In Defense of the Slow Burn

Why Some Stories Take Time to Tell

The slow burn. God, how I crave it. It’s one of the most addictive things about writing romance for me. That restless edge of want that keeps you turning pages and your characters awake long past midnight. The way a man looks at a woman when he’s more than just interested. When he respects her, sure, but can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to kiss her—hard, thorough, and every day for the rest of his life. The teasing back and forth, the push and pull that says everything and nothing all at once. Watching two people fumble and fight their way through it, tangled in love and life and all the messy in-between—there’s nothing more satisfying.

Whew! Okay, so, I may have gotten a little carried away with that intro, but you get the idea.

This week, I’m knee-deep in the second draft of one of my long novels, and I wanted to pop in to share this gentle Monday reminder. You’re allowed to write slowly, to write deeply, to write with all your heart, no matter how loud the hustle gets (or how bright that red X on your deadline calendar glares at you!).

Slow down. Feel the burn.

I keep that reminder close these days. Tucked in the back of my mind like a small charm, a little wisdom I whisper to myself when the world tells me to move faster, to write bigger, to keep pace with a market that never seems to take a breath. Because the truth is, it’s easy to forget. Easy to get swept up in the endless noise of deadlines and algorithms, of constant output and instant success. Easy to let that noise drown out the quiet, persistent voice of your own creative heart.

But I’ve learned, over and over again that my stories don’t live in the noise. They live in the spaces I make for them. Correction. They live in the spaces I carve out for them. In the hours spent staring at a single sentence, turning it over like a stone in my hand until it shines. In the mornings when I wake up with a half-formed idea and no plan at all, just the sweet possibility of what it could be. I love that feeling! In the long walks where I let myself have an open and yes, sometimes verbal conversation with my characters (Keep moving, pal. I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to the people inside my head.). In the silence I make room for, even when everything else is crashing in on me.

It’s in those spaces that real stories are born, and they don’t care about how quickly you can type, dictate or how many posts you can schedule. They care about whether you’re listening and trust me, they know. They know whether you’re present. Whether you’re willing to let them take the time they need to unfold and be heard.

I know that’s not always easy to believe. Especially now, when the hustle is everywhere. Everywhere you look, there’s someone telling you to write faster, to produce more, to stay relevant in a world that rewards speed over substance. There’s a constant drumbeat of “go! go! go!” A pressure to keep up, to not fall behind. It can feel, sometimes, like if you’re not moving at the same breakneck pace, you’re not moving at all.

But I don’t buy that. I never have. Because writing isn’t a race. It’s a conversation. A relationship that’s built over time, over blood, sweat and more than likely, tears. And like any good relationship, it needs heart. It needs patience. It needs care and cultivation.

When I look back at the books that have mattered most to me, my own and others’, they’re not the ones that came together overnight. They’re the ones that simmered. The ones that took longer than I planned because they demanded more than I thought I had to give. The ones that surprised me, not because they were easy, but because they were honest. Because the characters and story consumed me. I became immersed in that setting, that world, that love story and it was wonderful!

And it keeps getting better and better each time I do it.

That’s the kind of writing I believe in. The kind that doesn’t rush to the finish line but lingers in the moment. The kind that isn’t afraid to go deeper, even if it takes longer. The kind that trusts that the story knows where it’s going, even when I don’t.

And let me tell you, there’s a weird sort of power in that. In giving yourself permission to slow down. In saying, “We’ll get there when we get there,” and knowing that’s enough. In remembering that you’re not here to feed an algorithm or chase a trend. You’re here to tell a story and that story, if you let it, will tell you what it needs.

Sometimes it needs a few days. Sometimes a few weeks. Sometimes it needs you to put it down and walk away for a while, to let it breathe in the dark and find its own shape. That’s not wasted time. That’s part of the work. That’s part of what makes it real.

I think, deep down, we all know this. We know that good writing doesn’t come from reaching a daily word goal (although those are awesome), from hurry or from fear. It comes from a place of stillness. A place of curiosity. A place of courage and the challenge (maybe the most important one) is to hold on to that knowing, even when everything around us says otherwise.

Because here’s the other thing I’ve learned: when you write from that place, from that heart-deep space of care and attention, it shows. Readers can feel it. They can tell when a story has been written with patience, with presence. They can feel the difference between a book that was made to be sold and a book that was made to be lived in.

That doesn’t mean the process is always pretty. Or easy. It can be frustrating. It can be messy. It can test your faith and sometimes, your heart in ways you didn’t see coming. But it’s worth it. It’s worth every second spent staring at a blank page, every false start, every word you cut and every word you save. Because that’s the work that matters. That’s the work that lasts.

So if you’re feeling like you’re falling behind, don’t. You’re exactly where you need to be. If the story is taking longer, let it. If the words aren’t coming easily, trust that they will. If the world is telling you to go faster, know that you don’t have to. Your story will wait for you and your readers, the ones who really want what you have to give, will wait too.

I think that’s what we tend to forget most often. that there are readers out there who aren’t looking for the fastest book or the flashiest release. They’re searching for a story that feels real, one that’s lived in and true. And that’s exactly what you’re writing, even if it takes a little longer to get there. Give them those flawed characters who took you weeks to shape, those beautiful settings born from the corners of your imagination, and those perfectly chosen words of love that leave them with the one thing only romance can offer. Hope.

So take your time. Write slowly. Write deeply. Write with all your heart. The hustle will keep on hustling, but you don’t have to. You get to choose a different rhythm. A different pace. One that’s yours alone and in that space, in that quiet, you’ll find what you’ve been looking for all along. A story that’s worth every minute it took to tell.

Have a wonderful Monday!