Chapter 3: The Romance Reading List

Ben Carter sat in his cramped home office, staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. The cursor mocked him—one solitary line pulsing against the white void of his empty document. Three months. Three months since he'd written anything resembling coherent prose for his novel, and his editor was starting to send increasingly passive-aggressive emails about missed deadlines.

He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the tension that had taken up permanent residence there. His latest literary fiction project—a meditation on urban alienation and the death of authentic human connection—felt as lifeless as the characters he was trying to create. Every sentence he wrote sounded pretentious, even to him. Every metaphor felt forced. Every emotional beat rang hollow.

The irony wasn't lost on him that a book about authentic human connection was being written by someone who felt utterly disconnected from everything, including his own work.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent: Any progress on the manuscript? Publisher is asking for updates.

Ben stared at the message without responding. What was he supposed to say? That he'd spent the morning deleting the same paragraph fifteen times? That his protagonist felt less real to him than the cardboard cutout promotional displays at bookstores?

He closed his laptop with more force than necessary and found himself thinking about Sunday afternoon at Sunset Gardens. The memory that kept surfacing wasn't his usual irritation with commercial fiction, but rather his grandmother's face when she'd talked about Professor Williams and Margaret. Eleanor had looked... alive. Vibrant in a way he hadn't seen since his grandfather's death five years ago.

And then there was Clara Evans, with her fierce defense of romance novels and her obvious devotion to her grandfather. Ben had spent three days trying to dismiss her passionate speech at the bookstore, but something about it kept gnawing at him. The way she'd talked about hope and human connection—the very things his own writing was supposed to explore but somehow never captured.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Ben grabbed his keys and headed for the Millbrook Public Library.

He found Clara at the reference desk, her auburn hair twisted up with what appeared to be a pencil, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she helped an elderly patron navigate the computer catalog. She looked entirely in her element, patient and knowledgeable and genuinely interested in helping the woman find what she needed.

Ben waited until the patron left, then approached the desk with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for root canal appointments.

"Clara?"

She looked up, and her expression immediately shifted from professional warmth to wary surprise. "Ben. What are you doing here?"

"I need..." He stopped, realizing how this was going to sound. "I need your help."

Clara's eyebrows shot up. "My help? With what?"

Ben glanced around the library, confirming they were relatively alone before continuing. "I'm a writer. Literary fiction. And I'm..." He forced the words out. "I'm blocked. Completely. I haven't written anything decent in months."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Clara said carefully, "but I'm not sure how I can help with writer's block."

"It's not just writer's block." Ben ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with his inability to articulate something he barely understood himself. "It's like I've forgotten how to write about human emotions. My characters feel like cardboard. My dialogue sounds like it came from a writing manual. Everything I put on paper feels..." He searched for the word. "Dead."

Clara was quiet for a moment, studying his face with those intelligent green eyes. "And you think romance novels are going to help you with that?"

"I think," Ben said slowly, "that maybe I've been approaching storytelling all wrong. Watching my grandmother and your grandfather talk about that book—they were so engaged, so emotionally invested. When's the last time anyone talked about my work like that?"

"Never?" Clara guessed, not unkindly.

"Never," Ben confirmed. "My reviews always mention my 'technical skill' and 'literary merit,' but no one ever says my books made them feel anything. And Sunday, listening to Eleanor and Arthur discuss character motivations and emotional growth..." He shook his head. "They were analyzing that romance novel with more depth than most of my graduate school professors brought to the classics."

Clara leaned back in her chair, considering. "So what exactly are you asking me?"

"I want to understand how romance works. The mechanics of it. How do these authors create such strong emotional connections between characters? How do they make readers care so much?" Ben felt heat rise in his cheeks but pressed on. "I'm asking you to teach me."

"Teach you to write romance?"

"Teach me to understand it. To see what I've been missing." He met her gaze directly. "You obviously know the genre inside and out. You said you've read hundreds of romance novels. I need that expertise."

Clara was quiet for so long that Ben started to think she was going to refuse. Finally, she leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

"If I agree to help you—and that's a big if—I have conditions."

"Name them."

"First, you have to actually commit to this. No half-hearted skimming, no reading with the sole purpose of finding things to criticize. You read with an open mind, or you don't read at all."

Ben nodded. "Agreed."

"Second, you complete what I call the Romance Reading List. Three books, chosen specifically by me. You read all three, cover to cover, no complaints, no commentary until you've finished all three."

"Three books," Ben repeated. It sounded both manageable and daunting.

"And third," Clara's eyes glinted with something that might have been mischief, "you have to admit when you're wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"When you inevitably discover that romance novels are more complex, better written, and more emotionally sophisticated than you assumed, you have to acknowledge it. Out loud. To me."

Ben felt his jaw tighten reflexively, then forced himself to relax. If he was going to do this, he had to do it properly. "Fine. I accept your terms."

Clara studied him for another long moment, as if trying to determine whether he was serious. Then she stood up. "Wait here."

She disappeared into the stacks, leaving Ben alone at the reference desk. He looked around the library—really looked at it for the first time. The space was warm and inviting, with comfortable reading nooks and displays that showcased everything from literary classics to graphic novels to, yes, romance. There was no hierarchy of genres here, no suggestion that some books were more worthy than others. It was simply a place where stories lived, waiting to find their readers.

Clara returned with three books and set them on the desk with the solemnity of someone laying down a gauntlet.

"Your reading list," she announced.

Ben examined the covers. The first was a contemporary romance with a bright, cheerful design. The second appeared to be historical, featuring a woman in period dress. The third was more understated, with elegant typography and a minimalist design.

"Contemporary, historical, and romantic suspense," Clara explained. "Three different subgenres, three different writing styles, three different approaches to the same basic premise—two people falling in love."

Ben picked up the first book—"The Coffee Shop Connection" by Maria Santos. The cover showed a cozy café scene, and the back cover promised "laugh-out-loud moments and swoon-worthy romance."

"This looks..." He caught himself before saying 'frivolous' and settled on, "Light."

"Light doesn't mean shallow," Clara said firmly. "Maria Santos has a master's degree in psychology, and she writes some of the most realistic relationship dynamics I've ever read. That 'light' book deals with themes of family trauma, career pressure, and learning to be vulnerable with another person."

Ben nodded, chastened. "Point taken."

"The historical is set during World War II and explores how love survives impossible circumstances. The romantic suspense combines a murder mystery with a slow-burn romance between two people who have every reason not to trust each other." Clara crossed her arms. "Still think they're all the same formulaic story?"

"I'm starting to suspect they're not," Ben admitted.

"Good. That's progress." Clara's expression softened slightly. "Look, I understand why literary fiction appeals to you. I love beautiful prose and complex themes too. But romance novels aren't the antithesis of good writing—they're just focused on different aspects of the human experience."

"Such as?"

"Hope. Connection. The belief that people can grow and change and find happiness together. The radical idea that love—romantic love, specifically—is worth celebrating rather than deconstructing." Clara's voice warmed as she spoke. "These books aren't escapism, Ben. They're instruction manuals for how to be human."

Ben looked down at the three books in his hands. They felt heavier than they should, weighted with expectation and possibility. "What if I hate them?"

"Then you hate them," Clara said with a shrug. "But you still have to finish all three before you're allowed to complain."

"And if I don't hate them?"

Clara smiled—the first genuine smile she'd given him since they'd met. "Then maybe you'll understand why your grandmother looks so happy these days."

Ben gathered the books against his chest like they might explode. "When do you want me to report back?"

"Two weeks should be enough time to get through all three, assuming you actually read them instead of just staring at the covers in horror."

"Two weeks," Ben repeated. "And then what?"

"Then we'll see if you're ready for the advanced course," Clara said cryptically.

As Ben walked toward the library exit, he caught Clara calling after him.

"Ben?"

He turned back.

"Try to remember what it felt like to read for pleasure. Before you started analyzing everything to death. Just... let yourself enjoy the story."

Ben nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure he remembered what reading for pleasure felt like anymore. It had been years since he'd picked up a book without immediately dissecting its literary merit, its place in the canon, its potential for academic analysis.

Walking to his car, Ben looked down at the three romance novels and felt something he hadn't experienced in months: curiosity. Not the intellectual curiosity of a scholar, but the simple, almost childlike curiosity Clara had mentioned. The desire to find out what happened next.

Maybe that was the first step toward reconnecting with his own writing. Maybe these books—these supposedly formulaic, predictable stories—held the key to understanding what his literary fiction had been missing.

Or maybe they would just confirm everything he'd always believed about commercial fiction.

Either way, Ben thought as he slid into his car, at least he was finally going to find out.

He opened "The Coffee Shop Connection" to page one and, for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, began reading a book without any agenda other than discovering what story the author wanted to tell.