Romance Writing for Writers Who Think “Orbs” Is a Sexy Word (It’s Not)

So, you wanna write a love story that makes people feel all warm and fuzzy inside, huh?
Well, here’s the truth: Romance is tricky. One wrong move and your readers are swooning… but not in the good way. They’re swooning because your dialogue gave them secondhand embarrassment. To avoid writing something that feels like a bad soap opera, let’s break down the art of writing deeply romantic stories into a few key elements.

The Anatomy of a Deeply Romantic Connection

Forget everything you think you know about grand romantic gestures. The secret to a truly deep connection isn’t a flash mob proposal or a private jet to Paris. It’s in the quiet, messy, and wonderfully mundane details. It’s about a character knowing their love interest’s coffee order by heart, not because they asked, but because they paid attention. It’s the way they instinctively know when their partner needs a hug versus when they need space. It’s the shared inside jokes that make no sense to anyone else. It’s the moment your hero or heroine sees their love interest at their worst, maybe they’re sick with a terrible cold, snotty and miserable, and still thinks, “Yep, that’s my person.”

To write this, you have to get uncomfortably close to your characters’ souls. What are their deepest fears? What makes them feel truly seen? What little quirks do they have that only someone who loves them would find endearing? Don’t just tell us they’re in love; show us the subtle ways their lives are now inextricably linked. Maybe they’ve started adopting each other’s mannerisms, or they finish each other’s sentences. Perhaps one character habitually leaves a half-eaten bag of chips on the counter, and the other, who is a neat freak, just sighs and puts them away without a word because they know it’s a pointless battle. These are the moments that feel real, authentic, and utterly romantic. They say, “I see you, all of you, and I love you anyway.”

And let’s talk about conflict. A good romance isn’t just a stroll through a field of lilies. It’s a battlefield of emotional baggage, past traumas, and personal insecurities. The deeper the love, the more significant the stakes. The conflicts shouldn’t be contrived—no silly misunderstandings that could be solved with a five-minute conversation. The conflict should come from within. Maybe one character’s fear of commitment stems from a devastating betrayal in their past. Perhaps the other’s low self-worth makes them believe they don’t deserve such a profound love. The romantic tension isn’t about a will-they-won’t-they dance; it’s about a will-they-ever-overcome-their-inner-demons-and-let-each-other-in-fully dance. The payoff is so much more satisfying when the characters have to truly earn their happy ending by working through their deepest-seated issues, with the support of the other person. That’s the stuff of legends, not just love stories.

Chemistry: The Spark That Isn’t Just About Abs

Every romance writer is chasing the same elusive thing: chemistry. That invisible spark that makes readers flip pages at 2 a.m., whispering “just one more chapter” like it’s a prayer. And let’s be honest, most writers confuse chemistry with descriptions of jawlines. Spoiler alert: readers don’t fall in love with abdominal muscles. They fall in love with tension, banter, quirks, and the kind of emotional static that makes your characters feel like they’re walking around with their hearts plugged into faulty outlets.

So how do you write chemistry that actually fizzes off the page? First, remember that chemistry isn’t instant, it simmers. Think of it like soup. You can’t throw water, noodles, and a bouillon cube into a pot and declare dinner ready. You’ve got to let it heat, bubble, and make the whole kitchen smell like heaven. Chemistry works the same way. Readers need to see sparks in awkward moments, stolen glances, clashing personalities, and yes, even arguments that leave both characters secretly smiling afterward.

Let’s imagine a scenario. Your heroine is a workaholic editor who’s allergic to spontaneity. Your hero is a musician who treats calendars like enemy combatants. On paper, they’re doomed. But when he barges into her life—late, loud, and dripping coffee on her manuscript—they don’t just irritate each other. They notice each other. His chaos forces her to breathe, her structure forces him to think. Sparks aren’t always about perfection. In fact, perfection is boring. If two characters fit too neatly, readers will fold the book shut and go scroll TikTok. The magic is in the friction.

Another trick: let your characters see each other the way no one else does. Forget the hair descriptions and “emerald eyes that could pierce a soul.” Show us something specific, something intimate. Maybe she notices that he hums when he’s nervous, like a broken fridge. Maybe he realizes she alphabetizes her spices but keeps chocolate bars hidden in her sock drawer. When characters see each other in ways the rest of the world misses, that is chemistry. It’s the difference between “she was beautiful” and “she laughed so hard at her own joke she snorted Diet Coke out her nose, and somehow I loved her more for it.”

And let’s talk banter. If your characters can’t talk, they can’t kiss. The most powerful chemistry is in dialogue that feels like verbal fencing. Not over-the-top Shakespearean duels, but quick exchanges that show wit, attraction, and subtext. If she says, “You’re late again,” and he says, “I had to stop by the store and buy patience for you, but they were sold out,” you’ve just created sparks without even touching them. The conversation becomes foreplay.

But don’t overdo it. Readers can sniff out forced banter faster than a dog sniffing out contraband. If every exchange is dripping with sarcasm, you’re writing two stand-up comedians, not lovers. Balance playful teasing with moments of vulnerability. Maybe she teases him about being a mess, but then she catches him quietly fixing her broken umbrella without saying a word. Chemistry is contradiction—it’s “I annoy you, but I also see you.”

At the end of the day, chemistry is about creating a feeling in the reader. It’s that flutter in the chest, that ache in the stomach, that stupid grin that sneaks up on them when they should be doing laundry. Don’t give us abs. Give us sparks, quirks, and the messy human moments that make falling in love feel both ridiculous and inevitable. That’s chemistry and it’s worth more than a six-pack any day.

The Fine Art of Not Getting Cheesy (Or: How to Avoid Cliches Like the Plague)

Look, we’ve all read the “accidental meet-cute” where two people literally bump into each other and fall instantly in love. And while that’s cute in a rom-com, a deeply romantic story requires more. It requires originality. It requires you to dig your creative heels in and say, “Nope, not today, Satan of a thousand cliches.” The trick is to subvert expectations. Instead of the hero dramatically carrying the heroine over a puddle, maybe he trips and splashes her, and they both just burst into laughter. The romance isn’t in the grand, perfect gesture; it’s in the shared, ridiculous, and imperfect moment.

Think about the classic first kiss. Instead of a passionate, movie-worthy moment in the rain, maybe it happens awkwardly while they’re both standing in a kitchen, bickering over who’s a better cook. The kiss is a sudden, surprising halt to the conversation, and it’s a little messy, and one of them might even accidentally bump their nose on the other’s. The romance is in the breathless, slightly clumsy, and utterly genuine moment that feels earned, not manufactured. It’s the kind of kiss that happens when the tension has been building for so long that the dam finally breaks, and all that pent-up emotion spills out in one glorious, imperfect moment.

And for the love of all that is holy, please, no more “I love you” declarations on a mountaintop. How about in the middle of a grocery store aisle, while they’re arguing over which brand of cereal is superior? One of them just stops, looks at the other, and blurts it out. The setting is mundane, but the moment is anything but. It’s shocking, it’s vulnerable, and it’s a sign that this love has woven itself so tightly into the fabric of their lives that it can’t be contained anymore. It’s not about the epic setting; it’s about the epic vulnerability.

To avoid the cheese factory, you have to be willing to get real. Real love isn’t always glamorous. It’s sharing a bag of chips in a car on a road trip, having a pillow fight, or staying up all night talking about the most ridiculous, insignificant things. The humor in your story can be a powerful tool to ground the romance in reality. It’s the inside jokes, the ridiculous pet names, the shared laughter over a clumsy mistake. It shows that love isn’t just about the profound; it’s also about the profoundly silly. By embracing the imperfections and the genuine messiness of human connection, you’ll create a love story that feels so authentic it will make your readers feel like they’re eavesdropping on a real, honest-to-goodness relationship. And that, my friends, is the most romantic thing of all.

Dialogue: Make It Sexy Without Sounding Like a Greeting Card

Nothing kills romance faster than bad dialogue. You could have the most compelling characters, the steamiest setting, the kind of chemistry that makes readers hyperventilate and then your hero opens his mouth and says something like, “Your beauty is like a thousand sunsets reflected in the tears of angels.” At which point, readers will slam the book shut and sprint toward the safety of Netflix.

Romantic dialogue is tricky because we’ve all seen it done badly. There’s the Hallmark special dialogue where everyone talks like they swallowed a thesaurus dipped in glitter. There’s the robotic dialogue where characters declare their feelings like they’re filing tax returns: “I have assessed my emotions and concluded that I love you.” And then there’s the fanfiction cliché dialogue where someone’s “orbs” lock onto someone else’s “silken lips.” Spoiler: no human being has ever spoken this way outside of a middle-school poetry slam.

So, how do you write dialogue that makes hearts flutter instead of stomachs churn? The secret isn’t in fancy words, it’s in authenticity. People don’t fall in love with metaphors about the moon. They fall in love with the way someone can make them laugh when they’re cranky, or the way someone blurts out something stupid but oddly vulnerable. Romance is rarely smooth in real life, so why should it be in fiction?

Take banter, for instance. Banter is foreplay with words. Think of it as verbal fencing: fast, witty, and playful. But here’s the catch: if you force it, it feels like two comedians battling for mic time. Like I’ve mentioned, readers don’t want a stand-up special. They want sparks.

On the flip side, don’t underestimate the power of awkwardness. Some of the most romantic moments come from characters who say the wrong thing. Imagine your heroine, panicked, blurting out: “Your face smells good.” Cringe? Yes. Realistic? Also yes. And readers will laugh and groan, but they’ll also see themselves in that moment, because who hasn’t said something idiotic in front of someone they like? Those stumbles make your characters feel human, and nothing is more romantic than vulnerability.

Another golden rule: let subtext do the heavy lifting. Characters don’t have to spell out their love with neon signs. In fact, they shouldn’t. Instead of a character saying, “I care about you,” show it in dialogue layered with meaning. For example:

She: “You didn’t have to wait for me.”

He: “Yeah, I know.”

On the surface, it’s casual. But underneath, it screams: I wanted to wait. I’ll always wait. Readers pick up on that without you spelling it out, and that’s what makes it romantic.

Now, let’s talk pet peeves. If your dialogue sounds like a Valentine’s Day card, it’s probably wrong. Nobody in love actually says, “Darling, your soul is the only candle that lights my darkness.” Unless your hero is a 19th-century poet (and even then, maybe tone it down). Instead, aim for simplicity. Sometimes the most heart-stopping lines are short, awkward, and blurted in the middle of chaos: “You’re it for me.” Or whispered during an argument: “I don’t know how to stop caring about you.” Those moments land because they’re raw, not rehearsed.

And please, for the love of all things literary, avoid using “orbs” as a substitute for eyes. Just don’t. No one has ever whispered, “I love gazing into your orbs” without sounding like an alien studying human anatomy. Stick to natural language. Let the rhythm of the conversation carry the romance, not purple prose that sounds like it escaped from a bad fanfic.

Finally, remember this: dialogue in romance should feel like a secret shared between two people. Whether it’s a playful jab, a vulnerable confession, or an unspoken truth hanging in the air, it should leave the reader feeling like they just overheard something they weren’t supposed to. That’s the magic. It’s not about being poetic. It’s about being real. And real, in the right hands, is ten times sexier than all the angelic-tear sunsets in the world.

Building a Bridge to the Reader’s Heart

You’ve got your characters. You’ve got their messy, beautiful relationship. Now, how do you make the reader feel it in their bones? The answer is simple: sensory details and emotional resonance. Don’t just tell us what’s happening; let us experience it. Instead of saying, “He was nervous,” describe the way his hands shook as he held her phone, or the way his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instead of saying, “She was sad,” describe the dull ache in her chest, the way the world seemed to dim around her, or the salty taste of a tear she didn’t realize had fallen.

Use all five senses to your advantage. What does the air smell like right before a storm, when they’re about to have a difficult conversation? What does the sound of their shared laughter sound like in a quiet room, a sound that has become the soundtrack of one of their lives? What does the feel of their skin against each other’s feel like, the surprising heat of a hand on a back, the rough texture of a calloused hand against a smooth one? These details anchor the reader in the moment and make the emotions palpable. When you describe a character’s heart swelling with love, don’t just say it. Show us how it makes them want to sing, to dance, to just burst with a joy so big it feels impossible to contain.

The emotional arc is just as important as the plot. A deeply romantic story should be an emotional rollercoaster for both the characters and the reader. The reader should feel the agony of their separation, the breathtaking joy of their reunion, the quiet comfort of their shared silence. This means you have to get vulnerable yourself. You have to tap into your own experiences with love, loss, and longing. You have to be willing to put a piece of your own heart on the page, even if it feels terrifying. Because here’s the secret: the most beautiful love stories are the ones that feel a little bit like a confession. They are raw, honest, and unflinchingly real.

Ultimately, writing a deeply romantic story isn’t about crafting a fairy tale. It’s about creating a mirror that reflects the messy, beautiful, and sometimes absurd reality of what it means to love and be loved. It’s about showing that true romance isn’t found in a grand ballroom but in a quiet kitchen. It’s not in the perfect words but in the imperfect moments. It’s about the kind of love that feels less like a grand passion and more like coming home. And when you get that right, your readers won’t just be rooting for your characters; they’ll be falling in love with them right alongside you.

Conflict: Love Isn’t Interesting Without Roadblocks

If there’s one universal truth about romance writing, it’s this: happy couples are boring. No one wants to read 300 pages of two perfect people sipping tea and agreeing with each other. That’s not a romance novel, that’s a brochure for retirement villages. What makes romance addictive is conflict. And no, not necessarily “World War III is brewing outside the bedroom window” conflict (though if that’s your jam, live your truth). I’m talking about the kind of roadblocks—internal and external—that make love messy, infuriating, and impossible to look away from.

Think of it this way: love is a cake. Conflict is the frosting. Without it, you’re just gnawing on dry sponge and wondering why you bothered. Conflict gives the story flavor, drama, and something for your characters to push against. It’s the tension between “I want you” and “I can’t have you,” or “I love you” and “I don’t trust you.” It’s the reason readers clutch the book and mutter, “Just kiss already!” like they’re personally invested. (And they are.)

There are two major flavors of conflict: external and internal. External conflict is the big, flashy stuff: rival families, demanding careers, meddling exes, the fact that one of them lives on Mars. This kind of conflict keeps characters physically apart, forcing them to fight obstacles just to be together. Romeo and Juliet had dueling families. Jack and Rose had an iceberg. You might give your couple a disapproving mother-in-law who treats your heroine like a walking disappointment. Or maybe the hero is a firefighter and the heroine is a reporter who once called him “Captain Overcompensating” in print. Whatever the obstacle, it forces them into situations where tension builds and readers sweat alongside them.

Internal conflict, though—that’s where the gold is. Internal conflict is about the baggage each character brings into the relationship. Maybe she doesn’t believe she’s lovable because of a messy past. Maybe he’s terrified of commitment because his last girlfriend left him for her spin instructor. Internal conflict is intimate, painful, and the kind of thing that makes readers whisper, “Oof, same.” When a character desperately wants love but doesn’t believe they deserve it? That’s pure emotional catnip.

Now, a word of warning: don’t confuse conflict with melodrama. Melodrama is when you’ve piled on so many soap-opera-worthy disasters that readers roll their eyes. (She’s pregnant! With twins! And he has amnesia! And her evil twin just escaped from prison!) Real conflict doesn’t need to be absurd. Sometimes it’s as small and human as bad timing. He’s ready for commitment; she’s still figuring herself out. Or it’s rooted in fear: they both want love, but one of them is convinced it’ll end in heartbreak. Readers relate to those struggles because they’ve lived them or feared them.

And here’s the sneaky thing: conflict isn’t just about keeping lovers apart. It’s about deepening their bond. Every argument, every misunderstanding, every obstacle should push them to reveal more of themselves. When two people fight, they’re also exposing their vulnerabilities. They’re showing what they care about, what scares them, and what they’re willing to risk. In other words, conflict isn’t just drama for drama’s sake, it’s intimacy in disguise.

Let’s put this in a real-life scenario. Picture a couple on their third date. She’s running late, again, and he’s irritated. The easy version is him sighing, rolling his eyes, and deciding she’s flaky. The better version is him snapping, “You’re always late. Do you even want to be here?” And suddenly she’s blurting, “I almost didn’t come because I’m terrified I’ll mess this up like I always do.” Boom. In the middle of a fight, they’ve just revealed the most vulnerable parts of themselves. That’s conflict doing the heavy lifting.

So, when in doubt, throw roadblocks at your characters. Don’t make it easy for them. Give them reasons to resist each other even as they’re drawn closer. Because love without conflict is just… nice. And nobody buys a romance novel for “nice.” They buy it for the rollercoaster—the push and pull, the ache of longing, the frustration of obstacles, and the sweet, sweet payoff when love finally wins.

Intimacy: More Than Just the Bedroom

Ah, intimacy. The part where most writers either break into a sweat, panic-Google “synonyms for throbbing,” or chicken out and write, “And then they closed the door.” Look, intimacy is about way more than physical stuff. (Though, yes, the physical stuff is fun, and readers expect at least some payoff if you’ve been building all that delicious tension.) But true intimacy is layered, messy, and sometimes much sexier when everyone’s clothes are still on.

Think of intimacy as a three-course meal. Physical intimacy is dessert—it’s sweet, rich, and people look forward to it. But if you serve dessert without an appetizer or main course, your guests are going to leave both confused and a little nauseous. Emotional intimacy is the entrée. Vulnerability, trust, those “I can’t believe I just admitted that” moments—that’s the meat and potatoes of romance. Intellectual intimacy is the appetizer—the sparks that fly when two people banter, debate, or nerd out about something together. Combine all three, and you’ve got a feast that readers will remember.

Now, the magic of intimacy is in the small details. Anyone can write about two characters kissing in the rain. What readers crave are the little moments that scream love is here. For example, it’s intimate when he notices she always picks the marshmallows out of her cereal and saves them in a separate bowl. It’s intimate when she remembers the name of his high school dog, even though he only mentioned it once while half-asleep. These tiny, specific details tell readers: these characters see each other. That’s the root of intimacy—being truly seen.

And intimacy doesn’t have to be smooth. Sometimes it’s awkward, and that’s what makes it relatable. Real couples laugh mid-kiss because someone sneezed. They burn the pancakes while trying to cook breakfast together. They trip over each other’s shoes in the hallway and nearly die of embarrassment. These silly, vulnerable, human moments are where intimacy shines. A steamy scene will make a reader blush, sure. But the scene where your heroine accidentally walks in on your hero singing to his cat in a falsetto? That’s the one they’ll remember forever.

Here’s the thing: intimacy is cumulative. You can’t just drop a hot scene into Chapter 3 and expect readers to swoon. You have to build it, brick by brick. Start with banter, the playful “are they flirting or fighting?” energy. Then layer in vulnerability, confessions, mistakes, apologies. Let them share their weird quirks, their secret dreams, their deep fears. By the time they get to holding hands, your readers should feel like they’re witnessing an emotional revolution. And when the physical intimacy does arrive, it won’t just feel like skin-on-skin, it’ll feel like soul-on-soul.

Let’s ground this in a real-life example. Imagine a couple sitting on a couch, watching a terrible Netflix reality show. Nothing sexy is happening. But he notices she always laughs at the same ridiculous contestant, and she notices he covers his mouth when he’s trying not to laugh out loud. Slowly, they start sharing glances, inside jokes, and by the time the show is over, they’ve built a quiet little universe of connection. That’s intimacy. It’s not about what they’re doing, it’s about how much they’re letting each other in.

And, of course, physical intimacy still matters. But here’s where a lot of writers fumble: they make it mechanical instead of meaningful. Don’t just describe body parts colliding like poorly programmed robots. Anchor the moment in emotion. Does he hesitate because he’s scared of ruining it? Does she close her eyes because it feels too intense to look at him? These small beats transform a scene from “generic steam” into something unforgettable.

At the end of the day, intimacy is the glue of romance. It’s what makes readers believe the love story could last beyond the final page.

Conclusion: Writing Romance Without Cringe (and Without Losing Your Mind)

So, what have we learned today, class? That writing a deeply romantic story is less about purple prose and more about crafting moments that feel real. You don’t need fifty metaphors about oceans of longing (seriously, oceans are just wet and salty, romance is better than that). What you do need are characters who banter, who stumble, who fight, who risk, who open themselves up and say the scary thing out loud. You need chemistry that sparks, dialogue that simmers, conflict that tests, intimacy that binds, and payoff that feels like fireworks and sometimes, like the click of a lock on a door finally opening.

If you’re still nervous about writing romance, here’s my final words: your readers don’t want perfection. They want honesty. They want vulnerability. They want characters who feel like messy humans stumbling into love and discovering it’s both terrifying and glorious. So throw away your thesaurus of steamy adjectives. Forget about whether your characters’ eye color has been mentioned seven times or eight. Focus on the heart. Build that spark, deepen it, test it, and then let it explode in a way that makes your readers clutch the book to their chest and say, “Ugh. This. This is what I came for.”

And when in doubt? Remember the snacks.