What starts of as common sense can soon spiral into an unending list of rules that writers are bound by. Show don’t tell, never start with a character waking up, don’t use adverbs, never use prologues, don’t lead the reader gently into the book, write what you know, and never include anything unless it advances the plot.
The problem is not that the rules are wrong. The problem is that they are often presented like commandments etched into stone tablets carried down from Mount Publishing by a grumpy literary deity.
And here’s the truth: writing rules are less like laws and more like… guidelines with a mild superiority complex.
When I first started submitting work, I discovered the rules the hard way — usually via rejection, confusion, or someone metaphorically smacking me over the head with “industry standards.” Writing the book is only half the battle. Writing it correctly according to a million invisible expectations is the other half.
But here’s the thing. Rules exist for a reason. They protect you from rookie mistakes.
They protect readers from boredom. They protect your story from collapsing in on itself like a badly constructed gothic castle. Take “show, don’t tell.” It’s solid advice. If your dark fantasy heroine says she’s terrified of the morally ambiguous demon king, but then casually sips wine while flirting with him, readers are going to raise an eyebrow. Or both.
Showing emotion through action builds immersion. It lets the reader feel the fear, the desire, the internal conflict.
But sometimes telling is faster. Cleaner. Sharper. “She hated him.” Boom. Done. Efficient. No interpretive dance required. Let’s face it, if you “show” every single emotional nuance, your 90k word manuscript will balloon into a 190k epic saga before the demon has even removed his cloak.
Rules, when applied blindly, can strangle pacing. And pacing — especially in dark fantasy romance — is everything.
If your opening chapter gently describes the sunrise over a cursed kingdom while your brooding anti-hero thoughtfully buttons his shirt… you might lose your reader before she’s even had a chance to morally compromise anyone.
Readers want tension. Urgency. That feeling of being launched into chaos like the start of a roller coaster rather than slowly pulled uphill while reconsidering their life choices. I learned very quickly that slow openings are rarely forgiven.
Does that mean you must always start with bloodshed, betrayal, or a demon stepping out of a portal? Of course not. But it does mean you should understand why the “grab them immediately” rule exists before deciding to ignore it.
The key here is to understand the rule before you break it. Breaking a rule intentionally is powerful. Breaking it accidentally just looks like you didn’t know it was there.
Let’s take the rule of write what you know as an example. If we all obeyed that strictly, fantasy wouldn’t exist. No dragons. No shadow realms. No seductive underworld princes with questionable ethics and soul piercing eyes.
Most of us have never ruled a cursed kingdom or been torn between mortal love and eternal damnation. That doesn’t mean we can’t write it. It does mean we need to do the groundwork creating a world with rules and logic, because while your world can contain winged assassins and immortal beings, it still needs to make sense. Internal consistency is sacred. If magic works one way in chapter three and conveniently works differently in chapter twenty-seven to save your protagonist, readers will feel manipulated. And readers do not like being manipulated. (Unless it’s by your villain) Which brings me to another rule people love to throw around: “Don’t offend.”
Now, I fully believe in sensitivity when writing about real-world issues, culture, identity, or lived experiences that aren’t your own. That’s not about creative restriction — that’s about responsibility. But dark fantasy romance? Violence. Obsession. Morally grey characters. Sex that makes the more polite members of society clutch their pearls. If you sand down every sharp edge to avoid upsetting someone, you will end up with a story that has all the danger of a lukewarm cup of tea.
Sometimes the rawness is the point. Sometimes the darkness fuels the engine. You don’t include intensity for shock value. You include it because it reveals character. Because it raises stakes. Because it forces your heroine to confront parts of herself she’d rather pretend don’t exist. If your demon king behaves like a respectful accountant, we have a tonal problem.
Are there lines? Of course. Should you think critically? Absolutely. Should you neuter your entire story because it might make someone uncomfortable? Hell no.
Then there’s the rule about happy endings. Romance readers often expect one. Fantasy readers might tolerate bittersweet. Horror readers may actively resent sunshine and rainbows, so where does that leave you?
A forced happy ending feels just as false as a gratuitously tragic one. If your characters haven’t earned their peace, handing it to them like a participation trophy cheapens everything they endured. Sometimes love survives the underworld. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it survives… but at a cost.
The rule isn’t “make it happy.” The rule is “make it satisfying.” And satisfaction doesn’t always look like a happily ever after.
If your strength lies in tension, lean into it. If your gift is emotional brutality, own it.
If your stories are a little dark, a little twisted, and unapologetically intense — good. There is space for that.
Writing rules are scaffolding. They help you build something stable. But once the structure stands, you’re allowed to carve gargoyles into the stone as grotesquely as you choose. So, keep the rules that strengthen your craft. Break the ones that suffocate your story. But never ignore them out of laziness. Learn them. Test them. Bend them. And if you’re writing dark fantasy romance, remember this: Your world can defy gravity. Your characters can defy morality. Your ending can defy expectation. Just don’t defy logic. Because even demons need rules.