I just read this piece by Margaret Atwood on novels written for women versus men, and it is good, of course, but this one part stuck out to me and I had to share because YES:

I no longer want to read about anything sad. Anything violent, anything disturbing, anything like that. No funerals at the end, though there can be some in the middle. If there must be deaths, let there be resurrections, or at least a heaven so we know where we are. Depression and squalor are for those under twenty-five; they can take it, they even like it, they still have enough time left. But real life is bad for you; hold it in your hand long enough and you’ll get pimples and become feebleminded. You’ll go blind. I want happiness, guaranteed, joy all around.

I’m thirty years old now and I have a kid. I have lots of emotions and worries and fears. Give me Jane Austen any day.