Positive Tension & Stakes: The Potential for Things to Go Right

Tension and stakes are two key components of storytelling, and they often go hand-in-hand: If you want to increase tension, you layer on stakes. And if you want to lessen tension, you remove stakes. 

Typically when we consider tension and stakes, we look at them through a "negative" lens. They are about what could go wrong and what could be lost.

Tension is regularly confused with conflict, but they are two different things. Simplistically speaking, tension is the potential for problems, and conflict is the problem actually happening. Tension comes from anticipation.

Stakes are often defined as what the character has to lose, what is at risk in the story. I prefer to define them as potential consequences. They are what could happen, if a condition is met. For example, if Fred gets fired, then he'll lose his house. Losing his house is a potential consequence. His house is what is at risk in the story (along with his job, obviously). So, it is what is at stake.

In order to increase tension, we layer on more stakes. If Fred gets fired, then he'll lose his house and his wife. And if he loses his house, then he'll have to move in with his twin brother, who is an abusive jerk. And if he loses his wife, then Fred won't get to see his kids that often. Now, when Fred meets with his boss for an evaluation, we feel more tension, because so much is hinging on him keeping his job.

Usually in the writing community, when people talk about tension and stakes, they're referring to things going wrong. Fear is what typically keeps readers turning pages.

But the reality is, tension and stakes can also come from the positive: the potential for things to go right. And hope can sometimes be just as powerful as fear in creating page-turners.

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How to Make a Character's Inaction & Indecision Work

Inaction is an action. Indecision is a decision. 

It's often a terrible idea to write a truly passive protagonist, when it comes to the plot. You can have a characteristically passive protagonist--a character who wants to be the laziest person in the entire world, but feels she can't, because she needs to stop the antagonist. This sort of thing often creates a reluctant hero, where the protagonist hopes to quickly defeat the antagonist to get the status quo back, to return to her ordinary, passive lifestyle. 

But when it comes to the plot itself, the protagonist must be an active problem-solver. At least, she should be, if she's going to be a true protagonist. (And if she's not, there is a good chance she isn't the true protagonist, and she's just the viewpoint character of the story.)

With all that said, though, there are times when passivity can work, for a short while, when inaction is an action, and when indecision is a decision.

These moments are certainly exceptions, and not rules.

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How to Write Stakes that Aren't Life vs. Death

Writing strong stakes is critical for any story. But a question that often comes up for newer writers is, "How do I create stakes other than life vs. death?" Or essentially, "How do I write stakes that aren't life or death, yet are still effective?"

"Stakes" refer to what your character has to lose, what is at risk in the story. And obviously, potentially losing one's life, is a pretty big risk.

To address the questions, let's first look at why life vs. death stakes are so effective. 

I know, it sounds obvious, like common sense even, and you may be rolling your eyes. 

But understanding why they almost always work, will help you see how to create other similar stakes.

The thing about death is, it has a finality to it that almost nothing else has. 

No one can come back from the dead.

That's it.

Death is the end of the road.

Done.

Gone.

Game over.

. . . Except that unlike "Game over," you can't restart the game.

In storytelling, this is one of the main reasons many of us want to grab life vs. death stakes. Everyone reading the book innately understands this. Death is final, you can't come back from that. It's a "point of no return." It can't be undone.

Great stakes will create a similar effect. 

It's not literally life or death. But to some degree, there exists a figurative life-or-death situation.

For example, in The Office, after Michael accidentally hits Meredith with his car, he organizes a fun run on her behalf. Michael is driven by the desire to be liked by others. And after he hits Meredith, people don't like him. (I am simplifying the actual story just a bit.) With the fun run, he's hoping to redeem himself. He wants to be liked (or even admired) by others. To Michael, that hinges on his success with the fun run. If it's a success, people will like him again. If it's a failure, they won't (or they will dislike him even more).

There are seemingly only two outcomes: Success = liked. Failure = (forever) disliked.

From Michael's perspective, he can't have both.

Whichever path the fun run takes, the other path "dies." 

You can't go back in time and change the outcome of the fun run. 

It's final. 

End of the road. 

Done. 

Gone.

The situation also, to some degree, feels like figurative life or death to Michael. He's driven to be liked, and that makes him feel alive. If he's disliked, it feels like "death." It mars him psychologically, and he feels like he can't come back from that. It feels like the end of the road.

The Office is not a high-stakes story (which is one of the reasons I'm using it), but it still has effective stakes that convey why what's happening (the fun run) matters (liked vs. disliked), which is something all good stakes do.

This example also shows two components related to crafting effective stakes: plot and character.

Let's dig a bit deeper into each.

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Circling Conflicts vs. Zigzagging Conflicts

Nearly every writer understands that a story needs conflict. The protagonist sets off to fulfill a goal, runs into an antagonistic force, and their struggle creates conflict. This should happen in the story as a whole, this should happen in acts, and it should happen in almost every scene--the difference is that the smaller the structural unit, the smaller the antagonist and conflict (simplistically speaking).

Today I want to talk about a sneaky problem I sometimes see when editing manuscripts, one that relates to conflicts.

Sometimes the writer simply “circles” the conflict.

What I mean is that after a given conflict, nothing has actually changed in the story. We just completed a “circle.”

For example, say the protagonist is a favorite target of the schoolyard bully. They get into a verbal fight, but when it's over, nothing's different. The conflict didn't have any consequences.

It may not sound that bad.

And if it only happens once in a while, and there are enough other conflicts going on, it may not be.

But if this happens repeatedly or this is the main conflict, the plot isn't progressing. It just did a circle and the characters ended up in the same situation they were before the encounter. Essentially, no matter how exciting the scene may seem to be, you could still cut it and the story would be the same.

Let's look at an even less obvious example.

The protagonist needs to get Object X from Character B.

The protagonist finds a way to successfully steal it.

But then immediately afterward, Character B steals it back.

The scene ends, and the protagonist is back at square one.

It doesn't sound that bad, does it?

And if it only happens once in a while, and there are enough other conflicts going on, it may not be.

But if this sort of thing happens repeatedly--over and over and over--the plot isn't progressing. You're just going back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. And if we just arc that path a bit, guess what? It creates a circle.

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Directionality in Fiction: Why You Need it & How to Create it

Every successful story has a sense of direction. The audience wants, and even needs, an idea of where the story is going. If the audience literally has no idea what could happen next, then that often means what happens next doesn't really hold any value one way or another. It's like Willy Wonka's river ride into darkness--confusing, awkward, and a little bizarre. It's hard to trust Willy Wonka to get you anywhere. Writers should avoid being like Willy Wonka, for several reasons.

Wait! you may be thinking. Don't we want our stories to be unpredictable? Isn't not knowing where the story is going more exciting?

Many beginning writers make this mistake (including yours truly back in the day). They think having no clue where the story is going makes it more of a page-turner. They may recall audience members happily describing a story, saying, "I had no clue where it was going!" or "I had no idea what was going to happen next!"

These are just expressions of emotion. In reality, for the audience to even have those emotions, they usually must have a sense of direction first.

It's a similar concept to being vague versus being ambiguous. Vagueness happens when you don't have enough context to tell what something is, if anything. Ambiguity happens when there is enough context to interpret something in two or more ways, and you aren't sure which it is. When audiences say, "I had no clue where it was going," often what they really mean is, "I didn't know which of the critical directions it would go."

A story that has no sense of direction is almost never as effective as one that does. Without a sense of direction, the audience can't measure what is progress or what is a setback. They can't get invested, because they can't anticipate anything. They can't feel tension or suspense or even surprise, because they can't hope or fear for what could happen, and don't have expectations for what is going to happen.

Instead of Willy Wonka's tunnel of terror, imagine taking a hike toward a beautiful waterfall (it can still be made of chocolate if you want). A twisted ankle, closed trail, or nearby predator is a bigger setback than if we had nowhere we were trying to go. A shortcut is a bigger leap in progress if we are trying to reach a specific destination. And discovering we're actually on a trail that leads to an active volcano is a bigger surprise.

There are two critical plot elements that will automatically inject directionality into your story. Then, there are a lot of alternative methods you can use to reinforce it, or that you can rely on when performing a rule break (more on that in a bit). First, let's go over the two major ones:

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7 (More) Things I Wish I'd Known as a Beginning Writer (Pt. 2)

Last time I shared seven things I wish I'd known as a beginning writer. Unsurprisingly, that wasn't an exhaustive list, and I've been thinking about it some more. So, I present to you, seven more things I wish I'd known as a beginning writer. . . .

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10 Signs Your Plot is Weak (And How to Fix it)

Weak plots are surprisingly common in unpublished writing. But if you can't identity that your plot is weak, then you have no chance to fix it. And of course, once you do identify that it is weak, you may have no idea how to fix it.

I've been teaching about plot a lot the last few months, and I have shared before how as a "young" writer, I had some major struggles with plot. 

Unfortunately, I couldn't find resources that taught me about it in a way that clicked with me. I got it, but then, I didn't really get it. As a result I have literally experienced nearly all of the signs listed in this article at some point or another. So if you experience any of them, never fear--though it took a lot of study and time for me to be able to identify these signs and learn how to strengthen plot, I did it. And you can too. (And hopefully for you, I'll be able to help cut down the time.)

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The Primary Principles of Plot: Goal, Antagonist, Conflict, Consequences

A plot is more than a "storyline" or "a series of events," and in order to have a solid plot, it must first have these primary principles: goal, antagonist, conflict, and consequences. Without these things clearly in the story, the plot will always feel weak or even "broken."

Now, with that said, not every likable story has an amazing plot. This is when we turn to what I consider the holy trinity of writing: character, plot, and theme. Generally speaking, for most stories, 99% of what you write should be touching and progressing one of these things, and often, all three. However, not all of them are evenly balanced for every story. For example, no one would say that Forrest Gump is about a thrilling plot that leaves you breathless and your mind spinning. It's mostly about character. Others may lean more heavily on theme (this is often what makes Pixar's stories tug at the heartstrings). And some, like the thriller, very much lean on plot.

Nonetheless, almost any decent story will have at least the primary principles of plot, which I'll be covering today. This is a part of a series where I lay out the primary, secondary, tertiary, and even quaternary principles of what makes a great one.

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How Stakes Set up Expectations

Stakes are what is at risk in the story. In the past, I've talked about how I like to think of stakes as potential consequences--what could happen if a certain condition is (or is not) met. For stakes to be most effective, they usually need to be specific and often on the page. They should follow a cause-and-effect trajectory.

All well-thought stakes should be able to fit into "If . . . then . . ." statements. Even if they aren't actually written that way on the page (though they can be).

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4 Key Elements of Scene Openings

Several weeks ago, I did a post breaking down the differences between scenes and summaries and when to use which. Scenes happen in real time, are dramatized ("show" more than "tell"), have characters acting in a specific location, and tend to be more concrete. Most scenes still utilize some summary.

Today I wanted to follow up by talking about four elements that are important for scene openings. 

Just like the opening of a story, a scene opening has a lot to accomplish and convey. Thankfully, however, scene openings don't need to accomplish and convey as much as a whole story's opening. 

Scenes are a structural unit, and as such, they follow the same basic structure that a whole story does:

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Getting Passive Protagonists to Act

 

Many beginning writers struggle with protagonists who are too passive. The plot seems to constantly be happening to him or her, but the protagonist doesn’t take an action to make the plot happen. 

Ideally, when an event happens to a protagonist, the protagonist responds by taking an action that influences the next event, which then influences the protagonist, which then influences an event—and on and on. But that can be easier said than done. Especially if you have a protagonist who prefers to live life passively.

This could all get confusing, though, because in story structure, almost all protagonists will more or less become more proactive. But for the sake of this post, I'm talking about protagonists who are characteristically passive. A protagonist who may want to kick up his feet in a hammock with a glass of lemonade and watch the world deal with its own problems. How do we write a story about that guy?

Many people will tell you that you can't--you must change the character. 

But that is not wholly true. 

It's true in a good story, we need the protagonist to act--especially at key moments--but that doesn't mean he innately yearns to act. 

Often the best solution in dealing with a passive character is to strengthen the stakes. Let me explain.

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Look Forward, not Backward, to Pull the Reader In

A lot of writers have the tendency to look "backward" when writing. They might use a lot of flashbacks, they might have a character think "back" on things, or they may simply refer to events that happened in the past. Sometimes they may even backtrack and reiterate what has already played out on the page, or repeat information the audience already knows. Finally, they may backtrack every time they switch a viewpoint character and spend paragraphs talking about what that viewpoint character thinks and feels about what already happened on page.

As writers, we love looking back. Part of this is because from our perspective, when we understand a character's past we understand the character better, or alternatively, when we understand what events led to the current point of the story, we understand the story better. From a writer's perspective, we may even feel more powerful emotions by linking back to the past regularly.

Looking "backward" in a story isn't necessarily wrong. It has an important role in storytelling. Maybe we do need that flashback, for example. Looking back once in a while also adds authenticity--after all, we all look back from time to time in our personal lives, and a story should be bigger than what's on the page. Your characters should have an existence, a history, before the first chapter. Finally, looking back on occasion can help feed into the sense of cause and effect necessary in a good plot. 

However, unlike the writer, much of the time, for the reader, looking backward is not near as interesting or as effective as looking forward.

Often as writers, we think, if the audience can just see the significance of the past, they'll be drawn into the story. In reality, looking forward does this innately and more powerfully.

The past has already happened. It can't be changed. Which is why you will hear many writers speak out against flashbacks.

But the future--that hasn't happened yet. It can change. So when we look forward to it, the audience automatically gets drawn into and invested into the story.

This creates anticipation and tension. Two elements (that to some extent overlap) that will get the audience to turn page after page.

This is essentially why hooks are so important. Most of the time, hooks get the audience to look forward to, or in other words, anticipate something. 

Stakes work similarly. When there are significant risks, the audience needs to keep reading to see the outcome.

Thankfully, looking "forward" in a story can sometimes be easier than looking backward (remember how I said it's innately equipped to draw in the audience?). One way to do it is by simply having a line where the viewpoint character thinks about what could happen. It might be something as direct as this:

I was afraid that if I told him the truth tomorrow, he wouldn't like me.

See how that automatically has us anticipating that something bad might happen? Now we need to turn the page!

Other times the line might be more indirect, building off the context of the story, but whatever the case, the viewpoint character is anticipating what might happen, so we are too.

An alternative approach is to give a summary line about what does happen, which begs for more information. (I've heard some say this is "cheating," but I personally don't have a problem with it, if it's not overused.) For example:

To her dread, their alliance only made things worse.

Wait, what? This alliance we just read about makes the situation worse? Now as a reader, I'm looking forward to learning how and why--to getting more information--and I'm wondering, what will the consequences be if things are worse?

In my mind, there are two main, important categories that really draw the audience in:

1- We get the audience to dread (or fear) something might happen.
2- We get the audience to hope something might happen.

Both of these categories are very effective. One is negative and one is positive. But both cause the audience to look forward and therefore anticipate and therefore read more. Readers may worry something bad is going to happen to the character or in a story. Or they may pray something good will happen.

In the writing world, we indirectly talk about the first category a lot. It can bring in a lot of tension. Think about it. This is usually where all the advice about "risks" and "stakes" comes in. What does the character or world have to lose? In a good horror film, we are drawn in by the fear that a character might die, or worse.

We don't talk as much about the second option, which can still be very effective. Hope is a powerful thing. This is where all the advice about giving your character a goal or something he cares about comes in. It works because it gets us to hope for an outcome. In a good romance, we hope that the characters fall in love, or better.

And sometimes, you may be appealing to both of these simultaneously.

In most stories, category one is probably most effective, but don't ignore category two, which is often underestimated.

Utilizing both regularly in your storytelling will get the audience to turn page after page--by getting the audience to look forward.

And I will add that there is a third category, in my opinion:

3- We get the audience to feel curious about something. 

 

That functions a little differently, but you can read about it here.

So next time you feel tempted to look backward in your story to try to make it more effective, stop and consider if what you really need is to look forward.  

 

Related Articles:

Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Don't Use Flashbacks"

How to Write Stakes in Storytelling

Reeling Readers in via Curiosity

How to Write Excellent Introspection

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Utilizing the 3 Types of Death

 

Last week I was reading a writing book by James Scott Bell, and in it, he made the claim that every story is really about death (or the fight against it). 

I admit, my first reaction was to challenge it. Death? Really? Every story? Really? Even if you are talking about a figurative death, there must be plenty of stories that have nothing to do with such a thing!

But then I kept reading. 

. . . and I changed my mind, in a sense. 

Every story is about death, but there are three types of death: physical, professional, and psychological.
And it can be quite useful to know about them, particularly through the middle of your story (well, at least it was to me). 

So here are the types.

 

Physical

This is pretty much self-explanatory. This is death, death, as we know it. In a lot of stories, the protagonist’s actual life is at risk. Thrillers, survivalist stories, often dystopias . . . You get the idea. But sometimes worse is the prospect of a loved one dying (which can tap into the psychological).

Professional 

I admit, I really want to call this one something else, like “vocational,” because it’s not always about an actual job or profession. But then, I guess if it were called that, we wouldn’t have the three Ps (physical, professional, psychological). A story about professional death may indeed be about the protagonist having his job or profession at risk. But it can also be a vocation or calling at risk, such as possibly being expelled from school, or turning out to be a bad parent, or losing your lifelong dream to be the best ballerina in America. In a sense, this is the protagonist’s life role in danger of dying. So you might find this in stories about lawyers, or artists, or athletes . . .

 

Psychological

A psychological death is when someone dies on the inside. She becomes a shell of a person. What's at risk in the story, is that person's livelihood--who he or she is. In romances, it may begin to feel that if the couple never gets together, they'll suffer an inward death. They'll never be who they were before. And they'll never become who they could have been. 

But it can be about something else too, like a loss of identity or a traumatic shift in a worldview. It can even be something the character has been battling with for his or her whole life, like toxic gender roles, which kill him or her on the inside.

 

For a story to be satisfying, it needs to be about fighting some kind of death.  This is in part because if there is no death, then the stakes aren't high enough. We need high stakes for the story to matter, to have meaning. Because if nothing significant is at stake, then what happens doesn't really matter. Which means the story doesn't really matter.

And many stories will be about the protagonist fighting off more than one death. When looking to strengthen stakes, it might be helpful to look at how to bring in another type of death. 

When it comes to structure, the death will be introduced at the inciting incident. By the end, that death will be confronted in the climax. But the middle. The middle is where the protagonist reacts to and tries to fight off that death (generally speaking, in some form or another). Which means, through the middle, you need to think of ways to escalate that death into something more formidable or painful. 

Maybe in the inciting incident, your protagonist realizes he could die on this journey. 

Then through the middle, you put in more life-threatening things. Or perhaps you escalate it so that not only could he die, but his whole family could. Or perhaps the way he could die becomes more traumatic. Or perhaps the timing he dies could be more damning. This obviously becomes problematic.

But in the climax is when he must face that death in the most dangerous way. Will he succeed? Or fail? Well, that depends on the kind of story you are telling. 

So I guess, yes, in a sense, every story should be about death. Because if something is not at risk of dying--of reaching an end, a judgment, a state that cannot be undone--then the story misses out on reaching its potential. 

So, think about what kind of death is key in your story, and if it is threatening enough. 

UPDATE: Hi everyone, recently I realized that a lot of stories that have a sort of bittersweet ending, have one in part because one form of death has come as a cost to victory. For example, in Lord of the Rings, Frodo succeeded, but he suffered a psychological death of sorts--he can't go back to his previous life in Hobbiton. In Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Ed succeeds, but suffers a professional death as a cost--he can't do alchemy anymore. And in some stories, the protagonist or a key character will actually die.

Of course, you can write a story that has no bitter, in which case, there probably won't ultimately be a "death." And you can write a story where there is no "sweet," in which case, there probably won't be a painful "death." I guess I would also add, it's possible to create this effect by also having a relationship "die." However, one might argue this connects into a psychological death.

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Worldbuilding: Cause & Effect > Explanations

As I've been revising (and rewriting) some stuff lately, I've come to a realization about worldbuilding.

The cause and effect (which includes the stakes) are more important than the explanation.

You can come up with some really great worldbuilding ideas, some really great worldbuilding information, you can come up with amazing, sound logic for how your magic system works.

But those things don't matter near as much as the effect they have on the characters and plot.

I once spent days trying to figure out how I was going to "explain" how my worldbuilding worked in a scene. It seemed critical. When I took a break and came back to it, as I revised, I realized, that even though the explanation was cool and the origin was cool--neither of those things really held a candle to getting the stakes on the page. Aka: What these things mean for the story.

Stakes are about potential consequences, which means they are about risks. Which means they also must follow a sense of cause and effect.

As I've probably said a hundred times, but never in this context, the reader cares more about looking forward to later in the story, than looking backward about how the story got to this point. The only time the reader really loves looking backward, is when doing so adds meaning to the present or future. What this innately says, is that the reader cares more about stakes and cause and effect, than he or she does about exposition. Because in order to look forward successfully, or look backward successfully, there must be a sense of cause and effect to link everything together.

This is true of plot. This is true of character growth. And it turns out it's also true of worldbuilding.

Simply explaining how worldbuilding or a magic system works, might be fine all on its own in some places, but will carry much more weight, much more meaning, much more significance, if they include relevant cause and effect. And when you have to (for pacing reasons), choose between explaining a bunch of stuff or relaying cause and effect, it's probably better to choose to relay cause and effect.

This is not to say you can't do both.

Because in relaying cause and effect, you are also explaining some of it.

Cause and effect communicates why X matters.

For example, if we took Stranger Things, and spent a big chunk explaining what the upside down is and how it works, it wouldn't be as interesting as knowing its cause and effect. What's really interesting about it, isn't necessarily the exposition about it. What's interesting about it, is how it affects the plot and characters. What's interesting about it, is that because the gateway exists, a creature is kidnapping loved ones. What's interesting about it, isn't its own personal "Big Bang," but the fact that Eleven somehow opened it (cause/past), which means she may be able to somehow close it (effect/future). What's most interesting about it is not the fact that the toxic atmosphere exists, but the effect that toxic atmosphere has on the characters who have to go in it.

In some sense, this all sounds very obvious.

But as writers, we can spend so much time coming up with our ideas, and even if they are amazing, we may not see that cause and effect is often much more important than the great ideas themselves. Brainstorming and fitting things together and explaining how things came to be, can often be wild and fun. Creating a clear sense of cause and effect can often feel hard, more like work, and maybe even mechanical.

In His Dark Materials, the fact that everyone has a rendition of their soul outside their body is a fascinating concept. But what really matters is what that means. How does that concept affect the societies, plot, and characters? The fact that someone can harm you through your daemon or that its separation from you can create a powerful burst of energy, is much more relevant than just knowing daemons exist. It's more important than Pullman giving us a big long history and explanations of daemons when the reader first sees them.

If the magic of your world is about to undo the world itself, that risk, that fact, is more important than learning about the magic itself. And once readers have that fact, it becomes important to learn about the magic, because they assume that in learning about it, the characters will be able to save the world (cause and effect).

Get what I'm saying? To some of you, this may seem simply a post about not using info-dumps. While info-dumps fall into this idea, not all explanations will come across as info-dumps. Some of them may just come across as "important" information. But if we are honest with ourselves, the most important information isn't just a lofty explanation of how something works, it's how that something affects other important things at work.

Once the cause and effect matters, then more explanation might matter--but not always. Sometimes all that really matters is how X affects the story.

In some cases, the cause and effect might be brief and simple. For example, in The Hunger Games, Katniss sometimes links how her world is now, to how it was in the past. Because some tributes tried to take their own lives in the past, in the present, new technologies and restrictions exist to prevent that. Cause and effect. This in turn affects what Katniss can and can't do.

The fact a magical Ring exists that can turn one invisible is not as important as what that means (cause and effect) for the characters and plot.

Again, this is all generally speaking, of course, so use good judgement.

But if you are struggling getting worldbuilding on the page successfully, it might be because you haven't linked cause and effect. Perhaps you need to lay down the stakes.

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Breaking Writing Rules Right: "Never Open with Introspection"

The idea for this post has been floating around in the back of my mind for a while now, and this last week when I eagerly cracked open the newest Hunger Games book, Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes, and read the first eight pages, I knew it was time to write it. (Plus, let's be honest, I just wanted an excuse to write about a new Hunger Games book) (And don't worry, no spoilers here.)

Almost the entire first eight pages are introspection. And they work so, so well.

. . . like lots of other published books that open with introspection.

And yet time and time again, writers are told to not do this. So what gives? Is Suzanne Collins just such a money-maker now that she can do whatever she wants? (Maybe.) Is she just so famous she doesn't need to care about writing rules? (I hope not!)

So why does it work?

I shall count the ways. (Many of which you can use in any story opening or passage of introspection to make them stronger.)

But first, let's discuss the rule.

What's the Rule?

The Rule:

Never open a story with a long chunk of introspection.

Why it's a Rule

Many beginning writers love (and I mean, love) starting a book with big chunks of introspection. Sometimes it feels so natural, they don't even realize they are doing it.

And what can be even worse, is that often the viewpoint character isn't doing anything--literally. He or she may be sitting on a rock, thinking. Or taking a shower, thinking. Or lying in bed, thinking.

There are quite a few reasons why this is a problem.

First, the story lacks a sense of immediacy. Because nothing is actually happening. There is literally nothing important happening in the present.

Second, when most learning writers write introspection, it has the viewpoint character focusing on the past.

Oh sure, the past may sound interesting (*cough cough* to the writer *cough cough*), because it often relays what led to the present and who the character is today (even if there doesn't seem to be anything important going on . . . "today").

For the writer, it usually feels awesome writing the character thinking about his or her past--he or she is so interesting! (To the writer.) And surely his or her past is so riveting! (To the writer.)

And the writer needs to know his or her past usually to start the story, to boot.

I'm pretty sure all of us have done this at some point. 🙋‍♀️

But the reality is, for the reader, opening with a big chunk of writing about a character sitting and doing nothing and thinking about the past isn't interesting.

Like I talked about in my flashbacks article, the past is only usually interesting when it clearly links to something in the present, or better yet, future, that needs addressing--when the past provides meaningful context to the present or helps solve a current problem. But in the opening, the reader doesn't know the character nor his or her current, significant problems, so going immediately to the past is not very effective.

This is doubled by the fact that the past has already happened--it's done, it's over. Therefore, it holds little to no tension or stakes, because nothing can be changed. Not only does it not draw the reader in innately, but it can become boring because the past has nothing at risk.

The reader doesn't care about the past until he or she cares about the present. And they won't care about the character's past, until he or she cares about the character.

(Generally speaking, of course.)

But wait--there's more!

When writing a character's thoughts--they are often told in "telling" ways. After all, that's how we think. (Well, at least when we put our thoughts into language--in real life some thoughts don't actually make it to language.) And in the hands of a beginning writer, telling can be even more boring--because often beginning writers haven't learned how and when to tell well, yet. (Which is fine, we all start in the beginning). So not only is it boring, but it's vague and non-immersive for the reader.

All of these things combined, lead to slow pacing. Nothing is happening in the present. There is no real tension or risk. The past has already happened. All the writing is told. The audience struggles to care about the character . . .

And all of these things together and--look! Let's watch that new show on Netflix instead of reading. (*closes book*)

And because so many unpublished authors want to start a story this way, it's often preached to never open with long chunks of introspection.

Don't forget, most of what people read are published stories--which means they haven't seen the hundreds or thousands of stories that people who read unpublished stories have. Most of the "writing rules" come from navigating the realm of unpublished stories--because that's where you see most of the problems manifested. By the time something is published, most of the major problems are all sorted (hopefully).

Okay, now it's time for Songbirds and Snakes--err . . . I mean, how to break the rule. 😅 (And don't worry, I'm only referring to the very opening pages.)

How to Break the Rule

As I've said before, I love an excellent chunk of introspection. (The keyword there being "excellent.")

So after everything we've talked about that can go wrong when opening with introspection, how on earth can anyone do it right?

Here are some features you'll need to use to your advantage.

Think Forward, not Backward

One of the worst things about opening with introspection, is that the writer turns the character's thoughts to the past. In reality, almost every story should have some character thoughts sprinkled in, in the opening--that focus on the uncertainty that is called the future. Unlike the past, the future hasn't happened yet. And few things hook an audience better than uncertain possibilities.

This means (and you've heard me say it before!) putting in the text what the viewpoint character fears or dreads may happen in the near future or, what the viewpoint character hopes may happen in the near future. Ideally, you do both.

This is the first great rule of opening with lots of introspection. Have the viewpoint character think forward to what could happen.

Sometimes you can also get away with the character worrying or hoping about what could be presently happening--to someone else.

Songbirds and Snakes does this all over in the first eight pages.

It begins with Coriolanus worrying that if his stomach growls at the reaping, everyone will realize his biggest fear--that he's poor, which in the society of the Capitol, can have major consequences for him and his loved ones.

He also fears that his appearance will give it away (particularly his shirt), which means he simultaneously hopes that he can find a better shirt before it's too late.

Which also leads to him worrying about his cousin, who he knows is willing to even sell her body to find him appropriate apparel--something he doesn't want her to have to succumb to, but something she may be doing at this very moment.

Through the layers of his thoughts, these build and build, so that both his hopes and fears reach a climactic moment--if he doesn't take care of his stomach and his shirt, he may lose his opportunity to be a mentor, which means he won't be awarded at graduation, which means he won't be able to afford to go to university after he graduates, which means no career, no future--not only for him, but his family.

By having the introspection focus on the positive and negative near-future outcomes, we're drawn in. Which leads me to my next point . . .

Think, Significant Stakes

It's not enough to just have the character think about what could happen in the future. He or she needs to think about what significant things could happen in the future.

This means that whatever he or she thinks about, needs to have either deep, personal ramifications, or far-reaching, broad ramifications.

For Songbirds and Snakes--who really cares that Coriolanus (who will eventually become one of the worst villains in modern fiction) doesn't have a dress shirt and his stomach might growl? No one! It's a shirt. It's a stomach growl. But Collins lures the reader into caring, because each of those things have, juicy ramifications, a.k.a. significant stakes, attached to them.

These things together innately bring in tension and hooks.

Learn more about significant stakes here.

Think Complexities

Complexity happens when you smash together contrasting ideas and explore the space between them (sorry, some of you are probably sick of hearing me say this by now 😅 but it's still true!).

When you smash together things that seem to be opposites, or at least contradictory, the audience can't help but want to understand how such a thing can exist. Therefore, it draws them in.

As Coriolanus is praying cabbage soup can save him, he's also recollecting the long passed power of the Snow family. Imagine, living in a penthouse in the Capitol and having to worry about what you can stuff your starving stomach with to keep up an appearance. And isn't the Capitol supposed to be terrible? And Snow himself--starving?!

To be fair, some of the irony comes from how we know his life will end up. But that's allowed. Everyone comes into any story with some expectations. But even within this passage itself, there are opposing concepts pushed together, such as Coriolanus thinking about how Tigris's "apprentice" position is actually slave labor.

Think to Link Timelines

A big long opening with introspection about the past is boring--we've established that. But to be fair, naturally, the human mind is regularly linking the past, present, and future. In fact, some studies suggest that the reason we store memory is so we can perceive a future. Why not use that to our advantage?

One of the things that introspection can do, is link (think cause and effect) past, present, and future. And in fact, in a story, it's one of the only things that can do that in the text. It works as a bridge. And therefore helps bring temporal cohesion into a story.

Remember, once the audience cares about what could happen, they'll likely start to be more interested in what is happening or did happen. Because if something bad or good could happen, then they want to know what is influencing that potential outcome.

This means, that ideally, something in the present, or past, is affecting the potential consequence you've laid out on the page. If it's something in the past, it sucks; it's already past, the viewpoint character can't change it. If it's something in the present, it draws us in, because it could determine the outcome. Ideally, it's great if both the past and present are playing into the potential outcomes of the future. This is when you can use introspection to your advantage. After all, without it, you wouldn't be able to link timelines at all.

Likewise, when there are complexities (opposing concepts smashed together), the audience naturally wants to know how such things can exist, so, introspection may play into that, by feeding them information. How did the prestigious Snow family become so poor? Well, now I'd like to know what contributed to that. But first, I want to know why the person who will become President Snow is making cabbage soup.

Think to Sprinkle in the Concrete

The less we see the concrete present, the shorter the passage of introspection needs to be. Otherwise, it won't sustain the audience.

Sure, you can get away with a big chunk of introspection right off the bat, but it likely can't be longer than a couple of pages, and in most cases, a couple of paragraphs.

If you sprinkle in significant or informative things that are happening in the present, you can carry the introspection for longer. This is because it helps with immediacy, and therefore pacing. And if you are linking present and future together, than what's happening in the present can feed into the introspection in satisfying ways.

To be fair, Songbirds and Snakes does start in the concrete present--for half of the first sentence. Then largely goes into introspection, without very much happening in the present until Tigris arrives. But Collins still sprinkles in the present, with Coriolanus's grandma singing the Capitol anthem, which is at brilliant odds with their family situation, and therefore feeds into and influences what he's thinking.

Basically, she uses the present to emphasize, feed into, and direct his thoughts.

Similarly, it's helpful to include concrete images in the character's thoughts. Remember how I said most introspection is "telling"? And often "told" in boring ways? One of the tricks to making telling great, is include elements of "showing" into it. Part of this means including concrete thoughts. (Now that sounds like a contradiction.) Sprinkle in specifics--such as recalling the cigarette stain on the shirt. It can go a long way.

Think in Voice

Some of the best introspection is great because it reveals the character's voice.

Remember our little voice equation?

What the character thinks about + How she thinks/says it = Voice

Voice is more than word choice (though that plays a role); it's also worldview.

To get voice on the page in satisfying ways, you want to be at the deepest level of POV penetration. And guess what? That is simultaneously introspection.

Not every voice needs to be so vibrant that the snark leaps off and hits the wall across the room. It just needs to be real. And it needs to be there.

"Watching the bright pages of his picture books--the very ones he'd pored over with his mother--reduced to ashes had never failed to bring him to tears. But better off sad than dead."

That last sentence gives me all the voice I need.

"If Tigris's revamped shirt was unwearable, what was he to do? Fake the flu and call sick? Spineless. Soldier through in his uniform shirt? Disrespectful. Squeeze into the red button-down that he had outgrown two years ago? Poor. Acceptable options? None of the above."

That tells me what and how the character thinks.

And sometimes, the voice can be so entertaining or powerful, that it alone can sustain an audience for quite a long while.

To be fair, a lot of these things should be in any story opening, but this is how you can get away with lots of introspection, in particular. And you can also use these same techniques for introspection elsewhere in the story.

. . . And if you are interested in Songbirds and Snakes and haven't gotten a copy yet, you can get one here. I finished it yesterday, and have to admit--it was a satisfying prequel, in my opinion. 

P. S. I'm also looking to fill up more slots in my editing schedule. Check out my editing services.

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"No, and" vs. "Yes, but": Consequences and Tension

Previously, I talked about how stories work off cause and effect, or in other words, consequences. Every protagonist wants something and is dealing with a potential conflict. As they make choices related to these things, there are (usually) two main outcomes: They fail in that choice or they succeed in that choice. But to capitalize on those outcomes (a.k.a., consequences), it's often helpful to have them lead to new problems that need to be addressed.

Some people in the industry refer to these ideas as "No, and" or "Yes, but." In related to cause and effect, these phrases can mean these things:

Cause and Effect: "No, and"

"No, and" is when the character fails at whatever they are pursuing, which results in more bad consequences and problems.

So maybe your character's goal is to take Katie to the dance happening in a few weeks. He devises a plan on how to ask her, and when he finally does, she turns him down (failure = "No"). But it doesn't end there, she actually humiliates him in front of their peers, which results in him now having to deal with terrible bullying ("and"). Notice how the "and" adds to the failure with more negative consequences that now need to be addressed. Also notice how it escalates the stakes and conflicts.

This is similar to the phrase "Out of the frying pan and into the fire." It's moving from one difficult situation to a worse one, which can be very effective in a story (and is excellent for pacing).

Cause and Effect: "Yes, but"

The cause and effect "Yes, but" is when the character succeeds at whatever they are pursuing, but it introduces new problems.

So maybe, instead, your character succeeds in asking Katie to the dance; she says yes ("Yes"). But, soon afterward, he learns that his enemy or rival was going to ask her and now has it out for him. The enemy plans on doing whatever it takes to get the protagonist to back out, and he's not afraid to play dirty ("but"). Notice how the "but" adds new problems that now need to be addressed, and again escalates the story.

Even positive outcomes can have negative consequences.

Now, I've heard some writers imply they only really use "No, and" but "Yes, but" can be just as effective and can change up the story. In fact, it's often very interesting, and sometimes more interesting, when a protagonist gets what she wants, and it turns out to be more problematic than expected. So I definitely recommend using both.

When I wrote about the importance of cause and effect, I talked about how instead of asking "What comes next?", we can start asking "Which comes next?" Because we can look at different potential outcomes. "No, and" and "Yes, but" are sort of other ways of saying, "This happens and therefore this happens," which is better and more effective than saying, "This happens and then this happens."

With Tension

Now, this same thing relates to threads of tension, too. In a previous post about undercutting tension, the problems I discussed related to the writer cutting off tension too soon, without having any other threads of it in the story to take its place. The "No, and" and "Yes, but" can help fix this, so there is always some form of tension running through the story.

However, I do feel that the tension "No, and" and "Yes, but" can be a little different, because it doesn't need to relate so closely to cause and effect or what actually happens. (Because tension is the fear or hope of what could happen, not necessarily what does.) In a sense, for every possibility, you can look at "No, and" and "Yes, but" potential outcomes, strengthening threads of tension throughout the story.

This relates to, and can be useful with, setting up stakes.

So mind your "No, and" and "Yes, but"s this week.

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Why Story = Cause and Effect (And How to Utilize That)

Stories are about cause and effect. That's what makes it a story. There is a famous example of this in the writing world:

"The king died, and then the queen died."

This is not a story. It's just stating what happened.

"The king died, and then the queen died of a broken heart."

That is a story. Why? Because it has cause and effect.

All great stories need to have some level of cause and effect. Otherwise, they aren't really stories. (Well, there are maybe some exceptions, but more on that later.) Readers don't want to read about random, unrelated things (most of the time); they want to read stories.

At the starting of a story, the main character should have (near-future) wants and fears. This helps draw the audience in by getting them to look forward to significant, potential consequences, or in others words, stakes. This also gives the character motivation for making choices.

When we make choices, they automatically lead to consequences.

- If I refuse to exercise, I won't have an athletic body.
- If I choose to eat a bunch of sugar, I'll get a sugar high. 

. . . which means they have a cause and effect.

Not all causes and effects come from our own choices. We don't live in a void. There are other people who also make choices, there are illnesses, natural disasters, cultures and societies, the laws of physics, etc.

At the starting of the story, the main character is going about his or her life, making choices, until a cause (the inciting incident) challenges the established normal, calling the hero in a new direction. Cause and effect.

From that moment on, cause and effect will get more important in the story. Or at least, it should.

As a story goes on, the consequences and stakes should get bigger and bigger or more and more personal, so that we have that rising action or escalation, that is vital to a good narrative. If the consequences stay small, or even get smaller as the story progresses, it's not going to be a satisfying book. Never forget this most basic story shape:

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Tips on Writing a Great Short Story

Weeks ago I was asked to do an article on short stories, specifically. What makes a short story great? And how is it different from writing a novel?

To be honest, writing a novel and writing a short story are very similar in many ways, and most of the techniques I've written about on my blog apply: creating complex characters, writing great dialogue, utilizing subtext, including hooks . . .

Sure, there are some exceptions, as always. You can find famous short stories that don't really have complex characters, for example, but often such stories are really short stories--maybe by today's standard, considered flash fiction. Here is a famous flash fiction story:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn

Does that really tell us much about the complexity of the characters? Not really. But it does still have great subtext.

So keep in mind that there are always exceptions when it comes to writing, but they are just that, exceptions.

So let's got started.

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Reeling Readers in via Curiosity

A few weeks ago, I did a post on stakes, which also related to hooks. And this year, I've been talking on and off again about pulling the reader into the story by getting them to look forward to what could happen, which is often done by getting the reader to fear or to hope something may happen (and then they have to turn pages to find out if it does). But there is a third way to do this. You make the reader curious.

You make the reader feel like they need more information. You make them want more information.

But this can easily go wrong if you handle it wrong. For example, a lot of beginning writers try to shock their audience, subconsciously thinking that it will be so shocking, the readers have to keep reading. It's like when there is a car accident on the side of the road, and you don't want to see it, but you can't take your eyes off it--that mentality. So you can find a lot of unpublished stories with openings that are unnecessarily graphic, overly sexual, or over-the-top vulgar. These beginning writers are trying to reel the audience in by making them feel like they need more information or they need to see if this continues to be shocking.

It almost never works. And it can even make readers want to stop reading.

That's not to say there are never reasons to open a story with such content, but more often than not, the writer is opening that way without legitimate reasons.

Hooks are so tricky to master largely because most people don't actually understand them, therefore they don't know how to do them consciously and intentionally. And most of the advice on them is seriously lacking (in my opinion). Often when I search for advice on hooks, all I get is something like, "Come up with a line that makes the reader want to read more." Well, I know that already, that's why I know to google hooks in the first place. I want some specific ideas of how to do that, exactly. Hopefully dissecting how hope and fear over what could happen has been as helpful to you as it has been to me.

So today, I want to talk about how to actually do the third one: spark curiosity.

Because sometimes we are reeled in because we are intrigued, and we are looking forward to reading more to get more information.

So how do we create that effect exactly?

Well, here are some specifics.

Pair Contradictions

I talk a lot about utilizing contrasts and contradictions on my blog, so hopefully you guys aren't sick of it, but it's so dang effective and almost no one ever talks about it! But this is exactly one of the ways to get the audience to want to know more. It might even be the most effective.

In my story structure series, I talked about how Into the Spider-verse largely uses contrasts and contradictions as hooks in the opening of the story.

When two opposing things are smashed together, we naturally thirst for more information, an explanation.

Here is an example I made up for another post:

Mom handed me my birthday present, and my stomach dropped.

Birthdays and birthday presents are usually something to be happy and excited about. So, when the protagonist feels negatively about one, we want to know why. It seems like a contradiction.

For years, I've loved this line Dashiell Hammet wrote in The Maltese Falcon.

[Samuel Spade] looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

"Pleasant" and "Satan" seem to contradict each other. And the "blond" is just specific enough to make me more curious. So now I want to read to learn how someone can look "pleasantly" like "a blond satan." And I want to learn more about this Samuel Spade.

Contradictions and contrasts are important because they help create specificity (sometimes even in a more literal, philosophical sense than I want to get into for this blog post), and as I've talked about before, the audience needs enough specificity to become invested in the story--to want to read more. Therefore, enough specificity is important for hooks and for reeling the audience in. Contradictions and contrasts create specificity by creating a boundary. For example, Samuel Spade fits somewhere between pleasant and Satan.

The line wouldn't be half as interesting if it was less specific.

Samuel Spade looked like a satan.

Sure, that can still be interesting. And it can still work effectively if the context of how we understand him seems to already contrast that line. But the line and concept in and of itself isn't as interesting anymore.

A lot of times we think we reel the audience in by being vague, but that can actually do the opposite. We need to be specific enough. Writers sometimes try to spark a reader's curiosity by not really saying anything, hoping it will make them want to learn more so they understand. Yes, if done right, this can work well in certain places, like teasers, but being more specific with contrasts is often more effective.

Look at this approach:

Samuel Spade looked pleasant yet unusual, in a strange way. 

Even though it technically still has some contrast (pleasant vs. unusual), it's quite vague. Honestly, it doesn't really hook me. I don't feel the need to learn more.

How about this?

Samuel Spade was blond and looked pleasant. 

This has no contrast and is therefore not as interesting. I mean, you will of course write sentences like this, but when you want to hook a reader and get them invested this doesn't work.

When you pair contrasts and contradictions, the audience will want to know how and why those things go together. Just make sure to deliver on that to some extent so the reader doesn't feel like this is a cheap trick.

Stretch Just Beyond What is Known

A year ago I did a post on how to create a sense of wonder in the modern audience, which I argue is quite different than it was even one hundred years ago. Audiences today often feel wonder most powerfully when they are exposed to something just beyond their understanding, that builds off something they already understand somewhat, as opposed to something that doesn't connect to anything. So you can have whole movies that spend a ton of money on making the film and setting feel magical when the audience is yawning. Or you can have hits like The Martian or Interstellar that stretches us just beyond what we know.

A sense of wonder makes us curious. I mean, that's why it's wonder.

But this can work on a smaller scale to draw audiences in too. You just want to touch beyond what is already known. Naturally, the audience will be curious to want to know more. This can work with speculative fiction, or really, just about any kind of fiction.

In His Dark Materials, everyone has a daemon of the opposite sex. So the protagonist, a girl named Lyra, has a male daemon named Pantalaimon. Daemons are part of a person's soul that lives on the outside of their body and assumes the shape of an animal. So everyone has their daemon from birth. But at one point, we get this line:

Bernie was a kindly, solitary man, one of those rare people whose daemon was the same sex as himself.

Okay, well, that's something just beyond our established understanding of daemons. So now I'm curious to learn more about Bernie. Why is his daemon the same sex as himself? And what does that mean?

But this can happen with a more realistic story as well. You just need to brush beyond what is already known or established as normal. It can happen with setting, character, or even plot.

Peach Days happened every year faithfully, except in 1998.

Okay, well, guess what I'm wondering now? Why not in 1998? I need to read on.

Here is another.

The Big Bang theory has long been accepted by scientists, but today a star was discovered to be older than the Big Bang itself.

This was a real discovery in the news recently. So what did you think I did? I read the article.

In some ways, you could argue this is just another form of contrasting, since we are contrasting something normal or known with something unknown, but I feel that the approach here is a little different, so I think it helps to have the different categories.

Share Something Surprising

When something surprising happens, we want more information. Even if it's a surprise birthday party, after the "Surprise!" everyone wants to talk about how they got to that point. There is the person that talks about almost accidentally giving the surprise away. Or the person that talks about trying to get the birthday person out of the house. Or the birthday person recounting their suspicions. After a surprise, we want a second to take it in and understand it.

In writing, sometimes the surprise is an unexpected response, something unusual that happens, or it may even be an interesting fact or statistic.

It might be Hagrid revealing to Harry that he's a wizard and that his parents didn't die in a car crash (how can you not want more information?). It might be the old guy, the Duke of Weselton, who wants to dance with Elsa in Frozen. It might be a nice meet cute in a romance.

Sometimes it's an interesting statement.

Squirrels are behind most power outages in the U.S.

Well . . . tell me more. I'm curious.

I've never read Gone Girl, but I love its opening line:

When I think of my wife, I always think of her head.

Um . . . what? Not only is that surprising, but it implies something pretty sinister.

Like all hooks, just make sure you don't use the surprise approach as a cheap trick. If anyone is interested, I have a post on surprises in general, here.

Use "Negative Description"

"Negative description" in my terms means when you describe what something is not. When someone tells us what something is not, we almost always want to know soon after what that something is. In other words, it makes us curious. It makes us want to keeping reading or listening for more information.

Tolkien does this in The Hobbit:

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat.

Okay, well, now I'm wondering what kind of hole it is.

Sometimes this is something simple:

Jessica wasn't like other girls her age.

Why not? And how not?

Just make sure you almost always follow up with what that something is, and it almost always needs to be interesting.

Jessica wasn't like other girls her age. The only craft she liked doing was taxidermy.

 Tell me more.

Make a Bold Statement

Bold statements sort of relate to surprises. When someone says something bold, we need more information.

Every man in Toonesbrook was a liar.

Or what about from The Raven Boys:

If Blue was to kiss her true love, he would die. 

That one also plays off the idea of fear.

Or:

I've never liked chocolate. 

Now that is bold. ;)


To be bold, often the statement is unusual or broad-sweeping. "I never liked chocolate," that's unusual. "Every man in Toonesbrook was a liar," that's far reaching. Something that goes against a generally accepted belief or experience is bold.

Employ Non-linear Timelines

Some people may consider this a no-no. After all, we are taught so much to stay in the present. But sometimes jumping around in time briefly, makes us want to know more. We want to know more about how one point in time connected to another. Or we want to know what happened in between.

When I met Sam Bywater, I was unimpressed, but that encounter would go on to haunt me for ten years. 

Or:

Peach Days happened faithfully every year, except last, but this year they had better security.

Or:

I wasn't excited about another boring dentist appointment, but looking back, I'd rather I'd gone and gotten my teeth cleaned--at least then I would have been safe.

Subtext can also be key to writing great hooks and/or reeling audiences in. The second example in this sections suggests something bad happened last year that led to needing more security. "When I think of my wife, I always think of her head" suggests the possibility of murder. So lines like that can make us want to learn more.

In some ways, you can argue that sparking curiosity is just another way we are getting the audience to hope for something. We are getting them to hope for more information. But still, I think it's a little different. When I talked about hope and fear before, I mainly talked about it in relation to the actual story. In these kinds of lines, that may not be the case. Your book may have almost nothing to do with Peach Days, for example. But the line still reels readers in.

Keep in mind that with all hooks, you don't want to throw them everywhere as a cheap trick. You still need to deliver on them most of the time (some would say you need to do it all the time, but I'd argue that point. That's another subject though.). And curiosity hooks alone will only keep an audience for so long, sort of like how a teaser can only sustain an audience for a few pages tops. There needs to be more. Nonetheless, they are an excellent way to draw your readers in.

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