There’s a fine line between emotional depth and narrative quicksand. Introspective narration can elevate a story into something unforgettable—or bring the pacing to a grinding halt. The difference usually comes down to one question: is the reflection adding something the scene itself cannot? When done well, introspection deepens character and theme. When overused, it turns into literary speed bumps disguised as wisdom.
Fantasy author Danielle L. Jensen recently pushed back against the “romantasy” label, arguing that it reduces complex fantasy novels to “there was kissing, therefore clearly dragons are optional.” She is not alone. Fantasy romance has always demanded that writers master two genres at once: not just the emotional arc of a romance, but also worldbuilding, magic, politics, danger and impossible choices. So why has a catchy nickname managed to make the genre sound smaller, sillier and less serious than it really is?
“Romantasy.”
Even typing the word makes me twitch.
It sounds like something invented during a marketing meeting that ran out of coffee and started smashing syllables together for sport. And yet here we are — romantasy dominating sales charts, fracturing into micro-niches, and now apparently flirting with pirates.
Is it about to die?
Or is it simply growing up?
Why do I cling to historical romance? Maybe it’s the dresses—those gowns that could stop a man dead in his tracks. Maybe it’s the slow-burn tension of a hand brushing a sleeve. Or the sweeping backdrop of revolutions, arranged marriages, and the occasional ghost haunting the manor. Modern love stories don’t usually come with corsets, political chess games, or stolen glances across candlelit ballrooms. Historical romance gives us all that, and then some. Here’s why I’m not giving it up anytime soon.
