Happily ever after

Over the last few months, I've begun digging into the world of romance novels. I initially picked up a few titles out of a desire to understand better how the genre worked, but reading these books almost immediately became one of my favorite things to do. As someone who prefers strong character writing to strong plotting, I was pleased to realize that romance lives and dies on strong character writing, something I probably should have figured out before.

At the core of most romance novels I like is an unstated assumption that true love follows not just from a physical attraction one cannot deny no matter how hard they try but also from a kind of psychological healing. Both of the characters have an incorrect assumption about either themselves or the way the world works, one that keeps them from being capable of accepting love when it comes. To achieve happiness, they will have to learn to let go of that assumption and realize the world still has room for surprises. What separates good romance from great romance, for me, is how skillfully a book navigates those straits.

It must be said I am a neophyte in these waters. I've read just enough to be dangerous with my critical opinions but not quite enough to feel truly informed on anything beyond an "I like this, and I don't like that" level. (As we all know, "I like this, and I don't like that" is the least exciting form of criticism.) For people who have spent way more time thinking about this than I have, start here and work outward. And yet, allow me to offer a handful of thoughts on one of the oldest arguments in romance world. If you hate said thoughts, feel free to reject them as coming from, again, a neophyte.

An undying argument among those who think at least somewhat critically about romance is whether a novel must have a happy ending to be considered "romance." The core of this argument is that the happily ever after — or HEA — is essential to romance as a genre, and if you don't have it, then you've slipped over into some other genre entirely. This argument is somewhat similar to how if you've got a bunch of wizards in your spaceship, plenty of people will tell you you're not writing "real" science fiction.

I'm someone who rarely cares about whether a thing "fits" in a genre or not. To use another example from a different genre world, I'm entirely comfortable calling Tamsyn Muir's Locked Tomb quartet "science fiction" because it takes place in an outer space that is heavily implied to be a far-future solar system. Yes, it features necromancy and all other manner of magic, but Muir slaps a handful of science-y sounding terms on top of her magic system, which is enough for me. Whether the Locked Tomb books are science fiction or fantasy ultimately doesn't interest me because I primarily care about whether I find them enjoyable or not. (I do; they're some of my favorite books of recent years. See here for more.)

Yet I think the HEA distinction makes a certain sense in romance world. Because the "classic" romance novel doesn't feature genre elements (though of course plenty of romance novels do feature genre elements), you need something more substantial than "this book features love" to differentiate it from other forms of realistic fiction. After all, there are plenty of love stories that end poorly on the shelves, many of which have lots in common with romance until they veer off in their own direction. Genre distinctions are primarily consumer distinctions, and if you want a happy ending — which we all do from time to time — then knowing that "romance" = "happy ending" is probably a line you're willing to draw. It's not a line I would draw, but also, I'm just one person.

What I'm more interested in, particularly as a queer person, is the question that naturally arises from "Does a romance novel need to have a happy ending?" Even if your answer to that is "yes," you have to ask next, "Well, what makes an ending happy?"

An ending is static. Even the most ambiguous ending you can imagine exists in a space where its ambiguity exists in perpetuity. Tony Soprano is always looking up at the door to Holstein's, waiting to see who walks in, and the conversation around that shot will continue in much the same way it already has for as long as people watch The Sopranos.

A more definite ending is static in a slightly different way. It suggests itself going forward. Many people were upset about The Last Jedi, for instance, simply because they couldn't imagine the triumphant Luke Skywalker from the end of Return of the Jedi ever retreating so inside himself that he gave up on training new generations of Jedi. Thus, when we say an ending is an HEA ending, what we mean is that the ending extends forward in such a way that we believe this couple will be together forever and ever, amen.

‎The most obvious pitfall here is a book where you don't feel like the central couple deserves to be together, and imagining them together forever leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Plenty of romance novels center on couples whose low-grade toxicity would only get worse over time. In those cases, however, it's usually easier to read something else and not recommend the book.

But, again, what makes an ending happy?

I have been with the same person for over two decades. I had little time to have romantic relationships before I met her, yet I had romantic relationships that ended in a breakup that still left me happy to have had them, even at the moment. We are marked by people we've loved and lost, and sometimes, we are marked much for the better. Relationships can struggle and find new footing (there's a whole romance subgenre about this); the perfect love can be broken up by death. You might find the right person for one period in your life, then find they're not the right person for the next. And on and on.

None of what I'm saying here is new. Romance fans have had this conversation many times. Yet the deeper I dive into the genre, the more I realize that the romances I respond to the best, at least, are just as much stories about finding a community you belong to or a family that feels like home. By falling in love with the right person, you can find a whole life that makes sense to you.

Often, this idea intersects with queer romance in a way that is... intriguing. For instance, my favorite series at the moment is Alexandria Bellefleur's trilogy of novels, two of which are about women who fall in love with women. And across that series, the overarching arc is more or less that of a group of friends who become something of a chosen family to each other. Yes, a brother and sister are in that group, but various friends and loved ones also find their way into it. Thus, when the final book tugs a seemingly disconnected character into the group, she's finding a family as much as she is a lover. The idea that you could fall in love and gain a family has inherent appeal to lots of queer people, and Bellefleur subtly plays with this idea throughout her trilogy.

But these books left me wondering: Could a happy ending be a character finding a place that feels like home, even if the relationship doesn't work out? Yes, romance is about love, but love takes many forms, right?

"Happily ever after" doesn't have to be heteronormative. Many queer couples, including my wife and me, find their happily ever after. But the idea that you can find one person who fills in every gap in yourself feels antithetical to queerness in a way I can't quite pin down. I don't want to say that the HEA ending is an old-fashioned thing that needs to go because I disagree with that idea. But I do think that when it comes to queerness, "happily ever after" can have a slightly more expansive meaning.

Talk back to me: What do you think a happy ending is? And what's your favorite happy ending? Tell me in the comments or by replying to this email.

What I've been up to: Taylor Swift is back in the news, and I, as always, am talkin' Tay at Vox Dot Com.

So does Swift spend all her time strategizing how to win an EGOT? God, I hope not. If I were Taylor Swift, I would think about lots of other things before I thought about getting added to the Wikipedia page “List of EGOT Winners.” I must admit, however, that if I had an Emmy and a Grammy, I would definitely think all the time about how to get the Oscar and Tony, so maybe I’m wrong.

What you missed if you're not a subscriber to Episodes: My Our Flag Means Death recaps had their second installment, and the conversation in the comments section is already quite lively. You should check it out if you can! And later this week, I'll be publishing a subscribers-only essay on My Brilliant Friend, a show I know many of you have great interest in.

‎Our Flag Means Death has plenty of other queer elements to recommend it. The gender fuckery inherent to the character of Jim, the vague crushes among the characters that are already developing, and the inherent homoeroticism within a space that features so many men all add up to a show bursting with queer energy. Yet I don't know if the series would be talked about so fervently as a queer one were it not for the obvious chemistry between Stede and Ed. It's the kind of chemistry that makes one want to invent portmanteaus that can only hope to contain it.

Read me: I alluded above to the fact that I love the Locked Tomb books, and I managed to snag an advance copy of Nona the Ninth, the third book in the series, which is out Tuesday. Honestly, I'm staggered by Tamsyn Muir's ability to shift playfully from genre to genre, from tone to tone. For a story that began with a kind of glib knowingness... gosh, it's beautiful to see the depths of raw emotion Muir finds in Nona. It's a novel with a six-legged dog named Noodle, and I cried several times? You should read it!

Watch me: I don't know what to do with this instructional video on how to use a rotary telephone, but I did watch all of it. So maybe you'll want to, too!

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And another thing... It's chili season! And that means you should use this recipe for chili, which remains the best one ever. It's better in an Instant Pot, but you could also do it in a slow cooker or on the stovetop.

Opening credits sequence of the week: Ideally, an opening credits sequence entices me to watch the show that follows. I do not think the opening credits sequence for Oh! Those Bells does a very good job of this, with the way it draws up little bells to reveal its stars: the Wiere brothers! (Who? Why, Herbie, Harry, and Sylvester Wiere! That's who!)

I do not know that I would have guessed this show is about three brothers who work in a theatrical supply shop, but... life is strange that way.‎

A thing I had to look up: Every time I bring up Alexandria Bellefleur — and it's quite often! — I have to look up how she spells her name, if she's Alexandra or Alexandria, etc.

This week's reading music: "Don't Lose Sight" by Lawrence

Episodes is published twice per week. Mondays alternate between a free edition on various topics and a subscriber-supported edition where I recap TV shows of interest. Fridays offer pop culture thoughts from freelance writers. The Friday edition and the biweekly recaps are only available to subscribers. Suggest topics for future installments via email or on Twitter. Read more of my work at Vox.