Rebecca, and Twenty-seven other reasons why I refuse to pick up romantic novels

I used to blog. A lot. It lost its appeal somewhere between February of 2004 when '08 hopefuls started announcing their intent to run for president and the movement of the blogosphere as a whole to facilitate premature predictions as to who would win. Political blogging is so one-dimensional and all-consuming and I just couldn't take it anymore. Plus, it's really no good for one's blood pressure. Mine is now safely back at 88/58.

While I was a blogger, I frequently interrupted my usual, brief political commentary with something personal. One such entry referred to my remedy for road rage. After much experimentation, I found that one of the most effective cures was an audio book. Losing oneself in classic prose seemed to be the perfect escape whilst sitting on the never moving 10 freeway hoping to dodge the accident demons running amuck at 7 a.m. PST.

In my quest for new material, I decided that catching up on classic books I had never read would be a smashing idea. I took French Literature in high school and had my fair share of Descartes, Hugo, Voltaire, Dumas, Rousseau and the other men who shaped literature, philosophy and ethics as we know them today. However, my foray into French literature meant that I missed out on many the Anglo or American authors that most of my peers have known and loved, or loathed.

My future sister-in-law chides me endlessly for never having read any of Charlotte or Emily Bronte and other such authors. The women, sometimes men, who penned classic romance novels, the Bronte women tragic romance novels.

I actually hate these types of books, to be quite honest, with the exception of Austen, whose books I do enjoy. I hate Gone with the Wind. I absolutely loathe Rebecca, so much so I couldn't even finish it, I felt it such a waste of my time. And I am generally not a fan of any story that ends with infidelity or the untimely death of a beloved. No thanks. Life is hard enough; I don't need to be wrapped up in grief over fictional characters.

I wholeheartedly believe that God made women to love romance and mystery and beauty. I know that as sure as I know I am a woman. It's a deep and profound part of our make up. However, novels that exploit such desires and/or ruin them with tales of woe are of no interest to me, as I believe they "pull a fast one" on our psyche. It's hard enough being a Christian female in Los Angeles, where chivalry died the minute Reagan left office. And possibly even before that. (There is something unusual and telling about a midwestern, turned California cowboy leaving office to be succeeded by a Berkeley man.) I don't need to be flittering about town wondering why none of the eligible bachelors approach me with such lines as, "I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul." And to be fair, that line is a Hollywood adaptation of Austen.

I am comfortable enough in my femininity to admit my love of overtly masculine novels and their authors. These novels are not without their love stories. Male authors generally incorporate three main thematic elements: adventure, battle and love. This I enjoy. Gossipy, pining love stories make me physically nauseous. (This also might be why I enjoy Austen more than others. She had strong female archetypes who tended to fall hard due to their stubborn resistance toward their love-sick counterparts' vain pursuit of male attention.)

So, what's next on the list of to-be-heard novels, you ask?

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky and Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.

It's the Soviet invasion of my Japanese car. Who knows. I might go crazy and even get Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago or Nicholai Gogol's Dead Souls.

Apparently I'm still avoiding American and British literature.

It might seem somewhat contradictory to delve into Russian literature, which is almost always tragic. However, I find it far less cloying than du Maurier's depiction of a spineless, obsequious young wife tormented by the memory of her husband's late (somewhat mythical) wife. Or the self-centered brat Scarlet O'Hara who, at the end of all her trials, vows to set looking after herself as her number one priority.

Give me real tragedy; the stuff I should cry about. Give me thought provoking, inspiring premises, not something that makes me want to throw my car over an embankment.

So, here's to the Ruskies. I'll make my way west after the 60 logged hours of listening time it will take to get through the aforementioned novels.