Where’s the book about a really uptight woman who runs a small town cafe and rediscovers her true self in the big city? Where’s the one where she is a pill in her life in the countryside but transforms into a laid-back, devil-may-care lawyer who feels free among the skyscrapers and high rises? I’ve been reading some chicklit lately. Basically the books are contemporary romances, simple fiction, where the characters are all similar, the settings are pastoral, and the comfort foods described are all delicious. NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

I keep giving the books three stars on Goodreads (out of five possible) because they’re only okay. And yet, I am completely fine with “only okay” at the moment. “Only okay” doesn’t require much of me. “Only okay” is nice to read in bed after a long day. “Only okay” is my preferred method of quiet entertainment and I enjoy it more than a Netflix show that is also only okay. In some ways, I feel guilty assigning these books three stars—afterall, I keep going back for more. Who am I and what in the world am I reading?

I am Rebecca Tredway and sometimes I’m just plain tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of helping. Tired of working hard. Physically tired. And you know what a tired woman can appreciate? A book whose expectations are very very clear. Chicklit/modern/contemporary fiction with a dose of romance? Sure, why not.

On the other hand, my cynical brain can’t help but long for a book that flips all these stereotypes on their ridiculous heads. If I meet another man who wears flannel shirts, has an ever-present five o’clock shadow, and works with his hands, darn it all, I want him to be the bad guy. Let’s make the city slicker banker who has fancy shoes the one worth swooning over. C’mon, authors, you can do better. (But until then, between you, me, and the internet, I’ll probably keep reading your books. Carry on. Pass the meatloaf and potatoes and, oh, a slice of blueberry pie in my direction.)