I couldn’t handle the shame, so I ran to the philosophy section and grabbed a copy of Simone Weil’s writings to place on top of the book I had really come for. “Just these two, thanks.”

A year on, I can’t tell you a single thought or idea Weil had. But I can tell you everything about the Maasverse.

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Before Maas, I’d mostly gravitated toward Sad Girl Literature – Sally Rooney, Ottessa Moshfegh – that often felt a little too much like peering into a mirror. I read countless stories of women crushed and consumed by a capitalist patriarchy while being intelligent enough to know what was happening to them. They had violent, uncomfortable sex before going to their dull, shitty jobs. A man floated around, occasionally an object of desire, nearly always existing solely to show the ease with which they can move through the world, often casually inflicting pain on the protagonist. Misery permeates the Sad Girl novel as a secret third character, never fully resolving itself – a direct contradiction to the laws of the romance novel.

In Maas novels, the women are still sad, but in a vastly different way. They experience sexual assault, PTSD and depression. They vomit and soil themselves from anxiety... a lot. But they get better. They create support systems, start exercising, and join the fight for a better world. Yes, that fight for a better world sometimes involves dragons and swords. But critically, their wellbeing is resolved. And only after the internal work is done do they fall in love. And yes, the romance sometimes involves a charming tattooed and winged Faerie as their mate who can be territorial and problematically protective.

The books are not literary gold, but they also don’t claim to be, which is perhaps part of their appeal. When I read Maas’ books, I laughed. I cried. I found the strength to leave somebody who was not treating me well after I saw his behaviour mirrored in the prose, and I know I am not alone in that experience.

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Recently, I asked somebody what they were reading.

“Oh, just uh, silly smutty books …” she trailed off. When pressed, she revealed she was reading A Court of Mist and Fury. Her dismissal was precisely what I had once done.

Nobody ever explicitly told me I should be embarrassed, of course. I told myself that because I didn’t believe that a fantasy-romance hybrid series was “serious” or highbrow enough. But just because the characters who experience sexual violence also have wings doesn’t mean we should be embarrassed about investing in their stories. The characters may wallow and whine and shit themselves, but they also rally their powers to break out of whatever cage they are placed in.

One day, I’ll walk into a bookshop and plonk down a pile of romance novels unashamedly. Until then, if you’re looking for a recommendation, ask the dental assistant next time you’re getting a check-up.

Grace Biber is a Melbourne writer. She recently won The Age/Dymocks Essay Prize for young writers (age 19-24 category) for her piece “Crossing the Barassi line: How I learnt to love the footy”.