I used to think I hated country music. Johnny Cash made me reconsider. Now I admit that I do like some country, even if most of it isn’t to my tastes.

But what the devil got me into reading romance genre novels?

When I was younger I volunteered at a library (my hometown’s Fletcher Free, with the wonderful Lorrie and Bill). I handled everything that came through Circulation’s check-in during my shift, and I would shake my head every time I scanned in another Harlequin bodice-ripper—figuratively, not literally, because that would have been too much head shaking. They were extremely popular, getting comparable traction to the detective novels & legal dramas. Those old paperbacks were well-worn and much-loved, with technically-still-clothed beautiful men and women on their covers. Given how close the books were to falling apart back then, I wonder whether any of those books have survived the intervening decades.

Romance novels did not appeal to me. I was still in middle school, and I did not have the imaginative empathy necessary to wonder (much less understand) why people might like them. This, despite the fact that I’m pretty sure younger-Henry had already discovered internet porn.

I had lots of judgments. I never explicitly stated my judgments to the readers, but they were probably obvious to anyone paying much attention. Most readers returning romance novels wouldn’t have seen this, because they didn’t drop off their returns face-to-face. They preferred the anonymity of the off-hours book return. Given the alternative I offered, I get it.

These days, my relationship with romance novels is more like how I feel about country songs. I still don’t enjoy most of them, but I do read a few. Some I even really like. Obviously I didn’t dip my toe into the romance-waters just because other people like the genre—if that were enough, I would have devoured these books long ago. As I mentioned above, romance is popular. It sells.

So what changed?