How to Write a Kdrama Romantic Comedy
It's easy to spot the formulas. As I discovered, it's much, much harder to actually put them to work.
Hobbies are crucial to keeping us not just sane but happy. We’ve all got different ways of unwinding: calligraphy, rock-climbing, birding, aerial silks, softball, baking, you name it. For me, I’ve always got novels rattling around in my head, and I love to write. Editing is way more fun than generating the draft, which I keep insisting, despite decades of knowing better, should emerge fully formed like Athena from Zeus’ brow, perfect from the start.
In my twenties, I stumbled across a piece of advice so evil and personally destructive that I won’t even link to prove that it exists. In the ramp-up to National Novel-Writing Month, some guy was touting his system for efficiently generating an entire manuscript with almost no lost time or wasteful prose. He premised his method on an iterative outlining process which meant you could spot problems in your story before you’d invested time, ink and energy chasing the wrong ideas.
His confidence in this method was so startling to me, so certain and appealing, that I became very interested in structure thereafter. The particular process he was promoting didn’t work at all for me, but “eliminate inefficiency by planning well” seemed admirable. I thought if I could outline a story arc first, knowing just enough about my next plot point to make getting there an adventure, I’d churn out novel drafts as bounteously as I came up with fun ideas.
This did not happen. I got utterly trapped in my own head about my process and failed to finish anything longer than a mid-length novella. I tried to go easy on myself and let myself take a break from writing fiction. I dove into other hobbies, from printmaking to banjo and accordion. But ultimately, I am the kind of person who thinks it’s a fun challenge to write a romance novel. Last spring, I decided to expand a meet-cute concept that has always delighted me into 80,000 words of self-indulgent fluff.
I had never tried to write a romance novel before; I’m more of a fantasy gal, with a love for quest narratives. One thing I did know, however, is that romance as a genre has a lot of rules — in a “here are resources for you” kind of way, not a punitive way. I read up on Romancing the Beat. I filled out worksheets about my characters’ inner struggles. I made mind maps; I set up a grid of Post-Its with wordcount goals matched to plot developments.
That wasn’t all. Because I’d been watching so many kdramas — for almost three years, at that point — I decided to write a kdrama-style romance novel. All I had to do was meld the structures, both of which are thoroughly documented and analyzed out in the world.
The Kdrama Formula: Ingredients
Korean dramas mostly stick to a 16-episode run, though that is changing some. An 80,000-word draft is pretty average for a romance novel; in published classic terms, it’s a little less than The Hobbit and a little more than Catcher in the Rye. Divide that into 16 chapters and each one is about 5,000 words, so if you write a thousand words (about four double-spaced pages) each weekday for four months, you’re doing great.
What’s more, kdrama romances tend to follow very reliable story beats and cast structures. You’ve got your lead couple, your second leads as foil and a hilariously offbeat set of third leads. There is probably an ex who is ruining someone’s life somehow, or a tyrannical family member who is against the relationship. The set-up must balance outrageousness (CEO/employee fake dating! trapped behind the DMZ! rogue novelist second prince!) with relatability (diligent daughter paying down family debt; army captain escapes into music; upright young woman seeks independence).
More specifically, both romance novels and kdrama romances love their tropes. I dearly appreciate every Redditor and every romance blogger who’s contributed to long lists of tropes they love, because I have suddenly never seen or read a story in my life if I’m called upon to name my favorites out of thin air. I like it when stories mash together seemingly incompatible factors and make them work, not just because it’s like dadaist collage. It’s delightful to tell a curious friend that you’re watching a show about a vet who can read minds when she touches butts.
Knowing the formulas doesn’t mean being formulaic, of course; it means you know when to break the rules and surprise (and hopefully delight) your audience. Formulas in stories are a promise more akin to a contract, and when you execute them well — a first kiss, a confession spurned, played straight or subverted — the audience is happy, no matter how many times they’ve seen it before.
Some excellent posts that I relied on while generating ideas for my own kdrama romcom:
Korean Drama Plot Techniques by Josette Pinto
10 Necessary Components of Every Korean Drama by Mimsie Ladner
The Essential Anatomy of a K-Drama Main Character by Allie Duong
The Kdrama Formula: Recipe
Characters and tropes don’t do much in stasis. They need a trellis to grow around — that’s your plot. This is where my own distractions snag me, because devising a satisfying plot pings many of the same pleasure centers as actually completing a work of prose, with up to 100 percent less finished product for someone else to enjoy. Plot is far less complicated than non-writers think, because in the best stories, it simply feels like characters wanting something and going after it.
Given the constraints of a 16-episode TV show, writers do need to propel characters and their desires on a certain schedule. Enter the Kdrama Beat Sheet; many thanks to the trusty Redditors who broke down the average Korean TV romance so clearly and simply. I thought this would make my job super easy — just follow the beat sheet and hit your marks as you go! But, surprise surprise, writing for TV is not the same as writing standalone prose. And romance novels come with expectations too: at such-and-such a wordcount, your heroine should XYZ; at N% into your draft, your love interest should ABC.
When a writer is avoiding writing, she will move mountains. She will work wonders. She will clean her entire apartment. She will, in fact, come up with a way to merge two different modes of storytelling, not realizing that others have paved the way.
Part I: Exposition (0–20K words)
Chapter 1 — The Hook. Drop us into the lives of our protagonists. Introduce us to their day-to-day. Show us the issue that’s keeping them from love or a relationship. Also, give us a great meet-cute.
Chapter 2 — The Encounter. If the lovers-to-be have only just met at the end of Episode 1, this is where we see them experience each other, perhaps for the first time (or their first reunion in a while). Each member of the pairing acts as both ally and antagonist. In other words, it’s time to get to know each other.
Chapter 4 — The First Plot Point divide acts in our story. This marks the end of the beginning, Act 1 of three concluded, Act 2 rolling out. Our characters’ relationship to each other comes into focus because they both need or want something; their goals are clearly defined and something external has raised the stakes for each of them. They’re committed to the wacky scenario that brought them together in the first place and expect to get something other than love from sticking it out.
Part II: We’re Falling for Each Other (20K–35K words)
Chapter 6 — The First Pinch Point, which author and writing coach K.M. Weiland defines as “a reminder of the antagonistic force’s power to stymie the protagonist’s goal.” Our characters realize they’re attracted to each other, but they’re not talking about it or even facing up to it. We get a glimpse at what’s keeping them apart, both externally (a terrible work deadline? a plot in the palace?) and internally (immobilizing self-doubt? incredibly specific past trauma?).
Part III: The Confession (35K–45K words)
Chapter 8 — The First Kiss. We’ve been watching them enjoy each other more and more. Then one or both of these dummies choose happiness! It’s also usually in Episode 8 that a kdrama reveals some kind of past connection between the leads, including the seemingly unavoidable “they met as children” move.
Chapter 9 — The Midpoint. Our characters may have been letting the plot happen to them until now, but they switch hard to actively pursuing their desires. You know the kdrama is going to break your heart soon, which makes this happy moment all the sweeter.
Part IV: Happy Together (45K–60K words)
Chapter 10 — The Second Pinch Point. The writer Karen Woodward says that pinch points are about truth and transformation; crime novelist Sue Coletta calls them “a demonstration of the nature, power and essence of the antagonist force.” Your characters should be wrestling with an inner conflict or false belief that’s interfering with their romance as the intimacy between them grows.
Chapter 12 — The Second Plot Point. The middle is over. In the tarot deck, this is The Tower: the worst has happened. Your characters’ fear and/or false belief, which has been internal until now, takes over their behavior and even becomes a reality, wrecking the romance.
Part V: The Misunderstanding (60K–70K words)
Chapter 13 — The Separation. Suddenly our couple, whom we’ve been rooting for, retreats to their corners. It may even be the right move.
Chapter 14 — The Crisis. The big question emerges: succumb to the fear or false belief that brought down their honeymoon period or work through it for the sake of the relationship?
Part VI: The Resolution (70K–80K words)
Chapter 15 — The Climax. They’re going to fight for each other and their own true feelings. This is the big battle, the big gesture, the confrontation that decides how this love story shakes out.
Chapter 16 — The Resolution. If we’re lucky, a happy ending! What is life like now that the characters have overcome their fears or false beliefs? Kdramas love to give us 40 or so minutes of denouement and wrap-up in the final episode. The tertiary couple usually does or achieves something wacky. The viewer has probably cried a couple times, and if the writers have done their job, she’s already planning a rewatch.
My terrible confession
I absolutely loved coming up with this structure! I… have not successfully translated it into a manuscript myself. I did get about five chapters and 30,000 words in — but something in me skidded to a halt after some great progress. As a journalist, one thing I’ve learned is that if the writing gets too hard, it means you don’t know enough and you need more reporting. I thought this wasn’t really possible with a novel and despaired for about a year. I love my concept! Everyone I explain it to loves my concept! What was wrong with it, then?
Thankfully, I was able to get the right kind of help.
teaches novel-writing classes that just work for me (and we mesh well, so it’s always a pleasure to learn from her!). When I saw that she was offering a short course called “Getting Your Novel Unstuck,” I leaped at the chance to take it. What I came to through the exercises and self-study she’s set up is that I had fallen too in love with my structure and had not gotten to know my characters well enough. Writing also involves a certain amount of introspection, and I ran straight into a wall of “you will certainly not regret consciously giving both romantic leads a set of your own vulnerabilities.”All of this is to say that I already respected kdrama writers immensely. Taking on the work of an entire writer’s room vaulted my appreciation skyward. I’ve spent a good deal of time observing which stories, tropes and plots work for me; give me a little more and soon I’ll have my own to share. ✶
Recommended watching if you love romantic comedies:
Business Proposal — A CEO’s grandfather hassles him to find a spouse. He unwittingly starts dating an employee, who’s pretending to be a friend who wants to marry for love.
Sh**ting Stars — An indefatigable PR flack and her studio’s highest-grossing actor square off with full Beatrice-and-Benedick fervor.
Touch Your Heart — A disgraced actress tries to redeem herself by going undercover as a legal secretary for three months to win a lead role.
Lovely Runner — First love, time travel and kpop fandom are the perfect backdrop for two really good kids who keep living new and different lives.
The Matchmakers — A widow and widower must find spouses for three unmarriageable sisters in order to win their own freedom in Joseon.
Crash Landing on You — A chaebol heiress accidentally paraglides over the DMZ and into the care of an upright North Korean army captain.
What are your favorite kdrama romance tropes? Let me know in the comments or on Bluesky. I love recs and growing my teetering to-watch list.
Thanks for reading Excited Mark! If you’d like to support my work, please share, toss a few bucks at my Ko-Fi or become a subscriber, free or paid. I’m also available for hire as a fact-checker, editor and journalist — visit my RealName.com for clips, services and more.
Get to Know Korea's Largest Babygirl
Directors have fretted out loud that casting Rowoon might constrict their options with the rest of the ensemble, since any male rivals would need to look suitably adversarial next to him. His height seems to embarrass him; he’s spoken about feeling “almost monstrous” about it.
This makes his favorite character types all the more remarkable, because Rowoon absolutely loves to play a damsel.
This was an interesting read! I’m always excited about finding different ways to plot your story/novel
After h ing watched KDramas for a few years now … woah, more than a few … anyway, I love dropping them into my serial as either a big romantically tense moment or a “sure we met as children but that isn’t a sure thing we’ll end up together” (as an example of breaking it). “Love Next Door” was freaking adorable.