Romance Isn’t Dead, But the Business Model Might Be

Why I’ve Stepped Away from Algorithms, Ads, and Industry Expectations

I’ve always believed in the power of a good story.

Not a trend. Not a hook engineered to trigger clicks or a trope polished to fit neatly into a marketing graphic. I mean a story—with heart, struggle, longing, lasting moments, and the kind of love that makes you ache a little before it makes you sigh and smile.

Lately, it’s been hard to find space for that kind of writing. At least, that’s been my experience.

Over the past year, I’ve watched the romance publishing world contort itself into something that feels more like a stock market than a creative landscape. Everywhere I turn, there are updates on rank algorithms, release schedules, and author forums lit up with talk of promo stacking, ad spend, and how many TikToks a day will land you on the blessed side of the algorithm. And let’s not forget AI. Authors accusing other authors of using the dreaded machine to crank out words on basis like hyphen use and repetition.

Sometimes I feel like I’m in high school again. Drama. Drama. Drama.

None of it feels like storytelling. None of it feels like a place I want to call home or even visit. It feels like strategy. Like survival. Like performance.

And I’m not interested in performing.

Let me be clear—I’m not here to throw stones. I’ve played the game, and for a while, I played it well. I know what it feels like to chase a list, to hit a sales goal, to see your book shoot up a chart with the right push at the right time. And for some, that chase is energizing. They thrive in that current. But for me? It’s exhausting. It started to feel like I was writing with someone else’s voice in my head. A voice whispering, Make it shorter. Make it sexier. Make it snappier. Make it sell. More! More! More!

And somewhere in all that noise, I stopped hearing my own voice. I stopped enjoying the process. the words and the writing.

So, I made a decision—one that’s been building for a while. I stopped publishing my newest books on the usual platforms. No Amazon. No wide distribution. No digital shelf wars. Just me, my publishing house, and the readers who want to meet me there.

I’ve chosen to sell my work only on my own website.

It’s a risk. I know that. In an industry where discoverability has become the golden ticket, stepping off the train might seem reckless. But I don’t see it that way. I see it as a return.

A return to intimacy. To honesty. To writing the way I want to write—without wondering if a marketing team would approve the ending, or if a trending audio clip could be matched to my main character’s emotional breakdown.

Here’s the truth no one likes to say out loud: romance has become increasingly commercial, increasingly competitive, and—if I’m honest—more than a little dramatic (did you catch those hyphens?). Maybe it’s always been that way and I was just too naive to see it (I think that’s more like it).

We’ve gone from writing layered stories about real human relationships to chasing the next viral hook. Books are judged not by the quality of the words, but by how easily they can be reduced to a ten-second soundbite or a trending hashtag. And in the middle of that frenzy, writers—good writers—are burning out, giving up, or getting swallowed whole.

And I refuse to be one of them.

I didn’t get into this to become a content machine. I got into this because I believe in the kind of romance that roots itself deep, that reminds people of their own worth, their own wounds, and their own hope. I want to write stories that feel lived in—messy, complicated, tender stories that don’t always play by the rules but always play from the heart.

Maybe that’s not what the algorithm wants. But it’s what I want.

When I talk about pulling back from the industry noise, I don’t mean I’m disappearing. I mean I’m reclaiming. I’m choosing readers over reach, connection over convenience. The readers who find my books on my website won’t be drive-by scrollers. They’ll be seekers. They’ll show up not because they saw a flash of something shiny but because they’re looking for the kind of story I write.

That’s the exchange I want. One book. One writer. One reader. No middleman.

And I’ll be honest, there’s a kind of peace in that.

There’s peace in waking up and writing without wondering if this book fits this market trend. There’s joy in crafting a scene just because it moves me, not because I think it will “convert” on a boosted post. There’s freedom in knowing that I don’t owe anyone a viral moment—I only owe them a story told with love and soul.

I know this path isn’t for everyone. And I’m not here to romanticize it. There are days it feels uncertain, slow, and yes, even lonely. But I’d take the solitude of writing something true over the noise of chasing what’s popular any day.

Romance isn’t dead. Not even close. But the way we deliver it might need a resurrection.

We need fewer formulas and more feeling. Less flash and more foundation. We need to remember why readers fall in love with romance in the first place—not because it’s the top seller in a category, but because it cracked something open inside them. Because it reminded them of what’s possible.

So here I am—just a writer, stripped down and stubborn, choosing the hard way because it’s also the right way for me.

If you’re feeling what I’m feeling—tired of the chase, weary of the noise—let me say this: You’re not alone. And you’re not wrong for wanting more.

The stories still matter. The words still matter. And if we write them with truth, with courage, and with heart, they’ll find the people who need them.

Not through an algorithm.

Through romance and relationships. True human connection.

And that’s what real romance has always been about.