It’s a Bad Romance: How I Got Romance Wrong in My Crime Novel (And How I Fixed It)

I’m writing this hiding behind my hands, because there really is nothing more embarrassing than getting romance ‘wrong.’ But that’s exactly what I managed to do. And what makes it even more toe-curling is that I did it immediately after writing a globally bestselling romance series. You would think, after several years and several million words spent crafting perfect first-dates, and the occasionally strategically placed thunderstorm, I’d have the whole romance thing nailed. But when I moved into historical thrillers, something very strange happened: I forgot everything I knew.

(How I Handle In-Person Research as a Thriller Writer.)

I’d always viewed romance as a stopgap to what I really wanted to write—crime. And my first historical crime thriller felt like stepping into a completely different country where the weather, the language, and the cultural rules were all new. I became so determined to “fit in” that I left my suitcase of romance skills at the border. I thought thrillers had no place for tenderness, that crime and history demanded grit and shadows and perpetual danger. I was, to put it mildly, wrong.

The book in question was my debut historical thriller, The Thief Taker, and at its center were two characters who, to me, shared a deep undercurrent of attraction. I wanted to weave their chemistry slowly through the danger and mystery of the plot. Unfortunately, what I actually wrote was something far less elegant. Readers were quick to tell me the romantic thread felt… clunky. Forced. Like I’d taken two paper dolls and made them kiss.

At first, I was baffled. How could I get romance wrong? I’d written entire series built on emotional connection, believable conflict, and will-they/won’t-they tension. Romance came so easily to me. But the truth was simple: I’d treated the new book as if it belonged to a completely different universe. One where the rules of attraction didn’t apply. One where my romance instincts were somehow irrelevant.

The truth, which took me far too long to see, was this: Romance isn’t tied to genre. Romance is tied to character. And when you switch genres, you don’t leave behind your ability to write people wanting things—especially each other. But I was so focused on authenticity—on researching historical details down to the type of linen they wrapped corpses in—that I forgot the one universal element that spans every era: human connection.

Worse, I fell into the classic trap of thinking that because crime and thriller fiction are often described as “gritty,” the emotional parts had to be compressed, minimal, almost shyly tucked into the background. As if having a killer on the loose automatically meant no one could have a crush. I’d convinced myself romance couldn’t be overt, or warm, or messy. It had to be quiet, subtle. A hint of longing in a cold room. I am now thankful to the readers who immediately called out the throttled romance because if it weren’t for them, I don’t think I would have noticed that what should have been a simmer, barely became a spark.

Recovering from that mistake took time, a bit of pride-swallowing, and a return to what I actually knew. Romance isn’t a set of rules, it’s a rhythm. It’s pacing, tension, conflict, release. It’s characters revealing who they are not just through action, but through how they reach for each other, pull away, and try again. I went back to my favorite crime novels and saw that they all had embedded the romance much more deeply than I’d first assumed. It was integral, not an afterthought.

Once I understood that, I stopped trying to write “thriller romance” and simply wrote romance within a thriller.

Which brings me to The Bridesmaid, my newest novel—a dark, twisting thriller about secrets, survival, and the danger lurking beneath loyalty. This time, I wove the emotional threads through the plot with full awareness of what I bring from my romance past. I didn’t hold back on the character connections. I let people be messy, yearning, hopeful. I let them want things they shouldn’t. Because romance shines not in perfection, but in conflict.

I was surprised with how much richer the thriller became when I allowed the emotional stakes to breathe. Suddenly danger felt sharper because characters had so much more to lose. Their choices carried weight. The suspense grew teeth. Crime fiction isn’t separate from emotion; it thrives on it. And romance—done well—makes the danger feel intimate.

Looking back, I’m genuinely grateful for that early misstep. It forced me to re-evaluate what I thought I knew about genre and to stop partitioning parts of my writing self. All writing, whether romance or crime or historical mystery, relies on the same core skill: making the reader care. About the outcome, yes—but most importantly, about the people.

So now, I’m no longer hiding my romance background when I write thrillers. I’ve realized it’s a strength, not a secret. And if my earlier attempt involved a little clunkiness, well… clunkiness is survivable. It’s also fixable. And—if you’re lucky—it becomes a good story for other writers to think about one day.

Bookshop | Amazon

(WD uses affiliate links)