Fonts.
The quiet dictators of taste.
The invisible hands shaping how your words breathe, walk, or trip over themselves.

Most writers pretend that fonts are decorative. A cardigan you throw on the text at the last minute. Something to be argued about only when someone submits a manuscript in Comic Sans, and everyone suddenly remembers standards exist.

That’s nonsense. Fonts are not decoration. Fonts are tone. Fonts are genre. Fonts are social class, historical period, emotional temperature. Fonts whisper promises before a single word is read. They tell the reader what kind of world they are stepping into, whether they like it or not.

Ignore them, and your prose will still exist. But it will exist barefoot, slightly embarrassed, in a room full of people wearing tailored suits.

Let’s talk about it.

Are fonts genre-related?

Short answer: yes.
Long answer: yes. And pretending otherwise is how bad covers and unreadable books happen.

Genres are rituals. Each one carries a set of visual expectations that evolved the same way myths did. Slowly, collectively, through repetition and rebellion. Fonts became part of that mythology.

You don’t put a gothic blackletter font on a breezy rom-com unless you’re actively trying to frighten people. You don’t typeset a cyberpunk manifesto in a dainty calligraphic serif unless irony is the point.

Readers may not consciously notice fonts, but they feel them. Fonts speak directly to the animal brain. They bypass logic and go straight for mood.

Literary fiction

Literary fiction loves restraint. It prefers fonts that don’t beg for attention. Serif fonts dominate here because they suggest history, seriousness, and continuity. Think Garamond, Baskerville, Caslon, Minion.

These fonts say:
“I have nothing to prove. Sit down. We’re going to talk about mortality.”

Literary readers expect elegance and invisibility. The font should disappear so the sentences can glow. Anything too stylish feels like shouting in a cathedral.

Romance

Romance is emotional before it is intellectual. Fonts here often lean softer, rounder, more human. Still readable, still professional, but with warmth.

Serifs with curves. Occasionally, gentle scripts on covers, never in body text unless you want lawsuits or migraines.

Romance fonts promise intimacy. They say:
“You will feel things. Possibly in public.”

Too cold a font and the book feels emotionally constipated. Too decorative, and it slides into parody.

Fantasy

Fantasy fonts love history, myth, and weight. Serifs that feel old but not dusty. Fonts with personality, but controlled personality.

Fantasy wants gravity. It wants lineage. It wants the sense that this story existed before you opened the book and will continue after you close it.

Body text remains readable and conservative. Titles and chapter headings get to flirt with ornamentation. That’s where you put your flourishes. Not in the paragraphs where people need to survive 400 pages.

Science fiction

Science fiction likes cleanliness. Precision. Fonts that feel engineered rather than inherited.

Sans-serifs thrive here. Clean lines. Minimal fuss. Fonts that look like they belong on a control panel or a sterile corridor.

Sci-fi fonts say:
“The future is efficient. Emotion optional.”

Too much ornamentation and the genre loses credibility. Too cold, and it becomes corporate sludge. Balance matters.

Horror

Horror fonts operate on tension. The body text still needs clarity. But the surrounding typography gets to play with unease.

Sharp serifs. Narrow spacing. Fonts that feel slightly wrong without being unreadable.

Horror typography should unsettle quietly. If it screams, it becomes camp. And camp is fun, but it’s a different beast.

Poetry

Poetry is the diva of typography. It cares deeply. It will notice everything.

Poets choose fonts like they choose line breaks. Serif fonts dominate, but spacing, weight, and breathing room matter more than genre conventions.

Poetry fonts say:
“Slow down. This is fragile.”

Fonts are class signals

This part makes people uncomfortable, so let’s get it out of the way.

Fonts carry class associations.

Some fonts feel academic. Some feel corporate. Some feel amateur. Some feel luxurious. This isn’t fair, but neither is gravity.

Times New Roman is the font of deadlines and institutions. It smells like essays printed at 2 a.m. It is not bad. It is just exhausted.

Arial feels like an email you didn’t want to receive.

Garamond feels like a book that expects to be taken seriously.

Comic Sans feels like a crime scene.

Readers absorb these signals instantly. They don’t analyse them. They react. Fonts tell them whether you understand the room you walked into.

Licensed fonts: the part nobody wants to talk about

Here’s where things get boring and necessary. Like taxes. Or grammar.

Yes, fonts are licensed.
No, not all fonts are free.
Yes, you can get into trouble.

Fonts are software. Someone made them. Someone owns them. When you use a font, you agree to the terms, whether you read them or not.

There are generally four categories:

1. System fonts

These come with your computer. Times New Roman, Arial, Calibri, Helvetica (on some systems).

They are safe for personal use and basic publishing. But “safe” does not mean “ideal.” Many publishers accept them. Many designers quietly resent them.

2. Free fonts

These are fonts explicitly released for free use. Sometimes personal use only. Sometimes commercial use too.

This distinction matters.

“Free for personal use” means:
You can use it on your private project, not your book you plan to sell.

Always read the license. Always.

3. Open-source fonts

These are the golden children. Fonts like those from Google Fonts.

Open-source fonts can usually be used, modified, embedded, and distributed freely, even commercially.

They are safe, legal, and increasingly beautiful. Anyone who says open-source fonts are inferior hasn’t been paying attention.

4. Commercial fonts

These require payment. Sometimes per project. Sometimes per user. Sometimes per medium.

Yes, even if you already have the font file.

Owning the file is not the same as owning the license. That distinction ruins weekends.

How to find out if a font is licensed

This is not mysterious. It’s just tedious.

1. Check the font’s source
   Where did you get it? A random website with fireworks and pop-ups is not a legal authority.
2. Look for the license file
   Most legitimate fonts come with a license text file. Read it. I know. Still, read it.
3. Search the font name + “license”
   Designers usually publish licensing terms clearly. If you can’t find them, assume the answer is “no.”
4. Use reputable platforms
   Google Fonts, Adobe Fonts, Font Squirrel. These places exist so you don’t accidentally commit typographic crimes.

If you are publishing a book for sale, you need commercial usage rights. No loopholes. No creative interpretations. Just boring compliance.

Font size: where idealism meets eyeballs

Font size is where writers get weirdly authoritarian.

Some want tiny text to feel “serious.” Some want massive text like they’re afraid of silence.

Neither is noble.

Font size is about comfort. About trust. About not punishing the reader for wanting to finish the chapter.

General rule

For most adult fiction:
10.5 to 12 pt for body text.

That’s the range. Anyone insisting on extremes is either inexperienced or deeply committed to aesthetic suffering.

Literary fiction

Usually sits comfortably at 11 or 11.5 pt. Enough elegance. Enough air.

Margins and line spacing matter more than squeezing the font smaller. White space is not laziness. It’s generosity.

Romance

Often slightly larger. 11.5 to 12 pt. Romance readers read for long stretches. Eye fatigue is the enemy of passion.

Fantasy and sci-fi

11 pt is common. These genres often run long. Smaller text helps page count, but do not sacrifice readability to appease your spine width.

Young adult

12 pt or even slightly larger. Clarity matters. So does speed.

Poetry

Poetry laughs at your rules. Font size becomes part of the poem. But readability still wins. Tiny poetry is just arrogance with line breaks.

Line spacing and margins: the invisible heroes

Font size alone is useless without spacing.

Cramped text feels aggressive. Over-spaced text feels condescending.

Most books live comfortably with:

• 1.15 to 1.3 line spacing
• Margins that let the page breathe

If your text looks like it’s trying to escape the page, something is wrong.

Fonts are ethical, actually

This is the part where I sound dramatic, but it’s true.

Fonts determine who can read your work comfortably. People with visual impairments, dyslexia, or fatigue experience typography differently.

Choosing a readable font is not just aesthetic. It’s humane.

Sans-serifs often help dyslexic readers. Clear spacing helps everyone. Decorative fonts in body text help nobody.

If your font choice prioritises your ego over your reader, you’re not being avant-garde. You’re being inconsiderate.

Final truth, whispered

Fonts are not neutral.
They are collaborators.

They shape tone before language wakes up. They carry cultural memory. They betray intention. They amplify or sabotage your voice.

Choose them carelessly, and they will betray you.
Choose them thoughtfully, and they will disappear, which is the highest compliment.

Your words deserve a body that fits them. Not a costume. Not a prank. A body that walks quietly into the reader’s mind and stays there.

Typography is not decoration.
It is respect.

You might want to read more about:

Atmospheric & Mythic Fiction: An Essential Guide to Liminal Storytelling

Let’s Write Liminal, Dreamlike Fiction

Rethinking Authorship in the Age of Technology

The Psychology of Character Desire

How to Write Emotionally Intense Fiction