For years, I led a double literary life.

 I was reading Proust, Tolstoy, Homer, and Woolf for my comparative literature undergraduate degree, but always keeping an Amanda Quick romance novel by my bed.

 My classmates never suspected that it wasn’t Hestor Prynne, nor Anna Karenina, nor Catherine who topped my favorite heroine list, but Jenny Crusie’s Sophie Demsey. When we inevitably played “which literary character would you . . . ” I’d answer Ondaatje’s Lazlo D’Almasy instead of Kleypas’s Derek Craven or Chase’s Rupert Carsington.

 My addiction to romance fiction was the secret I kept from my closest friends, the secret I downplayed to my family. “Just some trash,” I’d blurt, as I swept the offending novel off the coffee table. “I can quit anytime!”

 I never did. Romance novels have been the love of my literary life. From the moment I first picked one up at the tender age of 12 (Charlotte Lamb’s Dreaming, in case you’re wondering), I have never put them down.

 But it wasn’t until I was getting my master’s degree that I summoned the courage to come out of the closet. I was writing a paper on the evolution of sexual relationships in Johanna Lindsey novels—purely out of academic curiosity, you understand, not at all because I just wanted to read romance novels for school. As my train reached my arbitrarily set limit of four suburbs from the university, I put away my “school” book, Emile Zola, in the original French. Surreptitiously, I stuffed it in my bag and traded it for my “real” book, which was most likely a Laura Lee Guhrke. As I gazed around to see if anyone was watching, I realized what I was doing. I was so worried about the judgement of others based on my reading material that I was letting them dictate my actions.

 So I decided to stop.

 It wasn’t easy. Life isn’t easy for an out and proud romance reader. I’ve had my intelligence, my grip on reality, and my ability to maintain a normal relationship questioned. I’ve dealt with awkward silences when I reveal what I’m reading at the moment. I’ve talked myself hoarse explaining that the Mills & Boon covers from the 1950s have nothing to do with the rich and vibrant romance genre of today. I have my “Yes, I read romance novels, but I assure you, I am perfectly capable of following your discussion” speech down pat. I’ve got justifications, explanations, and rebuttals galore.

 But mostly, I have my strong and abiding love for a genre about—well, love.

 Jessamyn West states that fiction reveals truths that reality obscures, and this goes directly to the heart of why I read romance. Although unkind accusations have been leveled at me a few times—about my reading habits reflecting a loosening grip on reality or the desire to bury my head in the sand—neither is accurate. The world is a tragic and desolate place. People aren’t inherently good. Money is a bigger motivator than compassion. Bad things happen to good people. And horrible things occur on catastrophic levels. Happy endings are few and far between.

 I know. I know all that.

 But I also know that there is more to life than darkness and despair. This is the truth that romance fiction reveals. In the midst of tragedy and catastrophe, there are things to celebrate. Romance writers (and by extension romance readers) recognize the bad but choose to focus on the good. Everyone knows the bright, breathtaking feeling of falling in love. Everyone has a relationship in their lives that has made them feel better—not necessarily a romantic one: it could be one with a family member, a friend, a lover, a mentor, a teacher, or a child. Romance fiction recognizes that our relationships, our connections to those around us, are what define our humanity. These relationships make us more of who we are; they provide the links to all that we can be.

 One of my favorite writers, one who knew the value of a good romance—even if only with oneself—Oscar Wilde, said, “It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.” If this is true—and I believe it is—can we draw parallels between the world as it is and the fiction that we privilege? What would our world look like if it were the genre that focuses on family and relationships and love that garnered the most respect? Interesting to ponder, isn’t it?

 Being an optimist is considered naïve, reliance on others a weakness. Yet it takes maturity to look at the world and find the good worth celebrating. It takes strength to recognize that sometimes you cannot make it on your own. These are the guiding principles of romance fiction.

These are the reasons I read romance.

The hot sex doesn’t hurt, either.