Writing romance isn’t about tossing two attractive people into a plot and waiting for sparks. If it were, every novel would end at chapter two with a shared sandwich and a mortgage application. No, romance needs a scaffold. A rhythm. A rising hum. Something that builds and cracks and bends but doesn’t break.

I think of it like renovating an old Spanish townhouse. You know the ones—leaning a little, full of charm and ghosts. Structurally questionable, but you fall in love anyway.

That’s a romantic arc.

Act One: What Could Go Wrong?

Start with chaos or quiet, but make the meeting matter. My rule? They can’t walk away unchanged. Maybe it’s a look. Maybe it’s a fight over the last loaf of decent bread. But something shifts. A tension hums.

This is where I start laying bricks: who are they when they’re alone? What do they think they want? And what does this other infuriating person represent that makes it so inconvenient?

It’s not love yet. It’s interest. It’s suspicion. It’s a splinter under the skin.

Act Two: The Glorious Mess

This is the part where everything unravels beautifully. They get closer. They push each other’s buttons. They flirt, argue, collide. But more than that—they change. Or they try not to. And fail. It’s dinner that ends in confession. A walk that wasn’t meant to last more than ten minutes. An accidental touch that lingers a beat too long.

In my stories, Act Two is always where I discover what the book is really about. It’s where I stop writing the plot and start listening to the characters whispering about the past, about fear, about why this shouldn’t work and why they want it anyway.

It’s also where I throw in at least one ridiculous obstacle. A goat, a thunderstorm, a language barrier, a mother-in-law with opinions. Because longing needs friction. Otherwise, it’s just compatibility in cute outfits.

The Fall (and The Fall-Back-In)

There’s always a moment where it breaks. Has to. A secret comes out. A promise is broken. Or worse—nothing is said when it should have been.

I love writing this part. The silence. The missed calls. The espresso going cold while someone waits in the wrong plaza. It’s brutal. And necessary.

Because then, if you’ve done your job, comes the fall-back-in. Not always a big speech. Not always a kiss in the rain. Sometimes it’s smaller. Quieter. More earned. A shoulder bump. A half-smile. A muttered apology.

The reader needs to ache for it. Otherwise, what was the point?

Structuring Without a Spreadsheet

I don’t use beat sheets. I don’t do those colour-coded timelines (though I admire people who do—probably with tidy spice drawers and socks that match). I build with instinct. With heartbeat. With scenes that keep me up at night until I write them.

I write the ending early sometimes. Then I go back and make it hurt more. I plant clues I forget about until draft four. I let the structure emerge like an old floorplan revealed beneath wallpaper.

Why It’s Never Really a Formula

Every love story bends the scaffolding. Some take longer to build. Some burn down and get rebuilt from ash. But the bones are always the same: two people, a spark, a mess, and a choice.

Not a guarantee. A choice.

That’s the real structure of longing. And if I’ve done it right, when they make it, you’ll feel it everywhere.