Summer reading isn’t complete without a romance novel, says author Kirsty Greenwood
There’s something utterly sublime about immersing oneself in the pages of a captivating novel, especially when bathed in the warm embrace of the sun, with the tang of sea breeze, the scent of SPF 50, and the tantalizing aroma of barbecued delights wafting through the air. It’s sheer perfection.
Growing up in a perpetually gray and damp corner of northwest England, the opportunity to read beneath Actual Real Sunshine was a cherished affair. As a teenager, my anticipation for family vacations wasn’t about selecting outfits or researching the destination; it was about meticulously planning which books would accompany me. I’d approach this task with utmost dedication: sampling chapters, seeking advice from bookish friends, and haunting the local bookstore. The result? Handwritten lists of finalists, carefully curated paperbacks destined for my suitcase. These were my beloved summer reads.
On vacation, I’d claim a sun lounger as my base and devour those paperbacks in their intended fashion (look away now if you’re a stickler for preserving book spines): ice cream in hand, with mint chocolate chip dribbling onto the pages, corners hastily folded as I dipped into the pool for respite, edges turning soggy (and later, crunchy) as I couldn’t tear myself away from the story, sun-faded ink, and chapters clinging on for dear life as the binding glue succumbed to the sun’s heat. Oh, how I cherished those paperbacks.
As a fervent bookworm, my literary tastes span the spectrum—from introspective literary fiction to gripping thrillers with unexpected twists to weighty classics I feign enjoyment of for the prestige. But when it comes to cherished summer reading, there’s only one genre: romance novels. Romance and summertime are a match made in heaven, akin to Mai Tais and cocktail umbrellas, or campfires and s’mores.
Romance novels are crafted to bring joy to their readers. While some delve into profound themes such as mental health, identity, or grief, their ultimate aim is joy—unabashed, indulgent, heart-pounding, passion-igniting joy. There’s no pretense in this genre, neither from the writers nor the readers.
We pick up a romance novel for the same reason we embark on summer vacations: to revel in sheer delight. We crave the flutter of butterflies in our stomachs, the thrill of new encounters, scents, and emotions. We long to be swept away, to experience transformative passion, to be someone else for a while, to indulge without reservation, to escape the banality of everyday life. We want to surrender to our emotions, to fall in love over and over again.
No other genre can deliver all of this like romance can. The blissful emotional odyssey that romance offers is precisely why I write romance. The desire to craft a timeless, escapist summer tale was a driving force behind my latest romantic comedy, “The Love of My Afterlife.”
In this novel, my protagonist Delphie—a self-professed misanthrope—meets an unexpected demise on page one (so far, so delightful!). Upon entering the afterlife, she’s granted a miraculous 10-day return to Earth to find her soulmate and secure a kiss from him, thereby earning a second chance at life. The catch? She knows only his first name, and he’s unaware of her existence.
What ensues for Delphie is a journey of adventure, self-discovery, and grand romance, not only with her soulmate but with herself. There’s anticipation, flirtation, bravery, and laughter, all against the vibrant backdrop of a scorching London summer.
My fervent wish is that “The Love of My Afterlife” becomes a beloved summer companion for many, tucked into suitcases and read poolside, with cocktails in hand and ice cream stains adorning its pages. A pure indulgence, offering total happiness. A cherished summer read.
May your own summer adventures and literary choices bring you boundless joy. Happy summer!