation for a
2
For studies that do focus on relational or industry dynamics, see Greenfeld-Benovitz (2012), Lois and
Gregson (2015), Moody (2013), and Markert (2016).
stigmatized genre. This stigma is related to its status as a female-dominated genre, a

fact that also helps foster a sense of community (Lois and Gregson 2015). Although
many romance readers are active and proud members of the broader romance com-
munity, some are hesitant to publicly share their affiliations and engage in “facework
strategies,” such as hiding books or disparaging the genre, to shield themselves from
judgement (Brackett 2000).
My use of “romance community” includes readers who do not publicly speak or
write about their reading, perhaps because the practice may be stigmatized. I envi-
sion the romance community as a tiered set of concentric circles—some actors near
the core are very visible and very public, some occasionally publicly speak or write
about romance, and others near the periphery are repeat readers of romance fiction
but do not engage with it in a public forum. Interviews suggest the prevalence of
face-to-face reader connections that are not captured by “public” discourse. Many
of my interview respondents became romance readers after being introduced to the
novels by women in their lives—friends, sisters, mothers, and grandmothers. These
women would often trade and discuss books, suggesting an interpersonal dimension
of community that is not recorded (Pawley 2002).
Community members and academics like Roach (2016) use the term Romance-
landia to encompass the “literary landscape, human community, and online dis-
cussion world” of the romance genre (p. 197). In the United States, the Romance
Writers of America (RWA)—a non-profit trade organization with over 9000 mem-
bers—is a prominent voice in the romance community (Romance Writers of Amer-
ica 2019a).3 RWA members come together through the regular meetings of over one
hundred local chapters and at the annual national conference, and the monthly publi-
cation Romance Writers Report keeps member connected all year. Outside of RWA,
writers, readers, and publishing professionals connect through podcasts, blogs, and
social media. Much of the community is informally organized and connects through
online forums like Twitter or websites such as Smart Bitches, Trashy Books and All
About Romance (Greenfeld-Benovitz 2012; Moody 2013). Throughout the paper
I use the terms community, romance, and Romancelandia interchangeably to refer
to the intersecting matrix of novels, readers, writers, and publishing professionals
that includes—but goes beyond—formal organizations like RWA. Some readers
may never engage in public or private talk or writing about romance. However, even
these “silent readers” are part of the romance community. They may follow conver-
sations on social media and blogs or anonymously participate in group reading chal-
lenges (Foasberg 2012). Someone who understands their romance reading as a soli-
tary, private act is perhaps less likely to participate in public discourse, but they still
participate in the community by reading (and possibly purchasing) romance fiction.
These readers constitute the audience that authors, publishers, and book sellers con-
sider when making production decisions. Do they support novels that engage with
3
RWA’s status is now in flux, but they were influential in the American community during the period
under study (2015–2019). Current membership is likely below the documented 9000 figure—in late
December 2019 RWA plunged into crisis due to mishandling of diversity issues. See section Entertain-
ment and Engagement: Expectations for Reading and Community for more discussion.
182
A. Michelson
sociopolitical content? Do they purchase books by and about marginalized voices?

Do they prefer books that elide any reference to contentious issues? These silent
readers weigh in on romance as aesthetic public sphere through their book choices.
Romance and the aesthetic public sphere
The romance genre is a site of discourse for women who have been historically
excluded from the civil sphere (Alexander 2006).4 Romance fiction has also been
excluded from the literary public sphere (Habermas 1989), situating it as an aes-
thetic public sphere alongside popular entertainment like television and video
games. Developed by Jacobs (2007, 2012) and Jones (2007), the aesthetic public
sphere concept extends the political discourse of the civil sphere to entertainment
media (see also Alexander 2006, pp. 75–80). Research on aesthetic public spheres
shows how television programs like The Daily Show and The Colbert Report (Jacobs
and Wild 2013) and China’s talent program Super Girl (Wu 2011) engage in politi-
cal discourse. As McKernan (2015) finds in his study of a video game forum, how-
ever, there may not be consensus whether entertainment media is an appropriate site
for sociopolitical discourse.
McKernan (2013) maintains “there is not one type of aesthetic public sphere…
[they] vary according to the type of topics they address and the manner in which
they do so” (p. 262). What topics might romance address, and how? Scholars have
long maintained that romance can address issues beyond the domestic sphere (e.g.
Cawelti 1976). Kamble (2014) explores romance in relation to capitalism, war, het-
erosexuality, and white Protestantism. Ali (2017) explores the romance adjacent In
Death series (penned by Nora Roberts under the pseudonym J.D. Robb) in relation
to themes such as violence, policing, and professional ideals. Popular romance stud-
ies anthologies (Frantz and Murphy Selinger 2012; Gleason and Murphy Selinger
2016) further address topics such as race, religion, sexuality, and HIV/AIDS in
romance fiction. Studies like these fruitfully analyze how novels relate to sociopolit-
ical topics – but how are sociopolitical topics addressed in the romance community?
Data and methods
This paper utilizes a variety of data sources from 2015 to 2019. This is the period in
which I entered Romancelandia as a researcher and it corresponds with an increase
in prominent DEI conversations. I focus on the American context because a manda-
tory, clearly defined HEA may be unique to the American romance context (Gris-
wold and Bastian 1987; Vivanco 2016). This last point is likely related to the influ-
ence of RWA, whose definition of romance is the standard cited by respondents and
media articles about the genre. While I focus on Romancelandia in the United States,
4
Though the share of male and non-binary readership has grown in recent years, romance is still primar-
ily consumed by women (Appendix 3).
it is important to remember the American community is situated in a broader global

community (Fletcher et al. 2018). Respondents’ orientation to romance is shaped by
their positionality as American readers, and experiences as romance readers are not
necessarily representative of the global romance reading community.
I conducted 32 semi-structured interviews with romance writers and publishing
industry professionals between June 2016 and October 2019. Respondents were
recruited through a local RWA chapter, networking at RWA conferences, and per-
sonal networks. Demographically, the interview sample is similar to industry sta-
tistics on romance readers (see Appendices 2 and 3). Eleven interviews were con-
ducted in person, twenty by phone, and one was conducted as an email exchange.5
Interviews were recorded, transcribed, and inductively coded in Atlas.ti. Respond-
ents occupied a variety of roles in Romancelandia. Eighteen are romance writ-
ers (both published and unpublished), thirteen are industry professionals, and one
is both a romance writer and an industry professional. The industry professionals
group includes four editors, three agents, two reviewers, two librarians, and one
respondent each who worked in marketing, book buying for a retail chain, and com-
munications. Although I identify people by their current role it was common for a
respondent to occupy different roles in the industry at different times in their career,
and respondents often reflected on past experiences in other industry roles. For
example, all three of the agents interviewed had previously held another industry
professional role, as an editor, bookseller, and librarian, respectively.
Although respondents were all active or aspiring producers of romance fiction,
most were involved in the industry because they were romance readers first. Many
described themselves as voracious readers who were introduced to romance by girls
or women in their lives, either directly (being given books) or indirectly (secretly
sneaking Harlequins from their mothers’ bookshelf). Many respondents (50% of
writers and 40% of industry professionals) started reading romance as pre-teens
or young teenagers and reflected on romance reading’s influence on their profes-
sional trajectory. For example, Liz, a literary agent, explained why she specializes in
romance:
It was what I read when I was a teenager and after. I just really loved it. I
understood it. It was what I liked the most...I could pick the gem out of the
pile. And that was less true with some other categories. There are other cat-
egories that there was less of an instinct there for me. I had to work at harder
and understand it in an intellectual way rather than an instinctive way.
In addition to interviews, I attended several local RWA chapter meetings and par-
ticipated in three conferences: RWA national conference in 2016, a regional chapter
conference in 2018, and the RWA national conference in 2019. These conferences,
all multi-day affairs, bring together romance writers and industry professionals
for professional development and networking. They included all-group events like
keynote speeches and small group workshops on the craft and business aspects of
5
This respondent was not comfortable discussing erotic romance with her young child at home.
184
A. Michelson
writing. The national conference includes the RITA awards ceremony, sometimes
described as “the Oscars of romance novels.”
When not attending events in person I stayed active in Romancelandia by sub-
scribing to email lists, news alerts, and following popular blogs. I draw on several
articles from mainstream media outlets as supplementary data; many of these arti-
cles came to my attention through romance community social media. I also read and
systematically coded each issue of the Romance Writers Report (RWR) from Janu-
ary 2015 to October 2019 (n = 58). As the official monthly publication of the RWA,
RWR is a valuable site of discourse about what romance means to those who pro-
duce and consume it. Letters-to-the-editor provide a community forum, authors pen
essays about the meaning and purpose of romance fiction, columns advise authors
on connecting with readers, and it frequently includes statistics about romance read-
ership and the book-buying public.
I read and analyzed 20 notable romances published 2015–2018 (see Appendix
1 for full list). Novels were compiled by cross-listing “best romance of the year”
lists from Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, ALA, Entertainment Weekly, and The
Washington Post. I included any novel that made two or more of these lists, or novels
that made one of these lists and won a RITA (any category) or a Goodreads award.
I was surprised by the lack of overlap between industry identified notable books and
award winners, so I also added RITA Best First Book Winners and Goodreads Best
Romance winners even if they did not overlap with industry lists. This sampling
method resulted in exactly twenty novels, though it is important to acknowledge it is
neither random nor representative of the entire genre. The sampled novels are pre-
dominantly (13/20) contemporary romance; five are historical romance, one is fan-
tasy/paranormal romance, and one is young adult sci-fi romance. Some subgenres,
such as inspirational (religious) romance and romantic suspense, are not represented
at all in this sample.
Finally, I examine responses to the 2019 novel Red, White, and Royal Blue from
the romance website Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. Red, White, and Royal Blue is a
best-selling, award-winning romance novel. Founded in 2005, Smart Bitches, Trashy
Books (SBTB) is now one of the longest running and most visited romance review
sites; respondents frequently named it as a leading source of reviews and community
news. Because Red, White, and Royal Blue deals with explicitly political themes,
this novel is a particularly good case study in how different reading expectations—
entertainment and engagement—play out in reader responses.
The happily‑ever‑after
The HEA is the defining feature of American romance fiction, distinguishing it from
related categories like women’s fiction or love stories with bittersweet endings. To
meet reader and industry expectations for a genre romance, the ending must be opti-
mistic and imply that the lovers will stay together after the book ends. Christine, an
avid romance reader who turned her blog into an editing career, explained, “The
romance genre, I really think it’s about hope, because every story has a happy end-
ing. Every single story. If it doesn’t, it’s not a romance.”
The HEA or it’s close cousin, Happy-For-Now (HFN) is a genre requirement

with few exceptions (some respondents point to Tiffany Reisz’s Original Sinners
series, published by Harlequin imprint MIRA, as romances that break the rules).
With the HFN books may not end in marriage or an explict promise of “ever
after” but still imply commitment. Gina explains:
Some people might still really, really need it [the ending] to be actually
married, forever and ever, amen. But I think most people get the idea that at
the close of the book they’re happily together and committed. Heck, I mean
there are some romances now where that happy commitment is to a three-
some, you know, but if everybody is happy and satisfied at the end of it and
say, yeah, this is the thing that works for us, then I think it’s the equivalent
of you’re getting married. It’s just the 21st century version of it.
While some criticize the romance’s guaranteed HEA as formulaic, the formula is
exactly what appeals to many readers. Writer Colleen said, “There is a predict-
ability to romance that I think is comforting for a lot of women. You know what
you’re gonna get.” Patricia, an unpublished author, said “I would agree that it
is somewhat formulaic, but that is what people want. I pick up a romance novel
expecting to get a happily ever after... and if it deviates away from it, I don’t like
it, because this is what I expect.” Many respondents started reading romance
in their teens or pre-teens, citing the HEA as a main appeal. I asked published
author Ellen, who started reading romance in middle school, what attracted her to
the genre. She said:
The happy ending. It sounds kinda cheesy, and people would always give
me a hard time…I was drawn to the romance because it didn’t matter what
else was going on, I knew I’d get this happy ending. And I knew that no
matter what obstacles the characters faced, love would conquer all. You
know, some of that happy stuff.
Elsewhere in the interview, Ellen agreed that romance was formulaic and
explained, "But anyone who’s reading romance, we’re not reading to find out
whether or not they get together, we’re reading to find out how they get together.”
Though the journey—the how they get together—is important, for many the
pleasure of romance reading is less about the plot and more about the emotional
experience. Writer Grace said, “I can excuse plot holes and I can excuse misrep-
resented facts…I can excuse mistakes even. But for me it’s about characters and
their emotions.” Editor Jackie also emphasized emotions when asked what makes
a romance novel good: “A good romance novel makes you feel, and not just feel
one thing. Not just, you know, euphoria, not just sexual attraction. It makes you
feel what a human being is going through and how another person fits into that
and makes it better.”
If the HEA is a requirement of the romance genre’s form, what does the con-
tent of a happily-ever-after look like today? The twenty books analyzed (full list
in Appendix 1) all ended with a committed couple, though what that commit-
ment looks like varied. Less than half (9/20) of the novels ended in marriage or
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A. Michelson
engagement. Several of these start with the protagonists married or married early
in the book and the conflict involves whether the marriage will be a “real” one.
Some couples moved in together (3/20) or made long-term promises without mar-
riage vows (6/20). Two of the twenty novels end with the beginning of a new
romantic relationship.6 Although marriage and kids is traditionally presented as
the ultimate HEA in American culture, only 2/20 books end with the main couple
pregnant or with children (in three additional books the couple discusses having
or adopting children in the future).
Throughout these novels, romantic love is not an end in itself but a means to liv-
ing a well-rounded, fulfilling life. Many HEAs involved characters achieving sat-
isfaction in their professional life. Sometimes this means meeting ambitious goals
(The Wedding Date’s Alexa designs a diversion program for at-risk youth; Gilded
Age heroine Lizzie starts her own stock brokerage firm in Magnate) and sometimes
it means leaving a toxic job to find a more fulfilling one (like Michael in The Kiss
Quotient, Toby in For Real, and both protagonists in The Ones Who Got Away).
Male characters wrestle with their professional lives almost as often as female pro-
tagonists, and none of the novels show a woman giving up her career to be with a
man. The heroine of Once and For All turns down a job that would require her to
move, but it is not implied she will give up work altogether. Many heroines take
great pride in their work, and even historical heroines in Magnate, Forbidden and
The Day of the Duchess have fulfilling occupations. Often the romantic partner-
ship helps bring about professional satisfaction, or at least encourages introspection
about whether a character’s career aligns with their values.
In romance novels the risk of emotional vulnerability with another person always
pays off (Roach 2016). Roach (2016) draws on Polhemus’s (1990) notion of erotic
faith to argue that “The romance story functions similarly to a religious belief sys-
tem that offers guidance on the end goal of how to live a good and worthy life”
(Roach 2016, p. 167). Happily-ever-after is the ultimate reward for emotional vul-
nerability. Happily-ever-after does not mean that the characters will never again be
unhappy or encounter challenges; rather, the HEA portrays the romantic union as an
asset that will help characters in all areas of their life. For example, the last lines of
the interracial Civil War romance An Extraordinary Union read:
Thoughts of the world and its struggles fell away as his lips feathered against
hers and her fingers pressed into his shoulder blades. They were together, and
that meant they could weather everything to come. (Cole 2017, p. 252)
Romantic love is presented as a higher power that can heal past wounds. In the
The Ones Who Got Away (2018), a potentially distasteful premise for a romance
novel—survivors of a mass school shooting reunite years after a prom night
attack—is thoughtfully handled by author Roni Loren, who has a background in
6
Both of these are Colleen Hoover novels included as Goodreads winners. Several respondents said they
felt Hoover was more of a women’s fiction or new adult author, and speculated that her books win the
“Best Romance” category because a majority of Goodreads voters are general fiction readers, not regular
romance readers who are invested in the genre definition.
mental health counseling. The message of the story is that while that tragedy may
shape us, we do not have be defined by it. Everyone deserves happiness; indeed,
that is the only way to “win.” Early in the book, the school shooters’ motive is
explained:
Joseph and Trevor had chosen prom night for a very particular reason. Not
to take out the popular people or people who’d wronged them. They wanted
to take out the happy ones. If you can be happy in a fucked-up world like
this, then you’re blind and too stupid to live. That’d been the motto of their
mission. (Loren 2018, p. 5)
The last few lines of the book revisit the theme of happiness as the ultimate
success:
He took her hand, and through the doors where the shooters had once
walked, he stepped out with the woman he loved into the cool, starry night.
No longer aftermath.
Happy.
We win. (emphasis in the original; Loren 2018, p. 354)
The worlds depicted in romance novels are not perfect—for example, gun vio-
lence and trauma still exist—but they suggest that romantic love is a resource for
conquering these real world challenges. All twenty books engaged with sociopo-
litical issues in some way. For example, though the heroine of Once and For All
is a cancer survivor the main challenge is not her personal health but the social
problem of healthcare costs and insurance access. Indeed, insurance access drives
the main marriage-of-convenience romance plot. Several books (including The
Bollywood Bride, Without Merit, and Hate to Want You) portray heroines deal-
ing with mental illness and its social stigma. A Princess in Theory’s Ledi has to
navigate sexism and racism in her graduate student lab. Take the Lead’s dancer
heroine Gina is proud of her Puerto Rican heritage and conscious about trying to
counter the “promiscuous Latina” stereotype. The protagonists of The Kiss Quo-
tient navigate the dynamics of a multicultural relationship, autism, and sex work.
It is perhaps unsurprising that sociopolitical issues would appear in contem-
porary romance, as that world is supposed to reflect our contemporary setting.
However, similar themes appeared in other subgenres too. For example, the fan-
tasy world of A Promise of Fire includes an impoverished class who lack access
to healers, the magical version of healthcare. The potential for unwanted sexual
advances and violence towards women looms as a persistent threat in the his-
torical romance Lady in Waiting. Historical romance An Extraordinary Union
addresses the racial and sexual violence faced by Black women in the South dur-
ing the Civil War and the hero’s character arc involves coming to understand his
white male privilege. That sociopolitical issues are addressed in novels outside of
the contemporary subgenre suggests that they are not incidental details meant to
reflect the contemporary world but an intentional part of the story.
However, novels can depict sociopolitical issues without fully addressing them
or offering a corollary political engagement message. For example, contemporary
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romance Playing with Fire (2015) portrays workplace sexism as a systemic prob-
lem for its firefighter heroine, yet the novel never completely resolves the hero’s
stated belief that women do not belong in certain professions. This is a major
point of contention at the beginning of their relationship, but the issue effectively
fades away, overshadowed by dramatic secrets and intrigue. His support for her
career is obliquely referenced in the conclusion, but the character never reckons
with his overtly sexist statements. The overall message is ambiguous regarding
the need for individual or systemic change. The novel—set in the world of may-
oral politics yet conspicuously apolitical—depicts the sociopolitical issue of sex-
ism yet emphasizes an entertainment approach.
Entertainment and engagement: expectations for reading

and community
Although some books like Playing With Fire avoid being overtly political, follow-
ing the 2016 election much media coverage of the romance genre emphasized its
political potential. For example, an Entertainment Weekly article from November
2017 titled “Romance as Resistance: How the happily-ever-after genre is taking
on Trump” highlights that “on social media and in their books, romance novelists
aren’t keeping their politics to themselves” (Canfield 2017). Romance novelsists are
increasingly outspoken on Twitter, the article says, despite hearing from some fans
that they do not want to hear about politics. The article also argued that romance
novels themselves are a site of resistance. For example, it quotes best-selling author
Sarah MacLean who has publicly written about “How Trump Killed Off my Roman-
tic Lead” (MacLean 2017) when she scrapped a nearly-finished manuscript to
rewrite her alpha hero as an “alpha feminist.”
However, in interviews respondents acknowledged a “romance as resistance”
conversation is happening but many said it did not translate into more political book
content. Diane, an agent and former editor, was seeing more explicitly political man-
sucript submissions but these weren’t necessarily getting published. Publishers are
still wary of alienating readers, she said, and vocal authors like Sarah MacLean are
the exception (as a best-selling author with an established fan base, MacLean could
afford to scrap a nearly-finished novel to make a political point). This reminds us
that romance is an industry as well as a community and body of texts. Author Eve-
lyn spoke about intentionally de-emphasizing partisan politics in her writing. High
health care costs are a major challenge for one character in her current work-in-pro-
gress, but she was not going to use terms like the Affordable Care Act or Republi-
cans: “It’s a political message, yeah. But it’s not going to be recognizable as par-
tiasn, I’ll put it that way.”
One may interpret Diane and Evelyn’s quotes as evidence that writers are mini-
mizing political content to get published. However, Diane went on to say that
authors may have political intent that is not recognized by readers:
I think also sometimes what the authors see as kind of being political isn’t nec-
essarily how it always translates to reader. I think you can read it through that
lens, but sometimes it’s just a story that the reader’s going to enjoy without
that subtext and that deeper meaning. I know I have a client, not in romance,
but she has a book that she sees as having these huge, deeper meanings, about,
you know, all these political statements. But most of the people who read it
just read it as a fun thriller and they don’t get that extra layer that she sees in it.
Similarly, when I asked writer Grace if she was seeing more political content in
romance, she responded:
I think it is, but I don’t – I think that not everybody’s trying to do it on pur-
pose, you know? I think that all books have some kind of an author voice…
and from that you can hear the resistance. So it’s not always out in the open.
It’s not always so evident, but it’s in there….
This echoes Vivanco’s (2016) argument that romance is always political—even
when it does not appear to be. Everything is political, but not everyone reads it that
way.
Whether evident or implict, romance novels have always dealt with sexual politics
and gender relations. A classic concern of romance scholarship is whether romance
reading involves resistance to or complicity with patriarchy. Many early studies con-
cluded, essentially, both (Radway 1984; Modleski 2008). Although talking about
romance in relation to feminism is not new, I was struck that all respondents said
that romance novels were, or could be, feminist. Many described the romance genre
as “inherently feminist” or “the epitome of feminism. When asked to define femi-
nism or feminist fiction, responses fell into several recurring themes: women have
choice or agency, it is by, about, and for women, a cultural safe space where women
are guaranteed happiness, and female sexual pleasure is prioritized.
Defining feminism as choice or agency was a common response. For exam-
ple, Ellen explained, “I do believe that romance is really the epitome of feminism
because we have a choice. We see what we want, we do what we want, we’re show-
ing a world of what’s possible.” For many, the women-focused nature of romance
production and consumption make the genre feminist, especially when coupled with
romance’s guarantee that heroines will find happiness. For example, Stacy said, “I
think romance novels are inherently feminist because they are about women getting
their happiness, and hopefully finding a partner who is equal to them, and that’s
pretty feminist to me.”
Several used the term “safe space” to describe romance as one of the few forms
of popular culture that “is all about valuing women’s experience, valuing women’s
emotional and sexual needs” (Gina). Even Cathy, who did not want to use the word
“feminist,” scoffed at the idea romance could be anti-feminist, saying: “I’ve heard
that romance can be considered anti-feminist, and that’s ridiculous. Anything that
caters to women, that gives them a safe space, cannot be anti-feminist. It doesn’t
work.” Though she associates the term “feminism” with dogmatic and prespec-
tive behavior, Cathy embraced a definition of feminism as “anything that caters to
women” and as the freedom to make choices, similar to other respondents. Cathy
was the only person to express hesitation with “feminism”—most enthusiastically
embraced it.
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For these respondents, the HEA is central to this interpretation of romance as

feminist, as the genre not only features female lead characters but guarantees them
a satisfying conclusion. In Grace’s logic: “…any story that centers the woman is
feminist fiction, especially when it ends up where the woman has a happily ever
after, has some kind of a triumph.” Similarly, Skyler said:
I think that romance is inherently feminist… It’s really the story of the
woman getting what she wants out of life, whatever that is. Society gener-
ally kind of dismisses women and what we want and what we’re going after
and the things that we like, like they’re automatically just kind of dismissed.
That’s why I like romance, because in those stories the women – we get
what we want.
For many, “getting what we want” includes sexual satisfaction. Contrary to tra-
ditional critiques about regressive gender stereotypes and depictions of abusive
relationships, a number of respondents cited the genre’s portrayal of sexuality
when explaining why romance was feminist. For example, according to Sharon,
“The fact that you have women who have sex and enjoy it, reading about women
with that kind of agency I think absolutely makes it feminist.” Some qualified this
with references to “romances now,” suggesting they share critiques about older
romances. Respondents commented on modern romance’s portrayl of egalitarian
relationships, consent, and sexuality. Several mentioned that romance novels set
healthy examples for their daughters. These novels can be important models of
sexuality for adult readers too, as published author Isabelle said:
One of the things as an erotic romance author that has stuck with me the
most is when I’ve been at conferences and I’ve been approached by women,
forties and fifties in age, who have told me that when they read erotic
romance, that was when the first time that they started exploring their sexu-
ality, voicing what they wanted in the bedroom, working through issues that
they had, you know, just avoided or suppressed for so long, because these
books said it was okay for a woman to be sexual, to embrace her interests
and her fantasies.
Though longstanding debates about the definition(s) of feminism continue,
among this group of readers there is consensus that feminism means women have
choice and agency, women’s voices (both real and fictional) are centered, women
find happiness, and women’s sexual pleasure is prioritized. By this metric, to
many readers, romance offers a feminist blueprint depicting independent women
empowered in their sexuality.
Categorical endorsements of romance as feminist does not mean, however,
that readers uncritically engage with texts. Romance writer Skyler (one of the
respondents who said “romance is inherently feminist”) criticized the Fifty
Shades books for romanticizing an unhealthy relationship. (While some debate
whether these books are truly romances, the trilogy taken as a whole does meet
genre criteria). She read the books at the recommendation of her then-partner and
said, “that book weirdly was kind of a light in my head because my relationship
was very similar to theirs in the book. And I ended that relationship, possibly
because of the Fifty Shades of Grey.” Thus, romance reading can be instructive
by modeling bad relationships as well as good ones.
Skyler’s experience with Fifty Shades demonstrates that “how” one reads matters
nearly as much as “what” one reads. In her analysis of Nora Roberts’s (writing as
J.D. Robb) sci-fi/mystery, romance adjacent In Death series, Kecia Ali (2017) argues
that “reading thoughtfully can serve as precursor and adjunct to living thoughtfully”
(Conclusion, para. 9). Although the novels may not make explicit statements about
race and gender norms, for example,
Readers can become attuned to the ways an author conjures whiteness while
rendering it invisible or depicts policing as race-neutral, as though racism sud-
denly evaporated in the early twenty-first century, leaving no notable traces…
They can notice when dominant scripts about female nurturing are outmoded
and inadequate; they can perceive attractive alternatives. (Ali 2017, Conclu-
sion, para. 8)
Reading thoughtfully is consistent with an engagement approach to reading (the
approach that addresses sociopolitical issues), as it allows readers to connect with
sociopolitical concerns even when the texts do not make explicit statements.
Romance readers today thoughtfully read and discuss romance in relation to
broad political issues and to the range of overlapping oppressions—sexism, racism,
ableism, ageism, etc.—that constitute kyriarchy, a term coined by feminist theolo-
gian Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza (1992). The term kyriarchy itself has made its way
into romance community discourse, as when Smart Bitches, Trashy books founder
Sarah Wendell lamented the racism crisis within RWA: “Progress, especially recent
progress, is so fragile, and “tradition,” especially racist, White supremacist, kyriar-
chical tradition, seems nearly fireproof” (Wendell 2019). Many romance readers and
writers address kyriarchy in both commnity relations (e.g. Wendell’s blog post) and
through reading thoughtfully, as described by Ali (2017).
Librarian Maria only became a romance reader after finding a novel that was
compatible with her engagement approach to reading that sought active connection
to sociopolitical concerns. She said, “I was really resistant to romance for a really
big part of my life. I thought they were cheesy. I didn’t really respect them.” As an
adult services librarian Maria read romance reviews, made library purchases, and
kept abreast of genre news, but Alyssa Cole’s An Extraordinary Union (2017) was
“the first time that I really read a romance that really spoke to me and really made
me feel like, wait a minute, there’s a lot more here than I thought.” Asked to elabo-
rate on why this particular book spoke to her, Maria explained:
...if you had told me that there was going to be a really awesome romance set
in the Civil War in the South, I mean that just didn’t sound appealing, right?
But for some reason it just worked for me. I like world history, I like American
history. I especially like hearing about the resistance, you know? Like there’s
horrible periods in our history, but there’s always people that are resisting, like
resisting that kind of oppression and are fighting for human rights no matter
what part of the world, no matter what part of history… And so again, that
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doesn’t sound very sexy, but that’s the kind of thing that I like when I’m not
reading romances. So to see that written in a very serious way, it wasn’t just a
backdrop, it’s not just like this like curtain in the back of the novel. It’s an inte-
gral part of the story that the author takes very seriously. But at the same time,
[the author] takes the romance seriously.
Maria said that DEI conversations have become more visible in the romance com-
munity in recent years, saying, “I’m glad. I mean, they’re contentious, but you know,
that’s exactly the kind of conversations that we should be having and it makes me
really proud to be a romance reader.” In this way, Maria’s engagement approach
to reading extends to her expectations for community relations. RWA and publish-
ers have launched numerous initiatives to address DEI issues in recent years, such
as workshops at RWA National 2019 on “Whose Story Is It? Writing Diversely in
Romance” and “Recognizing Implicit Bias in Your Writing.” Yet significant prob-
lems persist. A report by romance-centric bookstore The Ripped Bodice showed the
share of romances by authors of color actually decreased from 2016 (7.8%) to 2017
(6.2%) (The Ripped Bodice 2018), garnering media attention from The New York
Times and renewed discussion in the industry (Alter 2018). The RITA awards have
been a consistent source of controversy about industry bias, as a Black author did
not win a RITA until 2019, 38 years into the contest’s history (Prokop 2019b).
Late 2019 into 2020 was a particularly turbulent time for Romancelandia. After
prominent author and diversity advocate Courtney Milan called the 1999 romance
Somewhere Lies the Moon “a fucking racist mess” on Twitter, Moon author Kathryn
Lynn Davis and writer/publisher Suzan Tisdale filed ethics complaints against Milan
(Grady 2020; Noori Farzan 2020; Wendell 2019).7 The RWA board inititally sided
with the complainants, temporarily suspending Milan from RWA membership and
issuing a lifetime ban on leadership positions. Just months earlier, the same organi-
zation had recognized Milan with an RWA Service Award for her leadership and
volunteer work. The subsequent outcry over the issue, including apparent mishan-
dling of complaint procedures, resulted in the resignation of the entire RWA Board
of Directors, the President, and the Executive Director, as well as rank-and-file
members frustrated with the ogranization. Publishers withdrew sponsorship from
the annual conference and the 2020 RITA awards were cancelled.
Though the climate in the romance community itself can be contentious, many
readers look to romance as entertainment and respite from stressful sociopolitical
issues. A number of respondents specifically discussed the HEA in relation to the
tumultuous “real world.” When I asked Skyler to explain the HEA, she replied:
Actually, that’s my favorite part of romance, because anytime anybody asks me
why I write romance, I always tell them ‘because the world is on fire and I want
to put some happy into it. Because the world sucks and I can’t do anything about
7
Milan’s tweets were part of a larger conversation about bias in the romance publishing industry after
others noted former Borders book buyer Sue Grimshaw “had liked racist/white-supremacist-adjacent
tweets” (Grady 2020). See also Noori Farzan 2020 or Wendell 2019 for more coverage of this case.
that.’ So I like books with happy endings, to, you know, kind of help with that, as
much as I can.
Similarly, Liz said:
I think that there’s so much that in reality that can be, you know, bittersweet, or
just bitter. I mean, the world’s kind of a dumpster fire right now. There’s political
turmoil and people are starving and the earth is dying and romances are hopeful
and they’re comforting and they make you feel good. And that’s inherent to the
promise that you get when you open a romance.
Respondents also talked about romance reading as escape from the demands of every-
day life. Sharon, the only respondent with the stereotypical bored stay-at-home-mom
origin story, explained how she started reading romance:
When you’ve got one at your feet and one in your arms, and you’re sleep
deprived, I was looking to read… So it was like I just started devouring every-
thing because I was going batshit crazy with two little kids at home and two and
a half years later there was another one, that was the bonus baby that we were not
planning on, so I was at home with three kids and yeah, so, reading romance was
my escape.
Several respondents described romance reading as an antidote to grueling or depressing
work in graduate school. Paula said:
When I was working on my masters’ thesis, reading romance novels was just the
best thing in the world because it was the opposite of what I was writing about,
which was female drama in French literature. And reading romance novels was
the opposite of that.
For Paula, romance was the opposite of depressing French literature because it focuses
on “what they [women] want and what makes them happy,” saying elsewhere in the
interview that romance reading “was like this vacation from life.”
Similar themes were echoed in public community discourse. For example, author
Marta Perry explained the appeal of Amish romance for the Romance Writers Report:
“Readers continue to turn to Amish fiction as, I think, a respite from the kinds of busy
lives most of us live. In Amish fction, we’re able to enjoy an existence centered around
church, family, and what we see as simple pleasures and responsibilities” (Putman
2017, p. 29). As these quotes illustrate, readers see romance as entertainment and a way
to relax from the stresses of daily life and the world at large. Some find respite in see-
ing sociopolitical issues worked out in fiction, such as the healing of trauma victims in
The Ones Who Got Away. Others, however, see any mention of sociopolitical issues (in
novels or in community discourse) contrary to a vision of romance as entertainment.
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Envisioning romancelandia as aesthetic public sphere or apolitical

space
At the heart of the entertainment/engagement tension is a question of separation

between creative pursuits and sociopolitical issues. This tension questions the very
status of Romancelandia as an aesthetic public sphere. The debate over the desirabil-
ity or possibility of romance as an apolitical space has been a part of community dis-
course for some years, especially between professionals debating how readers will
react to explicit discussion of sociopolitical issues. For instance, in the March 2015
issue of the Romance Writers Report, Jennifer Fusco wrote a “Marketing Insider”
column listing “the top ten things authors should avoid posting on social media.”
Number Three was “An Extreme Viewpoint on Social Issues.” Fusco wrote:
There are a million polarizing topics. Let’s name some: religion. Gay mar-
riage. The ruling in Ferguson, Missouri. Politics. Yes, an author’s social media
account should tell others who you are, but you are also in the business of
selling books. Leading a somewhat-public life means that while you may have
your opinions, you cannot afford to let those opinions turn your readership
away. Therefore, should a polarizing issue arise, take a more neutral approach,
express sadness or appreciation that the topic is being publically addressed.
(Fusco 2015, p. 42)
The May 2015 RWRcontained several responses to this point. One such response, a
feature article by Courtney Milan, argues that speaking out is a necessity for some
authors:
But silence is not neutrality. It’s easy to say “don’t rock the boat” from a van-
tage point of safety. But if the boat is already rocking, calls to be quiet about
its stability are dangerous. Those who are situated at the edges cannot be quiet
about the fact that they’re about to fall overboard, and asking them to be silent
in the name of “professionalism” is deeply cruel. (Milan 2015, p. 26)
Author Suzanne Brockmann echoed this sentiment in the most high profile example
of explicit political engagement rhetoric, her Lifetime Achivement Award speech at
the RWA national conference in July 2018. Reflecting back to the beginning of her
career, Brockmann recounted selling her first romance novel to a publisher in 1992
and being told she had could not have a gay secondary character. Brockmann, who
has a gay son, pushed back against the editor but ultimately had to choose between
withdrawing the book or putting food on the table. She published the book without
the character but calls that moment her “radioactive spider bite, my origin story.”
Continuing the speech, Brockmann recalled being asked in 2008 to emcee the RITA
awards at the annual RWA conference. By then she was very successful author, and
her recent release (All Through the Night, 2007) had a fan-favorite character mar-
rying his (same-sex) partner. In her time on stage she wanted to include “a short,
joyful comment” about California legalizing same-sex marriage, but she “was told
that the issue was divisive and some RWA members would be offended” (Brock-
mann 2018). Regretting not “rocking the boat” after that 2008 incident, Brockmann
continued her speech, “RWA, I’ve been watching you grapple as you attempt to deal
with the homophobic, racist white supremacy on which our nation and the publish-
ing industry is based. It’s long past time for that to change. But hear me, writers,
when I say: it doesn’t happen if we’re too fucking nice. It’s time to rock the boat in
the name of love and inclusion!” (Brockmann 2018). Later in the speech she specifi-
cally mentioned Trump voters:
Yeah, I’m talking to you, white, able, straight, cis, allegedly christian [sic]
women. And don’t @ [sic] me with Not all white women. Because 53% of
us plunged us into our current living hell. 8 53% of us are racist and some of
us don’t even know it!! Oh, wait, what’s that...? You’re not racist...? Then do
something. Prove it. In November, vote these hateful racist traitors OUT. If
you believe in love, like I do, if you write romance, where the stories we tell
are about the courage that it takes to open your heart, it’s time for you to do
the same. Open your heart and look hard at your political and religious beliefs.
(Brockmann 2018)
This speech was met with a standing ovation, and it seemed a sign that RWA was
finally going to take decisive action on DEI issues.
While this speech was enthusiastically received overall, some attendees walked
out. Reactions to Brockmann’s speech are reported in the longform article “Fifty
Shades of White: The Long Fight Against Racism in Romance Novels,” which
appeared in The Guardian in April 2019.9 Journalist Lois Beckett spoke to one
woman who did not walk out but had reservations about politics in romance:
Hannah Meredith had not stood up to applaud Brockmann’s speech. But she
had not walked out either. After the ceremony, as she smoked outside the hotel,
she explained why the speech made her uncomfortable. She had not voted for
Donald Trump, she said, so she didn’t take the remarks about his supporters
personally. But, she said: “I will be honest, when it became very political,
when it became sending [people] to go out and vote, I’m not sure it belonged.”
“I’m inundated with politics,” Meredith continued. “I want a space where I’m
not. That doesn’t mean you can’t talk about being inclusive. Love is love, and
I agree with that.” Meredith said she wanted RWA to address diversity without
being overtly political. (Beckett 2019)
Beckett also interviewed Harlequin author Kianna Alexander, an author of color,
who had a different perspective on the relationship between politics and the romance
genre. Beckett (2019) writes, “For Alexander, Trump’s mockery of a disabled
reporter during the campaign, his open racism, were personal threats to her, her hus-
band and her son. There was no space where she could avoid politics.”
These competing visions of Romancelandia as apolitical entertainment or
opportunity for political engagement are a recurring source of debate in the
8
Brockmann, who is white, is referring to commonly cited exit poll statistics suggesting that 53% of
white women voted for Trump in 2016.
9
This article was widely shared and praised on romance community social media.
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A. Michelson
community. Five months after Brockmann’s speech, RWR published a feature

article on “how historicals have romanticized white supremacy and what we
can do to reclaim the subgenre” (Kingston 2018, p.16). Kingston’s article listed
“white nationalist belief system elements found in the subgenre,” including fear
of racialized rape, fetishizing Asian women, and positive depictions of colonial-
ism (pp. 16–17).
This article inspired a flurry of RWR letters-to-the-editor, with some express-
ing solidarity with Kingston’s sentiments and others expressing a conservative
response. The most critical letter appeared in the Feburary 2019, submitted by
author Leigh Verill-Rhys. She took issue with Kingston’s piece for “address[ing]
a ‘social’ issue and ma[king] it a ‘creative’ issue by assuming the right to tell
us—their colleagues—what we should be writing” (Verill-Rhys 2019, p. 6). Ver-
ill-Rhys continued:
We do not need to make our writing “inclusive” or change our truths to the
alternative reality of what anyone else thinks or believes. If we have any
responsibility as we write, it is to be always and completely true to our-
selves, to speak our reality, our truth, thoughts and ideas—never to bow to
the dictates of “accepted” speech, “accepted” truths, “accepted” history and
never to allow anyone to determine what is acceptable content. (p. 6)
Most subsequent letters supported Kingston and criticized Verrill-Rhys for con-
flating inclusion and censorship, but the core issue of her argument about whether
“social issues” and “creative issues” can or should be separate was also echoed in
interviews.
In a June 2018 interview (a month before Brockmann’s speech and eight
months before Verill-Rhys’s letter), author Kiera also broached the topic of a cre-
ativity/social issue divide. Asked about sex positivity in romance, Kiera sponta-
neously brought up the Trump presidency:
I think that with – and I hate to center the presidency around almost any-
thing that has to do with writing because I feel like creativity is sacred, but
we are what we are, we’re human beings, we write, we also consume the
news and social media, so we have a lot of influences coming into our writ-
ing from the outside world no matter what. And I think in this specific cli-
mate with the further intrusion of queer writers and writers of color, having
that expansion is defining more sex positivity.
Kiera, herself a writer of color, responded to an apparently unrelated question by
“centering the presidency” despite reservations about the sacredness of creatitiv-
ity. She expresses a view similar to Verill-Rhys—that creativity is sacred—but
ultimately finds it impossible to fully separate the creative self from the self who
lives in the social word.
Though there is a tension between those who think Romancelandia should
be a site of entertainment and those who think Romancelandia should be a site
of engagement, these expectations for romance are not always diametrically
opposed. Indeed, the entertainment aspect can aid engagement if those elements
allow the reader to relax and recharge before re-engaging with real world issues.
Casey McQuistion has publicly stated this intent for her novel Red, White, and
Royal Blue, saying, “I’m not a legislator. I’m not a lawyer. I’m not an organizer.
Those aren’t my skills in this life. But what I can be is the person who creates
something that those people can sustain themselves with, or use as an escape”
(Leach 2019). Responses to this book show that readers can make very different
meanings of from the same text, and that sometimes entertainment, as a tempo-
rary retreat, can complement engagement.
Reader response to Red, White, and Royal Blue: a case study

in entertainment and engagement
The first novel by 28-year-old Casey McQuiston, Red, White, and Royal Blue
(RWRB) debuted at #15 on the New York Times Paperback Trade Fiction bestseller
list (“Paperback Trade Fiction”). It has now gone through seven printings and sold
over 100,000 copies (Leach 2019). Throughout the summer of 2019 it was promi-
nently displayed in bookstores, talked about online, and mentioned by respond-
ents in interviews. An effusive Glamour article describes it as a “viral” hit, “the
little novel that could” whose film rights were quickly optioned by Amazon Stu-
dios (Leach 2019). RWRB appeared on “Best Romances of 2019” lists in Publish-
ers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews and was voted both Best Romance and Best Debut
Novel in the Goodreads Choice Awards. Its cartoon cover and the trade paperback
format (at a $16.99 price point, it is geared towards a mainstream audience rather
than the mass market paperback romance audience) positioned it squarely in the cur-
rent romcom book trend, and its bisexual, biracial protagonist met growing demand
for diverse content.
The book is set in a just-barely-alternate 2019/2020 universe. Ellen Claremont, a
Democrat from Texas, was elected the first female President of the United States in
2016. After a series classic romcom misunderstandings and absurd situations, her
college aged son, Alex Claremont-Diaz (his father is a Mexican American senator)
starts a secret romance with Prince Henry of England. While some political alternate
universes (AU) like The West Wing avoid recent history by making Richard Nixon
the last real president, RWRB is set in a very near AU. President Claremont is the
direct successor to Barack Obama and other real politicians like Maxine Waters are
mentioned by name. (It is not stated whether Donald Trump was the 2016 Republi-
can nominee or even exists in this world; it is also not stated whether Hillary Clinton
ran in 2016. McQuiston has said that President Claremont is modeled on Wendy
Davis of Texas). The British royal family is also portrayed as a fictional but with
some real-life elements recycled. As SBTB commenters point out, there is a real
“Prince Henry”—it is the official name of Prince Harry. Like Harry, “Prince Henry”
is younger brother to the future king. The fictional Henry has two siblings, Prince
Philip and Princess Beatrice—both names of real-life royals.
The plot revolves around two main conflicts: Can Alex and Henry have a future
together, given their public political roles? Will President Claremont be re-elected
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A. Michelson
in 2020, and if so, can she (a Democrat) win her home state of Texas? Alex is in
the spotlight as “First Son” and is an aspiring politician himself, so as he grapples
with his newly discovered bisexual identity and feelings for Henry he worries about
jeopardizing his strategically planned future. Henry, too, faces pressure to conform
to tradition as a member of the royal family. When a private email server is hacked
and their romantic correspondence revealed to the world, they are forced to confront
these questions head on.
RWRB was a surprise success. Although indie authors and small presses have
been publishing queer romance for years, it is one of the first hits from a mainstream
publisher. The book’s overt partisan political content, especially the near AU, is also
not common in the genre. Based on statements and interviews, McQuiston clearly
intended the book to provide “emotional balm,” as one commenter calls it. She con-
ceived the idea before the 2016 election, telling Publishers Weekly:
I didn’t intend it to be a response to Trump; I expected the election to go a dif-
ferent way. Suddenly, it had to serve a bigger purpose. I wanted an antidote to
all the negativity and what feels terrible about politics in this country. I wanted
to hearken back to the sense of hope I had when I was a junior in high school,
when Obama got elected. (Kramer 2019)
For some readers it clearly does provide hope. In a different interview, McQuiston
told Glamour
It’s been amazing. Last week I got an email from an immigration lawyer who
was like, ‘Obviously my job is really depressing right now. But I would go
home at night and read your book and it would make me happy and give me
hope. I’d go back to work with more energy the next day…’ That’s what I
wanted to do. (Leach 2019)
Here an entertainment approach to reading (through a book that elides the Trump
presidency to provide hope and happiness) enables the real-world work of this
immigration lawyer.
Although the novel is commercially successful and positively received by many,
it was not effective entertainment for all readers. Aarya, a regular reviewer for
the Smart Bitches, Trashy Books website, rated Red, White, and Royal Blue a C-.
Although she enjoyed the romance between Alex and Henry, Aarya explains that
two main things detracted from her enjoyment of the book overall: “third person
POV [point of view]in the present tense” and “2016 Election AU/Fantasy Politics”
(Aarya 2019). Acknowledging many readers found the book pleasantly escapist,
Aarya wrote:
I’m simply not in the mental state where I can immerse myself in an escapist
fantasy of something that is currently happening. Any attempt to ground the
book in current politics just made my brain swivel to despair. It’s possible that
I might have loved this book had I read it ten years from now, with 2016 being
a distant memory. But right now, it’s too close to reality for me to accept it as a
fantasy AU. (Aarya 2019)
Readers articulated interesting divergences in reacting to both RWRB and Aarya’s

review. As of November 2019, there were 35 comments, 31 unique commenters, and
20 unique substantive comments posted under the review.10 None of the comments
discussed the book’s portrayal of an interracial queer couple, other than expressing
approval in terms like “the swooniest.” I suspect the commenters did not focus on
these identity aspects because, while groundbreaking in a mainstream trade paper-
back romcom, they are not novel to romance readers who know how to find diverse
content from self-published authors and small presses (Barot 2016; Markert 2016).
Indeed, a number of the non-substantive comments involved book recommendations
for other queer romances, mostly from small presses.
Three commenters aligned closely with Aarya’s opinion and found the political
AU problematic. For example, Marjorie wrote:
THANK YOU for this review. I’m so traumatized by current politics I know I
won’t be able to lose myself in this book. I too wish there were NO references
to recent real-world anything or anyone, because any time I hear “Barack
Obama” I get hit with a wave of PTSD about the political universe we were
plunged into after he left office. (I can do magical handwaving in paranormal
and urban fantasy books; I have a harder time in contemporary ones, and fac-
tual errors do make me cranky.) I’m taking my library hold off this book; God
willing I’ll be able to read and enjoy it in January, 2021!
Six commenters had the opposite reaction and found the political AU an antidote
to the trauma of the real political situation, the reaction McQuiston hoped for. For
example, Kate commented on Aarya’s negative review:
I felt pretty much the opposite way about the political content. I only started
reading romance a couple of years ago, and it was directly because I wanted
some escapism from our current awful political climate. It helps my anxiety to
have happy ending books to retreat to when the news gets to be too much. So
for me, the "imagine if it was now, but good" fully worked. I cried buckets the
last few scenes of the book especially. So it depends on the reader! (Also, the
romance is the SWOONIEST.)
Similarly, Heather S. wrote:
Normally I don’t care if people don’t feel the way I do about a book, but
this book was the mental and emotional balm I’ve needed for years and it’s
extremely close to my heart. So, respectfully, I’m going to completely and
utterly disagree with your review of it. This book is an A+, 5-star, desert island
keeper for me; I’m actually on my second read of it since it came out, because
I just can’t even with anything else. Maybe down the road it won’t age so well
because it is so strongly contemporary in events and cultural references, but it
is precisely what is needed at this terrible point in time.
10
“Non-substantive” comments did not directly state a reaction to the book or the review, such as com-
ments seeking or suggesting other novels.
200
A. Michelson
Eight commenters expressed mixed feelings to outright dislike of the book for rea-
sons other than political trauma, such as third person present POV, shallow charac-
ter building, and “lazy worldbuilding.” Three other commenters complained about
similar elements but stated that they liked the book overall. Some found the near
AU off-putting in its use of real royal names like Henry, Philip, and Beatrice but did
not comment on the politics of the AU. Two commenters specifically had a problem
with a forced outing plotline.
The world of RWRB is not perfect, but it is a world maybe just a little better than
our own.11 The HEA is about more than Alex and Henry having a future together.
Though President Claremont is from Texas, she did not win the state in 2016 and
“turning Texas blue” is a major goal for Alex in his role as a junior political strate-
gist. McQuiston, who grew up in Louisiana, told Publishers Weekly: “I feel that’s
an underexplored narrative—people from the South and red states are progressive”
(Kramer 2019). The narrative that the South can be progressive, countering popular
representations of that region as conservative and homophobic, is a major part of the
novel’s optimistic conclusion. Though RWRB could have been effective as a genre
romance without the “turn Texas blue” subplot, this plot point reminds us that in the
world of the novel love always wins, not only in a private victory for the couple but
with the American public embracing a bisexual first son, even the “red states.”
RWRB illustrates that while entertainment and engagement are not mutually
exclusive, the experience of entertainment and/or engagement varies from reader to
reader. Even readers who seem to be similarly unsatisfied with current political real-
ity experience the book in disparate ways. For some readers this world provides a
comforting model of what “now, but better” might look like, while others found it
“too close to reality” to be effective entertainment.
“It’s very hopeful”: romance reading and the real world
Even though readers differ in their views of romance as entertainment or engage-

ment, there is consensus that hope is integral to the meaning and experience of
romance reading. The word is frequently invoked in romance genre discourse,
reflecting a belief that romance can make the world a better place. As mentioned
above, McQuiston wanted RWRB “to hearken back to the sense of hope I had…
when Obama got elected.” The immigration lawyer who wrote to McQuiston said
the book “would give me hope.” At the 2018 regional RWA conference a keynote
speaker repeatedly referenced hope, saying things like, “We [romance writers] are
Olympians of hope in a world that does not value hope.” An article in the Romance
Writers Report calls the idea that “hope is never false” a core message of the genre
(Shayne 2016, p. 33). Hope is an integral part of how readers understand the genre
in relation to real world sociopolitical issues. There is a sentiment that the world is
11
That is, of course, if you share McQuiston’s politics. One SBTB comment complained that the Demo-
crats were portrayed as “too good” and the Republicans “too bad” to be multidimensional characters, but
no one otherwise commented on the partisan depictions.
troubled, but good things can happen even in challenging circumstances if people
are emotionally honest and loving. As reader and freelance editor/consultant Emily
says:
Romance is a contract with the reader that bad people don’t win, that people
can heal, that happy ever afters come in a lot of different flavors. It is a world-
view of optimism, and it can be light and silly and it can be dark with a sil-
ver lining, but romance is about that happy ever after…it is about there being
something good.
The hopeful HEA is an important part of romance’s political potential. Heidi Culli-
nan (who writes LGBTQ romance) said in the Romance Writers Report, “For many
communities, the possibility of a happy ending is itself an act of revolution, of cul-
tural inspiration” (Cullinan 2019, p. 22). Similarly, author Adriana Herrera wrote,
“In 2019, Own Voices romance novels are holding space in fiction for a version of
the United States where immigrants can lead triumphant lives” (Herrera 2019). As
previously described, Maria’s response to An Extraordinary Union also shows how
happily-ever-afters for people who have historically been denied “triumphant lives”
can be a transformative reading experience.
Hope is not only about a HEA for fictional characters but also about the reading
experience. In a keynote speech at the 2019 national RWA conference, best-selling
romance author Jennifer L. Armentrout12 candidly discussed her history of depres-
sion and suicidal thoughts. She described reading, especially romance reading, as a
“lifeline:”
…there are people sitting in this room right now, that are sitting here, that
have no idea that their books was a lifeline, a lifejacket thrown to me when I
was drowning. And their books didn’t cure my depression, they didn’t make
it go away, it wasn’t a magical pill in the form of a book. But what it was, it
was an escape. It was enough for me to get out of my head, until I was able
to get treatment, to talk to someone, to basically center myself and be like,
“What are you thinking? What are you doing?” These people will probably
never know that their books saved my life. That if it wasn’t for them seven
months ago, that if it wasn’t for them twenty years ago…I would not be
standing here. And that is why romance books are so important. And I’m
not saying that thrillers or suspense or fantasy or any of them are not as
important, they are. But there is something special and unique and different
about romance. It’s because there’s hope.
To Armentrout, romance reading was literally “a support to life.” Crucially, here
“escape” does not mean a total withdrawl from “the real world,” but a temporary
reprieve that ultimately allowed her to confront her mental health concerns. Of
12
Most people observed at conferences are not identified by their real names; I make an exception for
speeches made publicly available. Armentrout’s speech is publicly accessible on RWA’s YouTube chan-
nel.
202
A. Michelson
course, it should be noted that sometimes mental health concerns such as severe
depression render people unable to read.
However, like Armentrout, many readers and writers believe that romance nov-
els have a tangible positive impact on the world. Earlier in her speech, Armen-
trout said of romance critics: “they almost view romance as if it’s not changing
the world. You know what, maybe it’s not changing the world but it’s changing
the individual person, who then change [sic] the world, right?” It is implicit in
many DEI conversations that diverse romance novels are important because fic-
tion is a site for people to encounter and understand “the other.” The Rainbow
Romance Writers, RWA’s special interest chapter for LGBTQ+ romance, states
on their website, “We are changing minds, one heart at a time.” In the Acknowl-
edgements to The Kiss Quotient, author Helen Hoang thanked her publisher “…
for helping me share another perspective with readers and literally fight hate with
love” (p. ix). Past RWA president and African American author Shirley Hailstock
recounted receiving a letter in 1999 from a fellow author who said that until they
read one of Hailstock’s romances, “… I never knew that black folks fall in love
like white folks. I thought it was just all sex or jungle fever I think ‘they’ call it.
Silly of me” (Beckett 2019). Though Black authors often find white readers’ sur-
prise at relating to Black characters “infuriating,” this letter writer evidently felt
that reading Hailstock’s romance novel had a (positive) transformative effect on
her worldview (Beckett 2019).
As both readers and writers/publishing profesionals, respondents repeatedly
talked about romance as a positive force for the individual and the collective.
Ellen emphasized the individual impact of romance when recalling her early dis-
covery of the genre: “I knew that no matter what obstacles the characters faced,
love would conquer all…And that’s what I wanted because reality was boring, it
was sad, there was stuff going on. I want my happy ending.” She also elaborated
on how her work (and that of other romance writers) impacted readers:
We’re showing a world of what’s possible. And I think more than anything,
people need to see what’s possible so they know they can actually dream
bigger than where they’re at.
Author Owen talked about the implications romance values have for the
community:
[RWA] has to be inclusive because romance is the story of people changing
each other and building a new world. That’s what the story of romance is… I
really believe in that, and if you believe in that, then you cannot discriminate
because you believe that relationships can build the whole world.
Agent Liz went even further to talk about romance reading’s benefit for “everybody:”
I think that everybody would benefit by reading a romance and getting to
escape and kind of let that hopefulness and happiness kind of wash over
them. We know that there’s tons of people who wouldn’t touch a romance
with a 10 foot pole (laughs), but I think it’s a force of good...
Liz and Owen’s quotes clearly link the act of romance reading to broader forces
of good and inclusive communities, at least the normative sense that romance
should create better lives and communities. However, respondents were hesitant
to explictly call romance “utopian” and talked about it in relation to real life.
Sophia said:
I don’t know if it’s utopia or if it’s as I said to someone, I really think
what romance novels do is they give you hope… .It’s that, you know, in
the middle of this world, the circumstance, two people find each other and
two people care about each other. I think that’s what’s really profound. I
don’t know if that’s utopian or if it’s just as the profound moment of find-
ing someone that you love that loves you regardless of what’s going on. It’s
just to me, it’s very hopeful.
Talking about romance in relation to “real life” does not mean that romance nov-
els are separate from “real life,” an interpretation that verges on an overly simplistic
escapist understanding of romance. To be effective romance must balance the idealis-
tic happily-ever-after with the “real world.” Of course, other forms of literature, such
as fairy tales, also invovle overcoming obstacles and address serious social conditions
(Bettelheim 1975; Darnton 1984). Modern romance novels—and readers—are nota-
ble in the way they self-consciously navigate “real life” with the mandatory HEA.
Readers actively make connections between novels and the real word and sometimes
dislike novels that depart too much from the real life. For example, for Skyler to
“buy” the HEA she has to see characters put in the work to get there. She explained:
I sort of agree with that idea that romance authors kind of create a kind
of alternate universe where everything is happy and sunshiny. Some of
them do. In order for me to buy the happy ever after, though…they have
to improve themselves and get healthier on an emotional or mental level
in order to end up in that relationship. And for it to be believable that it’s
going to work, you can’t hide your head in the sand and expect a relation-
ship to work, that’s not real life.
This, again, is where hope comes in—the real life elements suggest that the
HEA is attainable, despite complications. As hero Nick says in the resolution to
Hate to Want You: “I’m not a prince. This is not a fairy tale. This is reality, with
all its problems and hassles and issues and absurd family dynamics, and I want
you with me. Honestly”” (Rai 2017, p. 367). Romance reading offers hope that
everyone might experience the profound and transformative power of love, even
in “reality, with all its problems and hassles and issues.”
Conclusion
This paper explored how the romance reading community understands the genre in
relation to sociopolitical issues. Romance, a genre that is often dismissed as trite,
trashy, or even harmful is a site of sociopolitical discourse. However, different
204
A. Michelson
expectations of entertainment and engagement correspond to different visions for the

genre’s relationship to sociopolitical issues. As such, there is debate over whether
Romancelandia should be an aesthetic public sphere that “provide[s] a space for com-
mentary about important matters of concern” or a site of apolitical entertainment
(Jacobs 2012, p. 323). Romance provides a particular kind of “enchantment” reading
by promising a happily-ever-after (Felski 2008). A sample of recent notable romance
novels shows many novels engage with serious sociopolitical issues while providing
the requisite HEA. Counterintuitively, these real-world problems are why readers
find the genre so hopeful. Social problems like gun violence and trauma exist, but
romance offers hope that love can heal, as in The Ones Who Got Away. Some nov-
els, like Playing with Fire, may depict a sociopolitical issue but produce ambivalent
messages about how it should be addressed. It is important to note that sociopoliti-
cal issues are not magically resolved at the end of romance novels, but the romantic
union is presented as an asset to help characters confront or mitigate challenges. If
the protagonists can find their HEA in an imperfect world, everyone can. In this way,
romance reading is a “support to [life]” (Thumala Olave 2018) regardless of whether
the reader approaches romance with an expectation of entertainment or engagement.
That the genre is primarily by and for women provides readers with a sense of con-
nection to a safe-space community, especially important for women who have been
historically excluded from civil society. Readers overwhelmingly described romance
fiction as feminist, citing the “by women, for women” aspect of the genre and empha-
sizing sexually empowered female characters who lead fulfilling professional lives.
While many community members (and scholars) emphasize the genre’s subversive and
progressive potential, there is not consensus among self-identified feminists and pro-
gressives as to who can claim those terms. For example, feminists who critique heter-
onormativity are not satisfied romance is subversive simply because it validates female
desire. It is also important to note that regressive elements remain and that sociopoliti-
cal engagement with the genre can be conservative. RWA’s DEI crisis and the backlash
to explicitly political authors like Suzanne Brockmann and Courtney Milan show the
conservative side of the genre remains resilient. However, this study offers limited evi-
dence on the conservative perspective. There may be some selection bias in who agrees
to speak with a sociologist, or self-censorship when speaking with a researcher in a
recorded interview (even though interviews are confidential and pseudonyms assigned).
In addition, some subgenres are not represented among respondents nor texts analyzed.
For example, none of the respondents wrote or read inspirational (religious) romance,
and this subgenre was not represented in the sample of twenty recent notable novels.
Future research might intentionally recruit participants to explore the conserva-
tive side of the genre, or at least to sample respondents and texts from all major
romance subgenres. Of course, the landscape is more nuanced than progressive or
conservative, and a deeper analysis of how these elements intertwine is warranted.
For example, there are undoubtedly people “who see themselves as progressive
and/or feminist in their celebration of romance as woman-positive genre, but who
bristle at critiques of racist representation and exclusion.” 13 Future work on reading
13
I thank an anonymous reviewer for raising this important point.
and aesthetic public spheres may also consider how reading experiences and com-
munities’ relations to sociopolitical issues may be similar or different across popu-
lar fiction genres. Scholars might analyze romance reading and community rela-
tions over a longer historical period. Is the prevalence of an engagement orientation
that actively addresses sociopolitical issues a period effect of the polarizing Trump
era? How do the frames of engagement and entertainment map onto romance texts,
reading experiences, and community relations in earlier periods? How do expecta-
tions of entertainment and engagement relate to political action?
This paper contributes to the cultural sociology of reading by highlighting romance
as a particular kind of reading experience centered around the happily-ever-after. It
enhances our understanding of the political, ethical, and relational aspects of reading.
Romance is a community, and readers have expectations of entertainment and/or engage-
ment for what both novels and community relations should be. Finally, this work extends
the aesthetic public sphere concept to popular genre fiction, highlighting the romance
genre’s capacity to be a site of serious idea exchange and political conversation.
Acknowledgements Thank you to the Editor and anonymous reviewers for their constructive com-
ments. I also would like to thank Wendy Griswold, Jun Fang, Emily Handsman, Mallory Fallin, and
the members of Northwestern University’s Culture and Society Workshop for their helpful feedback on
various stages of this article. Portions of this research were supported through grants from the Romance
Writers of America and the Sexualities Project at Northwestern.
Appendix 1: Novels included in content analysis
2018 Notable Books (appeared on 2+ industry recognition lists)

Cole, Alyssa. 2018. A Princess in Theory. Avon.
Guillory, Jasmine. 2018. The Wedding Date. Berkley.
Hoang, Helen. 2018. The Kiss Quotient. Berkley.
Loren, Roni. 2018. The Ones Who Got Away. Sourcebooks Casablanca.
2017 Notable Books

Cole, Alyssa. 2017. An Extraordinary Union. Kensington.
Daria, Alexis. 2017. Take the Lead. SMP Swerve.
MacLean, Sarah. 2017. The Day of the Duchess. Avon.
Rai, Alisha. 2017. Hate to Want You. Avon.
2016 Notable Books

Bouchet, Amanda. 2016. A Promise of Fire. Sourcebooks Casablanca.
Jenkins, Beverly. 2016. Forbidden. Avon.
Shupe, Joanna. 2016. Magnate. Zebra.
2015 Notable Books

Dev, Sonali. 2015. The Bollywood Bride. Kensington.
206
A. Michelson
Hall, Alexis. 2015. For Real. Riptide Publishing.

Meader, Kate. 2015. Playing With Fire. Pocket Books.
RITA Best First Book Winners14

Tremayne, Marie. 2018. Lady in Waiting. Avon Impulse.
[Take the Lead—already accounted for above with 2017 notable books]
Etchison, Cheryl. 2016. Once and For All. Avon Impulse.
Dunn, Pintip. 2015. Forget Tomorrow. Entangled.
Goodreads Best Romance Winners

[The Kiss Quotient—already accounted for above with 2018 notable books]
Hoover, Colleen. 2017. Without Merit. Atria Books.
Hoover, Colleen. 2016. It Ends With Us. Atria Books.
Hoover, Colleen 2015. Confess. Atria Books.
Appendix 2: Interview respondent demographics
Age Gender Sexual orientation Race/ethnicity
Median age: 44 Female/woman: 28 Straight/heterosexual: 18 White/Caucasian: 22

Range 30–70 Male/man: 2 Gay: 2 Black: 2
Bisexual: 3 Black/Multiracial: 1
Demisexual:1 White/Arab: 1
Other: 2 Latinx: 1
Hispanic: 1
Greek: 1
Asian American: 1
N = 29 N = 30 N =26 N = 30
Relationship status Have children? Highest degree obtained Household income
Married: 20 Yes: 13 Some college:1 < $29,000: 2

Partnered: 2 No: 17 Associates: 3 $30,000–59,000: 5
Single: 6 Bachelors: 12 $60,000–90,000: 5
Widowed: 1 Masters: 11a >$100,000: 17
JD: 1
Doctorate: 2
N = 29 N = 30 N = 30 N = 29
32 interviews were conducted but no demographics question received 32 responses. Respondents were
able to opt of out questions they preferred not to answer. Most questions were open ended. For example,
the respondent who wrote in Greek for race/ethnicity discussed this choice—she felt like she was “sup-
posed to say white” but as a second generation immigrant she did not relate to white American culture
and did not identify herself that way
a
Includes one respondent currently pursuing a PhD
14
RITA award year is year following publication, i.e. the 2018 publication Lady in Waiting is the 2019
RITA winner
Appendix 3: Romance reader demographics
Readership statistics are reported by RWA from "The Romance Book Buyer 2017:
A Study by NPD Book for Romance Writers of America” (Romance Writers of
America 2019b).
• Female: 82%
• Male: 18%
• Average age of the romance reader: 35–39 years old
• Ethnicity: 73% White/Caucasian, 12% Black/African American, 7% Latino/His-
panic, and 4% Asian/Asian American.
Sexual orientation: 86% heterosexual or straight; 9% bisexual, pansexual, or other

bi+ identity; 2% gay or lesbian.
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210
A. Michelson
Publisher’s Note Springer Nature remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published
maps and institutional affiliations.
Anna Michelson is a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Sociology at Northwestern University with
research interests at the intersection of culture, gender, and sexuality. Her forthcoming dissertation pro-
ject examines processes of classification, community, and social change in romance genre fiction. Her
work has also appeared in Sociological Forum.
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American Journal of Cultural Sociology (2021) 9:177–210

The politics of happily‑ever‑after: romance genre fiction

Accepted: 27 November 2020 / Published online: 13 January 2021

Keywords Reading · Romance · Aesthetic public sphere · Civil society

in writer parlance), is a defining feature of romance genre fiction, especially in

A cultural sociology of romance reading

diamond in Griswold 2013). For example, Childress (2017) demonstrates that

By focusing on the romance reading community, I seek to build on sociological

stigmatized genre. This stigma is related to its status as a female-dominated genre, a

sociopolitical content? Do they purchase books by and about marginalized voices?

Romance and the aesthetic public sphere

it is important to remember the American community is situated in a broader global

The HEA or it’s close cousin, Happy-For-Now (HFN) is a genre requirement

Entertainment and engagement: expectations for reading

For these respondents, the HEA is central to this interpretation of romance as

Envisioning romancelandia as aesthetic public sphere or apolitical

At the heart of the entertainment/engagement tension is a question of separation

community. Five months after Brockmann’s speech, RWR​ published a feature

Reader response to Red, White, and Royal Blue: a case study

Readers articulated interesting divergences in reacting to both RWRB and Aarya’s

“It’s very hopeful”: romance reading and the real world

Even though readers differ in their views of romance as entertainment or engage-

expectations of entertainment and engagement correspond to different visions for the

Appendix 1: Novels included in content analysis

2018 Notable Books (appeared on 2+ industry recognition lists)

2017 Notable Books

2016 Notable Books

2015 Notable Books

Hall, Alexis. 2015. For Real. Riptide Publishing.

RITA Best First Book Winners14

Goodreads Best Romance Winners

Appendix 2: Interview respondent demographics

Age Gender Sexual orientation Race/ethnicity

Median age: 44 Female/woman: 28 Straight/heterosexual: 18 White/Caucasian: 22

Married: 20 Yes: 13 Some college:1 < $29,000: 2

Appendix 3: Romance reader demographics

Sexual orientation: 86% heterosexual or straight; 9% bisexual, pansexual, or other

McQuiston, C. 2019. Red, White, and Royal Blue. Griffin.

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community. Five months after Brockmann’s speech, RWR published a feature