Here I am, deep into my second cookie-cutter Christmas romance novel this month. You know the ones – small-town baker meets big-city businessman during a snowstorm, throw in a struggling family inn, add some hot chocolate, and sprinkle with forced proximity. My literary friends would be horrified, but I can’t seem to stop.
The strange thing is, I’m usually a thriller and literary fiction reader. Yet every December, like clockwork, I find myself craving these predictable holiday stories where everyone’s problems are solved by Christmas magic and conveniently timed mistletoe. The plots are recycled, the character names are interchangeable, and the endings are visible from page one.
Maybe that’s exactly why we keep coming back to them? In a world of uncertainty, there’s something oddly comforting about knowing that Emily will definitely save her grandmother’s Christmas tree farm while falling in love with the handsome developer who initially wanted to tear it down.
Are these holiday comfort reads actually literary junk food, or are we all secretly craving this predictable seasonal escape?
