 Have you noticed how every book influencer now promotes new romantasy releases with a spice rating, measured in chili peppers or flames? If a review doesn't include a spice level, scroll to the comments and you'll find readers asking about it or complaining the book was not spicy enough.
When exactly did heat become the primary measure of a romance novel's worth? I've been thinking about this shift a lot lately, especially as someone who writes romance. There's something unsettling about how we've started rating passion like a commodity and quantifying desire instead of asking whether the story actually moved us. You can always tell when an author's heart isn't in it. Those obligatory scenes often blur together. Same choreography, different character names. Whether your story is set in space or Victorian England, everyone seems to be reading from an identical script. The bar keeps shifting, too. What scandalized readers five years ago barely registers now. What was once considered steamy is now labeled "clean" or "vanilla", as if restraint is somehow a creative failure. Publishers push for more, not because stories demand it, but because sales do. Several years ago, at a girls’ night out right after my first YA fantasy romance released, my friend proudly mentioned my book. One of her friends leaned in and asked, “Oooh, is it spicy?” with a conspiratorial smile. When I said, "No, it's romantic," the table went quiet. Like I'd admitted to writing a cookbook without recipes. Back then, it stunned me. Spice? In a young adult novel? But that question — once surprising — now feels inevitable. Somewhere along the way, we’ve mistaken explicit scenes for emotional payoff. Yet the most electric romantic tension I've ever read wasn't in bedroom scenes. It was in the almost-touches, the loaded glances, the moment someone finally says what they've been holding back for 200 pages. It's the same feeling I get when watching a movie. I don't need to see the actors perform the whole act. We all know what happens next. We don't need it choreographed for us like we've never heard of the birds and the bees before. I know I'm swimming against the current. The market wants what it wants. And even though I might be clutching pearls over here, spice has become so inescapable that every other book is competing to be steamier than the last. You can't recommend a romantasy without someone asking about its heat level. We've reached a saturation point where the absence of spice is seen as a flaw rather than a creative choice. Where a book's worth and success hinges on how many steamy scenes it contains, as if emotional depth, world-building, character development, and actual plot are just garnish on the main dish of explicit content. I know there are readers out there, quieter ones but no less passionate, who are exhausted by the spice arms race. We're still here, still buying books, still craving stories that don't have to rely on spicy scenes to give you something worth reading. Maybe that's the space I'm meant to occupy, to write for readers who still believe that love, written well, doesn't need to shout to be heard. Who understand that the best spice isn't added for fan service but woven into the fabric of the story itself. After all, spice should enhance the dish, not overpower it. And some of us are still hungry for the story underneath. —Sam ♡  Perfect characters are dull. I don't mean noble, courageous, or morally good. Those can all make for compelling characters. Even heroes like Captain America aren't perfect. He's stubborn to a fault, sometimes blindly loyal, unwilling to compromise, and even reckless when he believes he's right. It's those flaws that make him human and make his moments of heroism land with impact. What I mean by perfect is the kind of character who is flawlessly kind, endlessly patient, never wrong, never tempted, never messy. Unless the character in question is Jesus Christ, perfect characters give readers no reason to care. There's no tension about whether they'll rise or fall, no emotional payoff when they change because they never do, and they don't have to.
I think most of us know this on some level, even before we start learning craft terms. Long before I ever read a book about writing, I instinctively gave my characters flaws and room to grow. I didn't have the vocabulary for it back then, but I somehow knew in my gut that a character with nothing to overcome was a character readers wouldn't bother rooting for. Not only that, but it would probably annoy them enough to close the book and let it collect dust on the shelf. It wasn't until I began studying writing more seriously that I learned what to call it. Words like character arc and the lie the character believes (misbelief) gave me a way to understand why those elements make stories so satisfying. Recently, I had to explain this to someone whose WIP protagonist was a little too perfect. In trying to help them figure out their character's arc, I found myself breaking down something I had never put into words before: you can't have a compelling plot without a character's misbelief. The flawed way characters see the world is what gives them something to fight against inside themselves. It's what makes their choices hard, their failures painful, and their victories meaningful. Without it, the story simply happens to them. Whatever form it takes, the key takeaway is that this misbelief is the invisible engine behind the story. It drives the character's choices and guarantees that when the plot throws obstacles in their way, those obstacles hurt because they hit the character where it matters most. Think about Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth believes Darcy is arrogant and cruel, that his pride makes him unworthy of her respect. Darcy believes Elizabeth and her family are beneath him, that his superior judgment is always correct. Their arcs work because both of them must confront those misbeliefs. When they finally do, we get one of the most satisfying resolutions in literature. Thank you, Jane Austen. In my WIP, Of Beasts and Blood, both Kaelen and Maeve start with the same misbelief: that all monsters are monsters. It fuels Kaelen's devotion to the Order and justifies every blade he draws as a veilwalker. It makes Maeve hide who she is, believing that if anyone knew the truth, they would destroy her. Their arcs are about dismantling that belief, discovering that the world is not that simple, that there is a difference between what is monstrous and what is merely feared. That revelation is what sets their final choices in motion. That moment of growth, the instant a character sees through their misbelief, is the story's real aha moment. It's what allows them to finally face the external obstacle and win, not just by force but by becoming someone new. Without that shift, the battle might be loud and dramatic and suspenseful, but it will not mean anything. With it, even a quiet victory can feel earth-shattering. That's why perfect characters are boring. A character who has nothing to learn can never give us that moment of transformation, and transformation is what makes a story stay with us long after we have turned the last page. So, if you're still here, I'd like to raise a toast to all the imperfect and flawed characters that make stories unforgettable! —Sam ♡  Going from a magic-free trilogy to Of Beasts and Blood has been like learning to write in a completely different language while staying in the same neighborhood. I'll admit something silly about it: I always thought magic systems were for people much nerdier than me. Like, the kind of writers who have elaborate charts, centuries of complex history, and could probably learn to speak Elvish (George R. R. Martin, I'm looking at you). I figured I'd fumble through some basic "magic exists, moving on" handwaving and hope for the best. But I've accidentally become obsessed with the internal logic of it all. I even have classifications now. There's a whole taxonomy. I know the difference between Veilbound entities (pure veil creatures that dissolve when killed) and Veilspawn (corrupted mortals who leave physical remains). This is information I never thought I'd need, let alone enjoy organizing. The breakthrough came when I realized I wasn't building magic for fantasy's sake. I was building the rules that would make Kaelen and Maeve's world feel real and dangerous. Suddenly it wasn't about being clever but about creating a consistent threat that could enrich and drive the story forward.
The most surprising part has been how much fun I'm having creating monsters. I thought creature design would be tedious worldbuilding homework. Instead, I keep finding myself deep in brainstorming rabbit holes, figuring out how a Merioth (a creature that mimics loved ones) would actually hunt, or what psychological tactics a Whisperwretch might use. My browser history has gotten very weird, very quickly. I'm also enjoying writing in a darker universe. It's a refreshing change from the grounded, non-magical world of The Kingdom Within. The stakes feel bigger too, going from kingdom politics to cosmic corruption that's been festering for centuries. Think ancient grudges between divine beings, bloodlines carrying secrets that could break the barriers between worlds, and all that fun darkness jazz. Of Beasts and Blood is letting me explore parts of storytelling I never knew I wanted to try. And while I'm making it up as I go (hard habit to break), at the end of the day, it's the romantic angst of a monster girl who loves a monster hunter that I'm most excited about. Eventually, I'll be looking for some generous souls to beta read this monster-filled angsty chaos once I have something resembling a complete draft. If that's something that might interest you—stay tuned! But that's still down the road, assuming I can keep all those monsters and worldbuilding from going off the rails. In the meantime, if you've read one or two installments of The Kingdom Within series and would like to get your digital hands on a review e-copy of book 2 or 3, let me know. I'd be happy to send one your way! —Sam ♡ So. . . The Forged Empire is officially out in the world.
And I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Releasing the final book in a trilogy is strange. A bit like holding your breath and letting it out all at once. This book broke me a little. In a good way, I think. There’s one scene in particular—and if you’ve read it, you probably know which one—that absolutely wrecked me while writing. I made myself cry. I knew it was coming. I chose it long ago when I first started writing the series. Still cried. And yes, I felt a little silly crying over something I wrote, but I guess that means I pulled it off? In the middle of the launch blitz, I also did a live Q&A, which is very not me. I’m more of a “write the thing, hide in a hoodie” kind of author than a camera-ready personality. But weirdly? I had fun. Playing games while answering your questions helped me forget I was supposed to be on. And honestly, your kindness and enthusiasm made it so much easier. Thank you for showing up, even if I was mildly awkward and entirely underprepared. And then this literary review came in from Independent Book Review: “It is endearing how Meredith doesn't pretend to have it all figured out. We see her stumble, question herself, and grow in ways that feel earned rather than rushed.” Reading that line felt like someone had peeled back the layers and understood not just Meredith, but me. Because I definitely don’t have it all figured out. But I care deeply about stories where growth feels earned, not easy. Messy, not polished. Another line that stuck with me? “Every decision she makes feels like it could split something open.” Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better reflection of this story's finale. And now comes the part where I juggle marketing for the finally finished series (because apparently books don’t just sell themselves—rude), while continuing to plot the outline for the next project I mentioned last time: a dark romantasy duology called Of Beasts and Blood. More to come on that. —Sam ♡ So apparently, blogging is a thing authors do. I’m not sure when the train left the station, but here I am, climbing aboard like I wasn’t just chasing it down the tracks for a decade. I have no idea what I’m doing. Not with this blog, not with “branding,” not even with half the tech involved in sending newsletters (still figuring that out). But what I do know is this: After years of dreaming, outlining, endless rewrites, procrastinating, crying into drafts, doubting myself, and chasing the version of the story that felt right, The Forged Empire (Book 3 of The Kingdom Within) is finally, truly, going out into readers’ hands. The writer who penned that first installment was still figuring so much out—voice, structure, pacing, all of it. Three books later, I’ve grown, stretched, and survived enough revisions to wallpaper a castle. And I think (I hope) it shows. And while I’m so proud of how far the story has come... I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard to say goodbye. These characters—Meredith, Connor, Ethan—have lived in my head and heart for years. Letting them go feels a little like closing a chapter of my own life, too. I’ve even been toying with the idea of writing a little “years later” scene for readers who want one last glimpse of how things turn out. So if that’s something you’d love, let me know. I’m very persuadable. ARC copies are going out tomorrow. Bookmarks (that I may or may not have squealed over when they arrived) are tucked in. The cute little boxes are taped shut. And while one story closes, another one’s already stirring. I’ve been so excited about the new romantasy duology I’m working on. It has quasi enemies-to-lovers tension, ancient curses, and emotionally damaged leads (you know I can’t help myself). The blurb is already up on my site if you’re curious, and I’ll be sharing more in the coming months. If you’re reading this, thank you for being here at the beginning. I promise I’ll keep showing up—messy, hopeful, figuring-it-out-as-I-go. More soon. Maybe even coherently. —Sam ♡ |