How Emily Henry makes rooted romances feel fantastical

There are two worlds that an Emily Henry book effortlessly straddles: General fiction and romance. This distinction may not bother some—after all, categorisation in novels is often a construct shaped by the publishing industry’s commercial interests. But in a 2024 interview with The New York Times, Henry acknowledged the nature of her books that tend to sway in a direction that is more grounded and less whimsical, perhaps, than what we would expect of the genre with heaving bosoms and gargantuan amount of tropes. She still claims them to be romance novels.

This categorisation matters—it’s a stance. The romance genre has long carried a reputation for intellectual frivolity, reinforcing the idea that a woman’s social life must revolve around romance, the very dynamic from which her societal oppression can also stem. A heterosexual reading, of course. That queer romances can be written and sold at all remains, in itself, a quietly transgressive act. Romance readers—and some feminists—have challenged this stigma, arguing that by focusing on a woman’s inner life, her gaze, and personal framework of love, even the most conventional romance becomes slightly radical.

In Henry’s books, the sixth and the latest one, Great Big Beautiful Life, came out in April-end, the protagonists are people you are likely to meet at a party and find them to be extremely likable and sweet. They are the sort you could imagine sharing takeaway with or playing board games—not the impossibly beautiful or intimidatingly wealthy characters that make you self-conscious or force you to rehearse your lines before speaking.

Her women are career-oriented, though not unhealthily obsessed with their jobs—more Meg Ryan than Parker Posey in You’ve Got Mail (1998). They find meaning and purpose in their work, without descending into melodrama. Her men are earnest, kind, and emotionally literate. They speak in complete sentences about their feelings—not in monosyllables of the emotionally unavailable men on Hinge.

Both genders wrestle with self-destructive tendencies, but not of the Devdas-level theatrics. Instead, they lead to difficult conversations about past trauma and the struggle to accept love, even when the heart says yes. In short, they feel real.

I’ve often wondered why Henry’s characters, though generally attractive, never have a ‘big beauty’ moment. Conventional beauty remains the unfortunate scaffolding of desire in most mainstream storytelling. Our films, that anyway bent towards fetishising aesthetics and women’s bodies, are far more corrupt when it comes to this tendency. Think of the staying power of Kate Hudson’s yellow gown from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (2003). 

Romance books are better. Only somewhat. In Henry’s world, men are ‘cute’. Sometimes sexy—like Augustus Everett from Beach Read—but that quality is almost secondary to their emotional complexity. Miles from Funny Story has Labrador energy. Daphne, the protagonist, thinks he’s attractive, but what truly stands out is his deep care for others. Daphne is desired not for her looks—which are mentioned only briefly, mostly in comparison to her ex’s new girlfriend—but for her fierce passion for the things she loves. 

In Book Lovers, Nora and Charlie work in the publishing industry in New York and dress sharply for meetings. But as the story moves to North Carolina, their physical descriptions fade into the background. What takes centre stage is their responsibility toward their families and how that shapes their relationship. Henry is infamously awkward about writing sex scenes—a staple of the genre. Where romance novels often offer women erotica through a less exploitative lens than mainstream porn, Henry’s approach prioritises emotional depth over eroticism.

Her scenes soothe more than they titillate. The overarching message in Henry’s work is that to be loved, you must be capable of receiving it. There are no prerequisites. This sometimes comes at the cost of sensory detail—so crucial to how affection is often felt—but the emotional resonance remains.

Henry’s writing feels particularly timely. Catapulted to fame by Gen Z on TikTok during the pandemic, she offered a generation in distress not a jolt of what they were missing, but a balm. Her stories are steeped in therapy-speak and emotional literacy—an influence she’s openly acknowledged. They often read like structured therapy sessions.

You might assume that this level of groundedness would place her work closer to literary realism than genre fiction. It doesn’t. Without glamorising bodies or backstories, Henry still achieves something quietly fantastical. She reminds us just how radical it is to be truly seen and loved. That accepting love can be a heroic act in itself.

To love beauty—even conventional beauty—is not inherently shallow. Beauty can shift something in you. But often, we don’t read to escape ourselves. We read to find ourselves. For that, an Emily Henry novel delivers. 

Images: Penguin India

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