I have a confession; I love Fourth Wing.
But why does it have to be a confession?
Sitting at a bonfire with one of my bookstore coworkers in autumn of 2023, she told me that I needed to read Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros. Mostly so she had somebody to talk about it with, but also because it was fun, and she loved it, and thought maybe I would like it, too.
I’d been resisting reading Fourth Wing for a number of reasons, though it had been on my radar since its initial release. I remember oohing and aahing with my coworkers when we unboxed the beautifully designed first edition, which is now listed online for as much as $500. It was a book I’d skimmed the cover of and dismissed, deciding it wasn’t for me.
At my coworker’s insistence, I placed a hold at the library. Internally, I was less than excited. It wasn’t the sort of book I gravitated towards. Though I truly will read anything, and have loved fantastical series like Lord Of The Rings, Harry Potter (despite the author), and Mists Of Avalon (also despite the author), fantasy isn’t something I tend to seek out. Neither is romance. I can’t remember if this is something I assumed, or something I read online, but I also recall thinking ahead of time that the writing was going to be subpar, which I tend to be a bit snobbish about. A few weeks later I felt almost embarrassed picking up Fourth Wing from the library. I shielded it against my body, ferried it home, and cracked open the spine, curious despite myself.
The beginning was a bit slow for me, as I slowly put together the world Yarros was laying out. The first chapter was info-dumpy, and I quickly realized the book was more new adult than straight adult (not a bad thing, just not what I was expecting). I was disappointed to find that the prose wasn’t up to the standard I usually look for, and cringed at the number of eyebrow raises and jaw drops that the characters did (much more than what actually occurs in a normal conversation). I told my coworker I was intrigued enough to keep reading, but didn’t feel hooked, exactly. She insisted, just wait.
She was right. It happened slowly, organically, but once I was about halfway through I could not stop reading. I was feverish, so eager to know where the story was going that I had to keep going back and rereading pages I’d just finished, realizing I was flying through so quickly that I wasn’t retaining anything. I hadn’t read a book that obsessively since the weekend in middle school where I devoured the entire Twilight saga, one book after the other, barely stopping to sleep or eat. It was exhilarating. I remembered, suddenly, why I had fallen in love with reading in the first place; it has the unique ability to transport me somewhere else, outside of my body, outside of my life.
After Fourth Wing, I read Iron Flame and took the same joy, the same exhilaration, from its pages. Though reviews for Iron Flame were poor compared to its predecessor, I thought the stories were nearly equal in strength. Often, I gravitate towards books where I am moved by the ideas, the language. In Yarros’ story I was drawn in by the plot—fast, and exciting—and the characters, who I quickly became invested in. When I finished Iron Flame, I felt sad; the third installment hadn’t even been given a release date. I read theories online and listened to playlists dedicated to the main characters and kept most of this love a secret, close to my chest. These books were my guilty pleasure, and I wanted to keep it that way.
A couple of weeks ago, I finished reading Onyx Storm (released in January of this year). I put myself on the hold list at the library a month before its release and was still 50th in line. When two of my coworkers—equally obsessed—finished the book before me, they offered their own copies. They asked why I didn’t just buy it. I don’t need to own these books, I said, quickly, then wondered why I reacted that way. So final, so definitive. I don’t tend to buy new books, gravitating to used bookstores, and will really only purchase a book I’ve read before if it’s something I can see myself returning to, or really loved. But the fact is that I do love these books. I’m just ashamed to admit it, even to myself.
Why? I think part of my issue stems from the new subset of fantasy that Fourth Wing has been shoved into. Romantasy is defined as “a subgenre of fantasy fiction that combines fantasy and romance.”1 As Yarros has stated herself, romance has always been part of fantasy. To call something romantasy is to put a label on it that says “this is fantasy, but lesser.” Or, if we read between the lines, “this is fantasy, but for women.” To my chagrin, on paperback editions of Fourth Wing the front cover blurb is from E! Online, reducing it to a “sexy and sizzling fantasy.” If this book were gender-swapped, if the main character was a male dragon rider in the exact same plot, in the same romantic entanglements, we would not call it romantasy.
Fantasy is fantasy, and women have been reading and seeking out fantasy as long as it’s been around (without any demarcation specifying whether a book is “meant” for them or not). Though there are certainly romantic relationships at play in Fourth Wing, the overarching story tackles a war-torn world with mythical creatures and dragon riders. Fourth Wing is political, though you might not know that from its marketing. Characters deal with the censoring of information by their government. Those in power punish those that try to rebel against them. Though not as relevant as The Hunger Games, a series I loved in my youth & have a reignited passion for now (gee, I wonder why?), Fourth Wing’s message encourages readers to ask questions, and seek out information when the powers that be try to withhold them. To reduce the story’s intention down to smut is to misunderstand what makes it so riveting.
But even if I am reading and loving a book series that is marketed and labeled as being specifically for women, even if we pretend romantasy is a genre that is unrooted in misogyny, what reason do I have to be bashful about it? I love being a woman. I have proudly stated how much I enjoy being just like other girls, listening to Taylor Swift and thirsting over Hugh Grant-led romcoms and drinking oat milk lattes. But I have participated in eye-rolling over romance novels in the past. I have judged somebody’s personality on their reading habits. I have been too embarrassed to rate any book I’ve read by Rebecca Yarros with 5 stars on Goodreads, worried that my enthusiastic endorsement of a book “like this” will tarnish my reputation as a reader and reviewer.
Every day, women come into the bookstore and dismiss their reading habits for no reason. They say, “I just need to read some trash every once in a while,” as they walk around with a romance novel with cartoon-drawn characters on the cover. Or, “these books are my guilty pleasure,” as they slap down a shoddily-written thriller. I’ve never heard a man say those words to me as he’s pushed a James Patterson across the counter. Women, historically, have had to work incredibly hard—harder than men—in order to be taken seriously. It’s no wonder that even in our joy, we have to acknowledge “I know, it’s not incredible literature,” with a smile. To that I say, both metaphorically and literally to customers, so what?
I own the entire Twilight series, and have never shied away from saying that I loved them. But I wonder, now, if the only reason I’ve been so comfortable sharing this is because I can hide behind the guise of being a tween. When I first read Twilight I was in sixth grade. I was 26 when I read Fourth Wing. An adult, and older than all of the main characters. I cannot claim I was “much younger when I first read them” or say “I probably wouldn’t like them now,” which I’ve repeated again and again about Twilight despite knowing, deep down, that I probably would still like them now, just as much as I did back then.
Certainly, Fourth Wing is not perfect. But that point is moot because no book is perfect, and reading is subjective anyway. Plenty of books I’ve loved have been poorly reviewed by others, and vice versa. What makes exploring the literary world so exciting is that you never know when a story might change your life. To deny myself the pleasure of talking about, recommending, or even just enjoying a certain type of book in a public manner, is a disservice to everything I preach about reading.
Here is my confession, in full. I love Fourth Wing, and became completely enmeshed in its world. I have gone so far as to take an online quiz to determine which dragon I would bond with (Orange Scorpiontail). I have overanalyzed the relationship between the two main characters, blushing all the while. As said in a text to a friend, I am eating this shit UP. Most importantly, I haven’t had this much run reading a book series since I was a teenager. The world is rich, and the plot is compelling. I am happy when I’m reading them.
If we put limits on what we are allowed to enjoy, what good does that do? Pretending I only read and enjoy high-brow literature seems to imply that people who don’t read like me are lesser, which is not true. Reading is reading, and it’s for everyone. Sure, you’re going to have a different feeling when you read Fourth Wing versus The Great Gatsby, but we shouldn’t always be seeking out the same feeling, the same perspective, from every type of media we consume. That sort of behavior leads to insular thinking, being unreceptive to new ideas. If my coworker hadn’t prompted me to read Fourth Wing, I would’ve missed out on something that’s brought me a lot of joy just because of the preconceived notions I had about it. I might’ve concealed my excitement about this series forever if I hadn’t decided to ask myself why.
Life is too short to not have a little fun, too short to force yourself into a box for fear of what people will think. If you want to read something light, or something romantic, or something utterly fantastical, do it. Don’t fall into the trap of reading the same sort of story over and over, and don’t let anyone try to discredit the places in which you find joy and hope, in a world that tries so hard to strip it from us.
This past week, I found myself circling back to what I’d said about not wanting to own these books, feeling a little ridiculous. Was I really so embarrassed, so ashamed to own a book that was fantastical and political and interesting and, okay, a little smutty? I write and read poems about love with reckless abandon—who am I to discredit the power of a good love story? And, more importantly, dragons. With cool powers. And mystery. And magic!!!
As of the writing of this essay, I am the proud owner of Fourth Wing in its special paperback edition, with black dragons lining the edge of the pages. I am eagerly awaiting book four, and the eventual paperback editions of Iron Flame and Onyx Storm to add to my collection.
Sound off in the comments—have you ever felt “guilty” or “embarrassed” for enjoying a book, or a certain genre of literature before? Tell me about it! Free yourself from shame!!
A few notes before I go…
Ari & I are still accepting applicants on a rolling basis to our writing retreat in Western New York this August! You can read our FAQ & apply here. Spots are filling up, and we’re so thrilled about the group we have so far!! You would make the perfect addition.
You can donate to our scholarship fund, here.
I’m still sending out poems on postcards once a month over on Patreon. I’d love to send you some mail :)
As always, my book The Surrender Theory is still available to purchase, wherever you get your books.
Until next time,
Caitlin
Definition pulled from Wikipedia.