When it comes to writing romance, I’ve always been drawn to the quiet kind. The kind that is softly spoken, steady and peaceful in a world so filled with noise. The dreamy kind. The kind of love that grounds you, something that you can fall back on when life gets tough. There’s a reason why I write my romances this way. Ever since I was little, that was the kind of love I yearned for. Whenever things became overwhelming, my mind would drift to the idea of a man who would simply know what to do when I was struggling. He would ground me. Comfort me. Be the emotional refuge I needed. That longing shaped the way I tell love stories. Or at least, the way I captured the romances between my main characters. I want my readers to feel that same sense of safety when they step into my fictional worlds. I want them to finish reading my stories feeling steadied, understood, held. Even if they’ve never experienced that kind of gentle, reassuring love in their own lives, I want them to encounter at least a sliver of it in my stories. After all, aren’t we all absorbing and dreaming of these romances just to cope? Sometimes, imagined love can also be a quiet reminder of what we deserve in real life. There was a moment during my university years that crystallized this for me. My parents had come to visit, so I took them to Welwyn Garden City, the small town near my campus. The city centre had a wide garden, framed by old buildings, the kind of place that feels almost too peacefully beautiful to be real. We were walking through the gardens, relishing on the crisp afternoon air against our skin, when a busker began singing Lionel Richie’s ‘Stuck on You’. And there, as we make our way closer to the center of the garden, right in front of him, an elderly couple started slow dancing. It was just the two of them. No self-consciousness. No audience. As though the rest of the world had dissolved and they existed in a world of their own. I couldn’t look away.
It was beautiful. Enchanting. The kind of scene I had only ever seen in films. But this wasn’t scripted. It was ordinary and extraordinary all at once. Something in me shifted. From that moment on, I wanted to capture that feeling in my writing. Not as the bystander, watching from the outside and yearning for a love that’s steady and enduring. But as the couples themselves. Fully immersed in it, fully claimed by it.
I want my readers to step into that space firsthand. To feel what it’s like to be chosen like that, held like that even if at that time, a love like that felt like a fantasy. Because sometimes, the love we write is the love we are still learning to believe in. So if I could offer one piece of advice to anyone wanting to write romance, whether it’s a full-length novel, a short story or even a fan-fiction, it would be this: Establish your identity. Find the emotional signature that runs through your stories. A recurring theme. A specific atmosphere. A kind of love that feels distinctly yours. For me, it’s the quiet, grounding, steady kind. For you, it might be fiery and destructive. Or angsty and redemptive. Even playful and chaotic. Whatever it is, return to it deliberately. Because emotional consistency is how readers begin to recognize you. It’s how your work starts to carry a fingerprint. Readers don’t just come back for the plot, they come back for a feeling. They return because they’re searching for that same, emotional experience you’ve given them before. When your stories consistently deliver a particular emotional truth, you become more identifiable. Memorable. Trusted. And many beloved authors have done exactly this. Take Jane Austen, for example. Her novels, from Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility to Emma, they all consistently end in emotional resolution and marriage. But more than that, they offer a particular kind of romance: intelligent, restrained, socially aware and ultimately hopeful. It was light romance. And readers return to Austen’s works not just for the love stories, but also for the comfort of knowing that these misunderstandings will be resolved. Growth in these characters will predictably occur, and love will prevail.
Even in contemporary romance, writers cultivate distinct emotional territories. One of my favorite authors, Rina Kent, does this masterfully. In series like the Deception Trilogy and the Monster Trilogy (both are my ultimate favorites of hers), she leans unapologetically into morally gray characters, obsession, psychological intensity and complex power dynamics. Her romances aren’t known to be soft and gentle. They’re dark, consuming and often, unsettling. And that’s precisely her signature. Readers (like me), pick up her books expecting that dark atmosphere, that tension between danger and desire. That emotional intensity is what defines her brand of romance. And that’s the point. It’s not to imitate them, but to understand that almost every authors write from a defined emotional center. A signature, if you will. So ask yourself, if you’re centering your story around the romance: What kind of love do you believe in? What kind of love do you crave? What kind of emotional world do you want your readers to step into? Write that. Because when you consistently offer readers a specific emotional refuge (or storm), they will come back. Not just for the characters, but for you. Sincerely, Cherie. The Whiffler is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell The Whiffler that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments.
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Wednesday, 25 February 2026
Soft Love in a Loud World
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Soft Love in a Loud World
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