I don’t DNF lightly.

I am, unfortunately, one of those people who will sit through an objectively terrible movie from opening credits to final scene, muttering “it has to get better, right?” while scrolling TikTok halfway through. My lifetime DNF list is short—comfortably under 100—and that’s across years of reading, across genres, across wildly different moods and expectations.

So when I say I should have DNF’d The Fine Print sooner than Chapter 9, please understand: this decision was hard-won.

This book has been everywhere. BookTok darling and Pinterest maven. Grumpy/sunshine romance. Workplace tension. Billionaire boss energy. A Disneyland-inspired setting that promises whimsy, ambition, and emotional payoff. On paper, this should have been an easy win for me.

Instead, it became a lesson in how fast pacing, early spice, and popular tropes can still result in a story that feels strangely hollow.

Fast Pacing That Goes Nowhere

At first glance, The Fine Print moves quickly. Chapters are short. Scenes transition rapidly. Dialogue is snappy. Things are constantly happening.

But here’s the issue: movement is not the same thing as momentum.

By Chapter 9, the two main characters have already had a hot-and-heavy makeout session. In isolation, that’s not a dealbreaker for me. I enjoy early sparks. I love bold romantic choices. I’m not anti-spice, and I’m certainly not anti-physical chemistry.

What I am anti is physical intimacy replacing emotional development.

By the time that scene occurred, these characters had—very generously—had maybe two actual conversations. Not vulnerable conversations. Not revealing conversations. Not conversations that deepened understanding or complicated attraction. Just exchanges.

There was no emotional scaffolding. No sense of who these people were beyond their assigned trope roles. No meaningful tension to justify the escalation.

It didn’t feel like they couldn’t help themselves.

It felt like the plot needed this now.

Grumpy/Sunshine Without the Substance

Grumpy/sunshine is a trope that only works when it’s rooted in contrast and comprehension. We need to understand why the grump is guarded. Why the sunshine stays soft in a hard world. How those traits clash, soften, and ultimately transform one another.

Here, those dynamics felt cosmetic.

By Chapter 9, I couldn’t tell you what either character truly wanted beyond vague professional goals and immediate attraction. I didn’t know their fears. Their emotional histories. Their internal contradictions. I didn’t have a sense of their voice beyond what the narration insisted they were.

Without that, the trope collapses into aesthetic rather than substance.

Chemistry Can’t Carry a Romance Alone

Yes, the physical attraction is intense. Yes, the banter is flirtatious. Yes, the sexual tension is clearly meant to propel the story forward.

But chemistry without context feels empty.

Romance doesn’t just require heat—it requires meaning. Intimacy works when readers understand what’s at stake emotionally, when physical closeness reflects internal shifts or unspoken longing.

By the time I hit Chapter 9, my reaction wasn’t “oh no, they shouldn’t, but I want them to.”

It was simply: why should I care?

And the answer was that the story hadn’t given me a reason to.

A Narrative Voice That Talks At the Reader

Another major factor in my DNF decision was the book’s overall tone and narrative voice. At times, it feels like the characters are simultaneously talking to the reader and to themselves, rather than existing naturally within the world of the story.

This results in an odd imbalance of detail.

We get an abundance of internal monologue—thoughts spelled out explicitly, emotions explained instead of dramatized, reactions narrated in real time. The prose often pauses to clarify what the character is feeling or thinking, even when context could have done that work more effectively.

The story doesn’t trust the reader to infer.

Meanwhile, the external world—the physical setting these characters inhabit—is barely sketched in.

A World We’re Told Exists, But Rarely Shown

Much of The Fine Print takes place in a fictional amusement park modeled after Disneyland. This should be an absolute gift to a romance novel: sensory detail, visual spectacle, layered symbolism, atmosphere.

Instead, the setting remains oddly abstract.

We’re told where we are, but we’re rarely shown it. We don’t know what rooms look like. We don’t get a clear sense of scale or space as characters move through halls, offices, or meeting rooms. Even moments that beg for description—like the first visit to the Creator’s room—pass with minimal physical grounding.

By Chapter 9, I knew more about the author’s apparent critique of Disneyland-style business practices than I did about what this world actually looked or felt like.

There seems to be an expectation that the reader is already immersed—without giving the reader anything to be immersed in.

The story appears to rely heavily on our cultural familiarity with Disneyland to do the worldbuilding work for it. But even a recognizable inspiration still needs to be rendered on the page. Otherwise, it exists only as a concept, not a lived-in space.

The result is a narrative that feels oddly unanchored: hyper-detailed internally, underdeveloped externally.

Characters think constantly—but they don’t feel like they’re moving through a tangible world.

Why I Finally Pulled the Plug

Chapter 9 wasn’t the breaking point because of one scene. It was the moment when a pattern became impossible to ignore.

I wasn’t confused in a “keep reading and it’ll make sense” way.

I was disengaged in a “this story isn’t interested in doing the work I value” way.

At that point, I realized:

• I didn’t know these characters
  
• I didn’t trust the romance to earn its emotional beats
  
• I wasn’t grounded in the world
  
• And I didn’t feel invested enough to continue
  

So I did something rare for me: I closed the book and didn’t look back.

Final Thoughts: Not a Failure—Just Not for Me

I don’t think The Fine Print is objectively bad. Plenty of readers love it, and I can see why. If you enjoy:

• Fast pacing
  
• Early physical intimacy
  
• Strong internal narration
  
• Vibe-forward romance
  

This book may work for you.

But if, like me, you’re drawn to romances that prioritize:

• Emotional groundwork
  
• Character depth before escalation
  
• Immersive settings
  
• Chemistry that feels earned
  

This might be one to approach cautiously—or skip altogether.

Sometimes a DNF isn’t a failure.

Sometimes it’s just clarity.

As an editor one of the biggest takeaways from this DNF is how often promising stories stumble not because the idea is weak—but because the foundation isn’t fully built before key moments hit the page.

Fast pacing, early spice, and popular tropes can work beautifully. But only when character development, emotional tension, and worldbuilding are doing the heavy lifting beneath the surface.

If you’re worried your opening chapters might be:

• Moving too fast without enough emotional setup
  
• Relying on trope shorthand instead of earned connection
  
• Heavy on internal monologue but light on immersive setting
  
• Or escalating romance before readers truly know your characters
  

That’s exactly what my Mini Manuscript Critique is designed to catch.