Don’t ask me why, but I suddenly started wondering how many of our blog-ees are lifelong romance readers and how many came to the game later. I think of myself as a lifer, but the romance genre as we know it today bears little resemblance to what was available when I was a kid and young adult–which I considered at the time to be zilch. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. There were the early Harlequin books, and I loved them for a while, but then they began to bug me because the hero was always this older than dirt guy (to my 12, 13, 14 year-old mind) of 30, who treated the 18-year-old English flower like crap through most of the book then pledged his undying love on the last page. Huh? I could never see where that was coming from, because he sure as heck didn’t show it. (“I love you darling, truly I do. And by the way, you look lovely in your frock. We must spend a fortnight in my flat.”) Gak. But then came the Gothics, with their covers of women looking over their shoulders at a castle/manse/decrepit old house with its one lighted window…