Let’s address what many romance writers tiptoe around: the darkness matters. The shadow elements, the uncomfortable truths, the aspects of human nature we’re supposed to politely ignore—these aren’t flaws to be sanitized from fiction but essential ingredients for stories that resonate with psychological truth.
Darkness Comes
I’ve done the shadow work. Not the trendy, Instagram-friendly version where you journal about minor insecurities, but the real, uncomfortable descent into your own psychological underworld. I’ve sat with my capacity for cruelty, examined my own predatory instincts, acknowledged the parts of myself that hunger for power, control, even harm. This isn’t confession; it’s recognition that we all contain multitudes, and denying our darkness doesn’t make it disappear—it just makes it unconscious and therefore more dangerous.
Writing paranormal romance from this place of shadow integration means I’m not interested in defanging my vampires or domesticating my monsters. Yes, my stories deliver the emotional catharsis and romantic satisfaction readers expect, but they earn those rewards by first acknowledging the genuine darkness in desire itself. Wanting to consume and be consumed. The power dynamics inherent in passion. The thin line between intensity and obsession. The way love can devour as readily as it nourishes.
Darkness Should be Dark
The vampires in my debut series aren’t misunderstood sparkly creatures waiting for the right person to redeem them. They’re apex predators who’ve developed sophisticated strategies for feeding—physically, emotionally, energetically. Some drink blood; others drain life force; still others harvest emotional reactions like psychic farmers. They’re capable of love, but that love is complicated by what they are, by their fundamental relationship to others as potential food sources. This creates delicious moral complexity that sanitized versions miss entirely.
I’m equally unafraid to explore darker sexual territory. Not gratuitous shock value, but honest representation of desire’s full spectrum—the places where pain and pleasure intertwine, where dominance and submission create their own grammar of intimacy, where taboos exist specifically because they hold such psychological charge. My characters negotiate consent while acknowledging that some of our deepest fantasies involve scenarios that would be unacceptable in reality. That’s precisely why fiction exists: to provide safe space for exploring what must remain imaginary.
Magic Shadows
Magic in my stories carries real cost and moral ambiguity. My witches aren’t benevolent nature mystics dispensing herbal wisdom. They’re power workers who understand that effective magic often requires sacrifice, transgression, willingness to operate outside societal rules. Blood magic features prominently because blood holds power—this truth appears across cultures and centuries for reason. My witches know this and use it, dealing with the ethical implications afterward.
The shadow work extends to plotting as well. My characters make genuinely difficult choices where every option carries significant cost. They sometimes choose power over love, survival over integrity, necessary evil over principled martyrdom. They betray, manipulate, kill when circumstances demand it. This doesn’t make them irredeemable; it makes them complex, psychologically realistic portraits of people under extraordinary pressure.
Psychopomp-ish
Death appears frequently in my work, not as distant threat but as intimate presence. When you write immortals, mortality becomes the defining contrast, the thing that makes human choices meaningful. My vampires remember their deaths—often traumatic, violent, unwilling transformations—and carry that trauma forward. They understand that they’ve been fundamentally severed from the human lifecycle, that they exist in perpetual stasis while everyone they might love ages and dies. This creates genuine existential horror that makes their relationships poignant rather than purely escapist.
I also explore the darkness of consumption itself—not just vampires drinking blood, but the ways we all feed on each other. Energy vampires who drain emotional resources. Relationships where one person’s growth requires another’s diminishment. The predatory dynamics embedded in attraction itself, where wanting someone means, on some level, wanting to possess, control, consume them. My paranormal elements make these psychological truths literal and therefore harder to ignore.
Eating Controversy
Controversial subjects don’t make me flinch… I eat them for dinner. Gender fluidity and sexual orientation exist on spectrums in my stories because they do in reality, and supernatural beings with centuries of experience have usually explored thoroughly. My vampires have witnessed enough human history to recognize that most sexual and gender taboos are culturally constructed rather than naturally fixed. This allows for characters whose identities and desires defy easy categorization, reflecting the complexity real people live with.
The spiritual darkness interests me as much as the psychological. My stories engage seriously with concepts many writers avoid—demonic entities, dangerous rituals, the genuine risk of spiritual corruption. Magic in my world can open practitioners to influences and entities that don’t have their best interests at heart. Not every supernatural being is benign, and trafficking with powers beyond human comprehension carries legitimate danger. This creates stakes beyond physical survival—characters risk losing their souls, not metaphorically but actually.
Shadow work taught me that integration, not elimination, is the goal. We don’t become whole by excising our darkness but by acknowledging it, understanding it, channeling it constructively. The same principle applies to my characters. Their journeys toward love require first confronting and integrating their shadow elements. The vampire must acknowledge his predatory nature. The witch must accept her hunger for power. The human must recognize her own capacity for darkness before she can genuinely choose connection over isolation.
PNR = Paranormal Romance
This is why, while paranormal romances (PNR) will always have teeth, it is vampire romance that always bites (pun intended). The darkness isn’t decoration or edgy aesthetic—it’s essential to emotional honesty. Love matters most when it exists alongside genuine danger. Intimacy becomes profound when characters risk actual corruption or loss. Happily-ever-afters feel earned when they emerge from authentic shadow integration rather than shadow denial. This is why PNR fiction is more than just a good story… its darkness feels familiar… it clenches the heart and pierces the soul as true on some deeper level.
I write for readers who understand that acknowledging darkness doesn’t mean celebrating it, but ignoring it guarantees it will control us unconsciously. For those who recognize that the most compelling love stories happen between complex, flawed beings who choose each other despite—and sometimes because of—their capacity for darkness.
Welcome to the shadows. This is where the real stories live.
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