"porn novel fan"

I read historical romance novels.

That may or may not come to surprise you, an answer which I don’t doubt would entirely depend on how long you have come to know me. I daresay if you haven’t known me well, you’d have no idea. This is because I don’t look the type who reads ‘those books’. Or so I’ve been told. I must admit it’s not exactly something I relish in sharing aloud, knowing what people expect and think me to be.

I’m a “porn-novel fan” said one. This is a common comment uttered by some people upon learning that *gasp* I read what is considered 'sinful', in my culture at least. Supposedly. A comment that never fails to have me cringing and wincing in pain upon hearing. Because it's simply not true.
As a matter of fact, I think it's actually insulting to the writer. Not that they're listening but I am a fan, and as you well know, fans are usually nutters.

Truthfully, the book isn’t about porn at all. Yes, in one scene or two or perhaps three, depending on the writer writing the book, you do occasionally come across those scenes. It’s inevitable. In fact, I’d be downright lying if I said a romance novel, any romance novel, would be good without at least one sex scene. Or as the term is generally preferred in those novels: ‘making love’. I mean, come on. You have a hunk and the ubiquitous babe, they fall in love, but they resist the love until before the very end, in the middle of which they or she, as it is usually, gets broken-hearted, and they fight, and get stormy and things become too heated and whaddaya know, they're doing it right there on that page. You have two, I have two. It's not that difficult to put together, doh.

So I hope you’d understand why I disagree with anybody who says I’m reading ‘porn’ because it’s something on another universe altogether, never mind genre. I prefer calling it like it is: historical romance. Having read that many books on that particular field, I think I have enough credit stored in me for you to count my words and myself for that matter, trustworthy. I’ve read porn. ‘Erotica’, as is the more vulgar and sensual term for it. And boy, it is not the same with historical romance.

Why am I such an avid reader of historical romance, you may ask.

A number of reasons.

But the numero uno reason in my list, is because it makes me happy and gives me hope. Because those novels, as unreal and idealistic in sense and every way imaginable as they are, are what forms the very basic of my soul. It’s where I run to when I’m sad, it’s the one place I know I will find refuge, it’s my so-called ‘haven’. Albeit a temporary one, much to my ever present dismay at finding myself yet again at an end of another wonderful, wonderful book.

I guess a lot of people would call me gullible. Foolish. Idiotic. Unbelievable. Unreasonable. Irrational. Incredibly unreasonably unrealistic.

But that’s me.

I grew up, reading fairy tales and playing Barbie. Watching Care Bears and Disney’s Little Mermaid. Reading quirky Japanese manga. And to my joy in my middle salad days, historical romance.

So I’ve come to want that in my life. I want what I read in those books to happen to me. Without bloodshed, preferably, but otherwise I want it all. Because it’s all good.

Don’t think that I haven’t told myself off enough for living in puffy clouds and having cotton candy dreams, I’ve been there, done that. But I simply wouldn’t give it up. I just can’t. My fervent belief in the one Almighty, instead of downtrodding the idea as most people would believe ought to happen, only instills more hope in me. The more people shake me the stronger my hold on it. The more people try to force me to have relationships the more adamant I become in resisting unless I know that the chemistry is there. The more I try to not kid myself, the thirstier I become for it.

Obviously the world wide web is not a place where one can easily dispatch and lay bare all that is making one’s head pound like the ever swinging pendulum once touched. So I can’t, much as I’d like to, open one and everything here. But I can give illustrations, however vague they might later appear to be.

A couple of months ago, I managed to achieve an amazing achievement, one that I never dreamed of, but weirdly enough, did come true. As a result of that achievement, I became quite well-known, at least to law students in Indonesia.

It is truly striking to have people look up to you and think of you as someone ‘cool’ or ‘outstanding’. I still feel awkward about it. When others in campus pass me by and glance at me in a particular way, I’d feel weird. Because to me, what they see or what they think they see, isn’t me.

I’m not a genius. And God knows I’m not super or maddeningly smart. Often I’d feel strongly insignificant and low around people, because I honestly never know how to place myself.

What I do know of myself however, is that when I want to achieve something, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, so long as it’s within my power to do and it doesn’t involve me in anything illegitimate or wrongful. I’m a perfectionist, and because of it I can’t rest until I know I’ve done it right.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I face an awful lot of challenges and obstacles. Whenever one falls down, hundreds more sprout at me. It’s never-ending. Then there’s the many complicated situation in my life which is not perfect, even if some people might think it is. One such situation, I had recently confided in one of my best friends, and she was astounded at the weight of it, that she was quiet for a good number of minutes.

I’m not trying to put more emphasis or ‘dressing’ on this, I’m telling it like it is.

And it’s exactly all of this, that drives me into that one passion I have that seemingly is never satisfied no matter how many of them I try to put my hands on: historical romance novels.

Is it wrong? Perhaps, possibly, probably.

But I know it won’t stop.