When I wrote this post I was eyeball deep in some heavy theology. Seeing as my brain was pretty much fried from all that reading, I put away my usual reading material for some easy fluffy chick lit. You know the kind: boy meets girl, love at first sight (even if they don’t realise it!!), cue obstacle, obstacle, obstacle. Against all odds they end up together and live happily ever after.
Sigh. If only life were that simple.
But I am a firm believer that all our human expressions (songs, movies, books, tv shows) can teach us something about what it means to be human. And romantic novels are no exception. It was probably after my 4th or 5th novel that I realised a pattern. I had read a number of different authors so I was surprised to see them share the same pattern.
All the male characters had one thing in common (besides their devastatingly good looks – is there any novel where the guy just looks… well, you know… normal?) – they wanted nothing from the female heroine except for herself.
They loved her for being her.
Not for what she looked like. Not for what she could do for them. Not for how she cooked or how she took care of them. No matter what it cost them – moving large distances, losing their careers, ending friendships – they just wanted her. Because she, in herself, was worth it.