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Learn about six ways to make your readers ask questions so they want to keep turning the page.
In this post …
Why creating curiosity is important
Making readers ask questions is a surefire way to keep them turning the page. Why wouldn’t they? They want the answers!
Crime, thriller and mystery writers have several tools at their disposal to create that curiosity. In this post, I look at six. Bear in mind that these tools can overlap, and a single scene might use several at once. Tool 1: The opening pages
When opening pages provide a mystery in the form of, for example, a potential threat, dilemma or conspiracy, but deliberately withhold the deeper context, readers are forced to ask questions.
There’s a superb example in Lee Child’s Tripwire (Bantam Books, 1999). The prologue introduces a character named Hook Hobie. On the very first page of the story, readers are told that Hobie knows a secret that he’s been protecting for thirty years, and that he’s set up systems to detect a breach of that secret. In the two pages that follow, we learn his plan for escape in the event of the warning systems being triggered, and then, critically, that when the trigger event occurs, he reverses the escape plan he’s had in place for thirty years. What readers don’t know, but want to, is:
Tip for writers Check that the opening pages don’t provide all the answers, but instead describe a situation that makes readers want to go looking for those answers. Tool 2: Clues
A clue might be an object, mark, missing item, unusual behaviour or speech ... in fact, any detail whose relevance and meaning only become certain later.
Depending on where they appear in a story, they may need to be subtle while still remaining visible. However, sometimes a clue will need to draw attention, even though its full meaning and relevance aren’t yet understood. In this case, readers need just enough information to register the detail and ask questions about it. In Blake Crouch’s Dark Matter (Pan, 2016), there’s an example of a barely noticeable clue in Chapter 1, when protagonist Jason Dessen looks up at a tesseract chandelier above the dining table – an anniversary present from his wife. Then in Chapter 3, following an attack, he’s given medical treatment, and returns home to find that the house is off kilter. In particular, the tesseract chandelier has morphed into one formed with antlers. It’s one of a series of clues that makes readers, and Dessen himself, ask a ton of questions. Readers know that the house belongs to Jason Dessen, and that he doesn’t recognize that space as his. What readers don’t know, but want to, is:
Tip for writers Check the early planting of clues to ensure they don’t overexplain. If their meaning is too obvious, there’s nothing for readers to ask and less compulsion to keep reading.
Want to explore this further?
If you’re working on scenes with clues, suspicion, misdirection or unexplained behaviour in crime, mystery or thriller fiction, Line Editing for Crime, Mystery and Thriller Writers explores these topics even further. Tool 3: Unexplained behaviour
When an author shows a character making deliberately peculiar choices, readers are forced to seek a motive for them.
Chapter 1 of My Lovely Wife by Samantha Downing (Penguin, 2019) is filtered through a first-person narrator who approaches a woman in a bar and identifies himself as Tobias. He claims he’s deaf and communicates with her by phone. Later, she takes him back to her place and they go to bed. He steals her earrings – as a reminder to himself that he shouldn’t repeat this behaviour – and is about to leave when she wakes up and asks him if he’s deaf. His narration acknowledges that he must have slipped up, so readers know he’s up to something. What they don’t know, but want to, is:
Tip for writers If a character behaves unexpectedly, give readers enough context to recognize that something is unusual, but delay the explanation. When the reason is finally revealed, make sure that the behaviour makes sense in hindsight. Tool 4: Chapter exits
When a chapter ends on a note of uncertainty, readers need to turn the page to resolve it. That uncertainty doesn’t have to be dramatic. It could be a gentle note of suspense that simply makes the reader wonder how a character will react.
There’s a lovely example of this in Rory Clements’s historical thriller Holy Spy (Hodder, 2015, pp. 130–131). At the end of the chapter, undercover intelligence officer John Shakespeare prepares to leave the house of a character he’s been interviewing. In the final two lines he opens the door and comes face to face with someone unexpected outside. The chapter ends. Readers know who the unexpected character is, and that Shakespeare doesn’t trust him. What they don’t know, but want to, is:
Tip for writers If a chapter ending feels flat and uninspiring, look for the next interesting development in that scene (it might be on the next page or further along) and consider whether it can be relocated so that readers’ curiosity is piqued. Tool 5: Withheld context
As the Lee Child example above showed, withholding the context of the details in a scene can be extremely effective when it comes to driving reader curiosity.
Withholding does need to be carefully controlled. If information is withheld but the story can’t account for that delay in a way that makes sense, readers might feel as if the author isn’t playing fair – that the withholding hasn’t been properly earned. The withholding in the Child example makes sense because the psychic distance in the chapter is close enough to filter the narrative through what Hobie is focusing on in the moment. Andy Weir’s Project Hail Mary (Penguin Random House, 2021) also uses the withholding tool to create reader questions. There are multiple scenes throughout the novel that gradually reveal how protagonist Ryland Grace has ended up where he is, but it’s only when readers are eighty per cent through the book that they have the full context. The withholding is accounted for by Grace’s traumatic memory loss and gradual recovery, so the questions readers have in those scenes are also Grace’s questions. Until then, both we and he know that he’s in space and on a mission, but what we don’t know, but want to, is:
Tip for writers When revealing context gradually to readers, make sure that the story accounts for the delay. Tool 6: Contradictions
Readers become curious when two pieces of information don’t fit together comfortably. Unlike with withheld context, they have enough information to understand that there’s a mismatch but not enough to explain it.
The contradiction might involve two different accounts of an event, someone’s account of an action conflicting with what they actually did, or two pieces of evidence that appear at odds with each other. There’s a smashing example of this in Mick Herron’s Spook Street (John Murray, 2017). On p. 107, Claude Whelan, First Desk at MI5, presents evidence to the prime minister that identifies a bomber and their movements prior to an explosion at a shopping centre. The bomber’s identity appears to be firmly documented. However, later, that history turns out to have been fabricated by MI5, no less, and the legend was supposed to be inactive. What readers don’t know, but want to, is:
Tip for writers Make sure the contradiction is visible enough to register, but delay explaining the mismatch. What the questions should never be
The first question no reader should ever be asking is: Why on earth am I reading this information now? Watch out for:
The second question no reader should be asking once they’ve finished the book is: Why didn’t that make sense? That kind of problem would be the result of logic slipups that cause confusion. Watch out for characters who:
Summing up
Creating curiosity is about giving readers enough information to make them ask questions, while delaying the answers just long enough to keep them engaged.
Opening pages, clues, unexplained behaviour, chapter exits, withheld context and contradictions can all do that work in different ways. The key is to make sure that the questions arise from the story rather than from confusion. Readers should be wondering what happens next, what something means or how apparently conflicting information fits together – not why they’re being shown something or why the story no longer makes sense. Further readingAbout Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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Learn what pace, urgency, momentum and tension are and why they’re distinct elements of crime, mystery and thriller scenes, even though they often work together.
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What is scene pace?
Pace is the speed at which readers move through the scene’s narrative. It can be fast, slow or somewhere in between.
A fast-paced scene doesn’t necessarily mean it’s full of action or full of movement at speed. For example:
Nor does a slow-paced scene have to involve events that take place over a long passage of time. For example:
Tip for writers and editors
What matters is that the amount of description appropriately slows or speeds up how quickly readers move through the details. What is urgency?
Urgency is often confused with fast pacing, but I like to think of it in more specific terms – not in terms of speed, but in terms of a narrowing window of opportunity and the cost or stakes if a character fails to act in time.
That doesn’t mean urgency won’t require speed on the character’s part. It might very well, but it’s not automatic. Speedy action could therefore be a consequence of an urgent deadline, but it might not be. It depends when the deadline is. For example:
Tip for writers and editors
What matters is that readers understand what the cost will be if the character doesn’t achieve their goal in time.
Want to explore further?
If you’re working on a scene's pace, urgency, momentum or tension in crime, mystery or thriller fiction, Line Editing for Crime, Mystery and Thriller Writers explores these topics in even more detail. What is momentum?
Momentum is another element that sometimes gets mixed up with speed. In fact, momentum is about forward direction, not how fast an action is being carried out.
Key to momentum is cause and effect – something happens that causes another thing to happen. We experience momentum in our daily lives even in the most mundane of tasks. For example:
And so, an initial pressure point – me being thirsty and cold – leads to a seven-hour wait in A&E. That’s momentum in action. (And a reason to get an electric kettle that switches itself off.)
The example above has lots of drama going on, just as there might be in a chase or escape scene, or during a fraught evacuation or interrogation. But momentum is key in even the quietest of scenes because it ensures that the scene’s changing and developing rather than remaining static. Here’s a summary of a far gentler scene on pp. 72–3 of Tim Weaver’s No One Home (Penguin, 2019).
It’s a gentle, slow-paced scene that moves from Raker’s initial waking and disorientation, through to professional curiosity, then alarm, then personal revelation. Each development in the scene has a causal effect on the next, so readers are always moving forward and learning something new, even if it’s a small detail or a changed emotion.
Tip for writers and editors
What matters is that the scene progresses logically, regardless of how fast that progression occurs or whether or not there’s a deadline with a cost attached to not meeting it. What is tension?
Tension is apprehension or uncertainty about what might happen. Again, that tension might exist in a passage with a slow, deliberate pace that’s designed to draw readers’ attention to details, or a fast pace where a situation quickly escalates.
In the slow-paced Raker scene outlined above, there’s tension – first on account of Raker’s disorientation, then the unease he feels when he hears a noise he can’t explain. That tension resolves in the heartbreaking understanding that his friend is in emotional distress. However, later in the book, we learn that Raker has been imprisoned underground for several weeks. The pace is fast – we learn how he’s used this time in the darkness to put the evidence together. Though his situation is grim, the tension is low because it’s evidential piecing-together. But then a sliver of light appears, along with a rope. The pace slows as Raker, now out of reflective mode, focuses on his present dilemma – the rope might be a trap. He decides to climb anyway, and readers experience his terror and disorientation as he discovers he’s in the middle of nowhere and someone is trying to shoot him. A game of cat-and-mouse ensues, followed by a fight scene. Throughout this extended sequence that covers several chapters, the tension is thick enough to cut, as a terrified Raker tries to thwart his attacker and stay alive.
Tip for writers and editors
What matters is that any certainty about the outcome is delayed. That keeps readers rooting for the protagonist and turning the page to find out what happens. Why understanding the differences matters
Understanding the differences helps writers diagnose why a scene feels rushed, static, flat or slow in the wrong places.
Details might need to be summarized quickly (fast pace) because they’re important for reader orientation, but that’s all. Equally, they might matter and the pace might need to slow, because without them, the issue is resolved too quickly and there’s no tension. Details that don’t affect what happens next – that seem to arrive in a void – can leave readers feeling stranded, unsure why they’re accessing an important moment of reflection or backstory at this point in the scene. Whether the information is whizzed through or described with precision, there still needs to be cause and effect so that the reader moves forward logically (momentum). Narrowing windows of opportunity (urgency) will determine the actions a character takes and when they take them, and while momentum needs to be intact, the pace and tension may ebb and flow. And uncertainty might last for only a short moment in a passage (as is the case in the first Raker example), or stretch out over separate chapters (as in the second Raker example). Summing up
Pace, urgency, momentum and tension can all work together, but they do different things.
Pace controls how quickly readers move through a scene, urgency narrows the characters’ window of opportunity, momentum keeps the scene moving forward through cause and effect, and tension creates uncertainty about what will happen. Use them together, but don’t treat them as interchangeable. Related resourceAbout Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn about how pressure works in crime, mystery and thriller fiction, and how it shapes character behaviour, emotion and momentum.
In this post …
What are scene pressure points?
Pressure points are the problems, questions, threats, needs or emotional strain that shape a scene. They shape how a character behaves – emotionally and physically – while they’re managing pressure.
They might arise from something a character is hiding, pursuing, trying to understand or frightened of. Why is pressure important?
Pressure is the backbone of a scene’s momentum. It’s the reason why this scene, right now, at this point in the book is relevant and needs to progress. Think of it as a jumping-off point.
Pressure points in novels are not unlike pressure points in real life. Think about the various things you do throughout the day, and what the driving force behind each of those is. For example, you might:
The text in bold reflects life’s pressure points. The text in italic is how that pressure shapes actions and emotions. It’s a good reminder that even everyday actions have some sort of impetus behind them that drives what we do, and it’s that impetus that needs to be captured in a novel’s scene.
Want to explore this topic further?
Pressure is a recurring theme throughout my book Line Editing for Crime, Mystery and Thriller Writers. Is scene pressure always dramatic?
Pressure absolutely doesn’t have to involve high-octane, all-guns-blazing action; it might just as well be quiet and reflective.
Take a look at the five scene summaries below, and notice how the temperature of the pressure shifts according to what Espin, our investigator and viewpoint character, is dealing with.
Keeping pressure active
An immersive scene doesn’t require pressure to be completely resolved. Uncertainty’s often critical in crime, mystery and thriller fiction because it keeps readers turning the pages as they seek understanding and try to fit the pieces of the puzzle together.
Equally, if the pressure doesn’t change, the scene could end up dragging because readers aren’t discovering anything new. The solution is to review scenes to ensure that the pressure shifts. Here’s an example in which Espin is interviewing the witness, whom we’ll call Arne Nilsen. I’ve numbered each line so we can track how different pressure points emerge and manifest.
Example
Pressure analysis
The pressure in that scene isn’t completely resolved. However, the pressure points change depending on what the characters need, discover and experience. Summing up
Pressure can be inferred from a character’s dialogue, thoughts, subtext and observable behaviours. It can be dramatic, reflective or somewhere in between.
What’s important is that the reader understands where it comes from and how it changes so that the scene moves forward. Related resourceAbout Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn how restricted viewpoint works in crime fiction and thrillers, and how to manage perspective, control character knowledge and build suspense effectively.
In this post …
Why viewpoint is important in crime and thriller writing
In crime fiction and thrillers, effective storytelling comes from what happens, and from what the reader is allowed to know and when they’re allowed to know it.
A crime or transgression is only the beginning. The real tension lies in who saw what, or who misunderstood it, and what the narrative reveals or conceals at any given moment. That control is handled through viewpoint. Handled well, viewpoint should be invisible to the reader. Handled poorly, it dilutes suspense, gives away twists too early and can leave readers feeling shut out rather than engaged. Which narrative viewpoint choice works best?
There’s more than one option when it comes to narrative viewpoint.
Omniscient viewpoint – where the narrative can access any characters’ thoughts and feelings, moves freely between them, and provides information beyond what any one character could know – is a legitimate option. However, it’s an extremely rare choice in contemporary crime fiction and thriller writing, mainly because if you don’t nail it perfectly, it feels like head-hopping. Head-hopping is an uncontrolled shift between characters’ thoughts or perspectives within a scene without clear transitions. This can create confusion for readers, and it can also prevent them from immersing themselves deeply in the experiences of any one character. Most mainstream authors tend to go for a restricted (or limited) narrative viewpoint, blended with some objectivity. It’s a great choice because, as long as you stick to the rules of what the reader is allowed to know and when, it’s much easier to control. One of my favourite ways of explaining those rules is through the principle of earned knowledge. What ‘earned knowledge’ actually means
Earned knowledge is the idea that readers know only what the viewpoint/perspective character could reasonably know at that moment, and only in the way that the character experiences it.
For example, if a law-enforcement officer is the viewpoint character, they won’t know that someone they’re watching or questioning is nervous. However, what they could notice is information such as a flicker in the suspect’s hand, a hesitation in their speech or a too-long glance at the nearest exit. Or the suspect could say that they’re nervous. From that observable and audible information, they might conclude that their suspect is nervous, but it’s a subjective interpretation, not an objective fact that can be handed to the reader. Even if the suspect said out loud that they’re nervous, the officer can’t know for sure that what’s spoken is actually reliable. And so neither can the reader. For the reader to properly know what the suspect is really feeling, the suspect must be the viewpoint character. Then, and only then, can the reader access to their thoughts and emotions. In other words, the reader’s earned the right to that interior emotionality. Let’s explore how restricted and objective viewpoints might work in your crime and thriller writing, and they’ll help you control what your reader can know and when they’re allowed to know it. Restricted viewpoint – single viewpoint character in a novel
Alternative terms: Limited viewpoint, limited POV (point of view), single-character POV, fixed viewpoint, constrained POV, bounded perspective, subjective viewpoint, locked POV, tethered narration, inside-one-head narration.
In this tightly restricted single-character viewpoint, the reader is confined entirely to one character’s awareness throughout the whole novel. Example In Chapter 1, the narrative describes how our detective viewpoint character – let’s call him Taylor – enters a quiet house. Readers know only:
Further chapters go on to narrate what Taylor learns as his investigation progresses and he pieces together the clues. This is classic close third-person or first-person technique, and the effect is simple but powerful: the reader is trapped in shared ignorance with a single character. Every discovery lands as a genuine revelation. Earned knowledge writing tip: Make sure that what the reader knows has been earned by accessing only what your single viewpoint character can know through internal and external experience. Restricted viewpoint – multiple viewpoint characters in a novel
Alternative terms: Multiple limited POV, multiple viewpoint characters (limited POV), multi-POV (limited), alternating limited POV, rotating limited POV, shifting limited viewpoint, multiple restricted viewpoints, sequential viewpoint narration, distributed viewpoint narration.
Some writers allow the reader to explore the awareness of multiple viewpoint characters. It’s common in crime and thriller writing to separate these perspectives by chapter or section. That way, the reader isn’t hopping in and out of different heads without knowing where the transition points are. Having multiple viewpoint characters doesn’t remove restriction. Each chapter/scene is still limited to one perspective, but the reader’s overall knowledge expands with every shift. In this case, the writer has to do two things at once:
Shared ignorance gradually collapses as the reader gradually comes to know more than any one character does on their own. This can really help build tension, anticipation and even dread. Example In Chapter 1, a person enters their home. Readers know only:
In Chapter 2, a detective – Taylor – enters the quiet house. Now he’s the viewpoint character, and so readers know only:
In Chapter 3, we see things from yet another person’s perspective. Now they’re the viewpoint character, and readers know only:
Here, each chapter still has a restricted viewpoint. However:
Earned knowledge writing tip: Make sure that what the reader knows has been earned by accessing only what each separate viewpoint character can know through internal and external experience, and then control what order they come by this information. This keeps them guessing. Objective viewpoint
Alternative terms: Fly-on-the-wall narration, camera-eye POV, external viewpoint, surface-level POV, external-camera perspective, no access narration, dramatic point of view.
With an objective viewpoint, the writer focuses on providing external and audible information. Readers have no access to thoughts or internal states. The reader earns their access to this information because it’s what they could report if they were watching CCTV footage or were a fly on the wall. In the examples above, we saw how a narrative can blend objective and subjective experience. However, writers sometimes choose to pan out and write a scene that’s wholly objective. Here’s what the narrative might focus on in a purely objective scene:
Example A man in a dark jacket enters the interview room at 10.14 and sits down at the table. He places a folded newspaper beside his right hand, glances at his watch, then taps the table twice with a finger. The door opens. A woman steps in and sits across from him. She places a file on the table but doesn’t open it. ‘Mr Carter?’ she says. He nods once. The woman opens the file, removes a photograph and slides it across the table. Carter looks at the photograph, but his hand remains on the newspaper. ‘That’s not mine.’ The woman watches him for several seconds, then says, ‘You were seen entering the building at 21.42.’ Carter leans back in his chair. Shrugs. ‘So what? I go in there all the time.’ The narrative in this scene reports behaviour that would be accessible to anyone watching and listening. Readers aren’t told what’s going on in either character’s mind. Instead, they have to infer it all from clues in the movement and dialogue. The man’s tapping finger, single nod and shrug could imply a dismissive arrogance. The controlled pauses on the part of the woman could imply a patient confidence. But for now, readers can only guess. They haven’t earned actual knowledge. Earned knowledge writing tip: Make sure that what the reader knows has been earned through externally observable and audible information. Tackling time: When to withhold or reveal
Withholding information is essential in crime fiction and thrillers because that’s what builds suspense and keeps the reader guessing about what’s going on.
However, that delay needs to be earned so that important information doesn’t come out of the blue but was seeded. Example A witness mentions ‘someone in a red coat’ early in the story. The phrase seems incidental at that point but, later, a red coat reappears in on CCTV footage. This gives the investigator a robust line of inquiry to follow, and it makes sense to the reader because they’d already mentally archived the detail. Delays like this are effective because the writer didn’t hide the information. It was there in plain sight all along, but the reader didn’t have enough information to understand its relevance earlier on. Contrast that with artificial withholding, where the narrative deliberately avoids mentioning something the viewpoint character clearly experiences. When that happens, and something emerges later that feels too conveniently shoehorned in, readers will feel manipulated or cheated. Earned knowledge writing tip: If the character would notice it in the moment, the reader should be allowed to see it too. Advanced control: Manipulating reader knowledge
Sometimes writers withhold important information because they want to keep a reader guessing, and they worry that they might give the game away too early.
A useful technique you can use in this case is engineered ambiguity. Here, the reader receives accurate information, but just enough so that it can be interpreted in multiple ways. Example In an early scene, a witness sees a man help an injured child, then hurry out of the building with blood on his sleeve. However, the writer wants the reader to think that the bloody sleeve could be as a result of something more sinister. The key is not to delay mentioning the man hurrying from the building or his bloody sleeve, but instead to relocate the witness so that they don’t know that the man helped an injured child. That way, the relevant context can be uncovered later. And, importantly, nothing revealed in the earlier scene was false. It was simply incomplete. Earned knowledge writing tip: Don’t lie to readers. Instead, give them knowledge that can be interpreted in different ways. Recap of how the reader’s knowledge is controlled with different viewpoint structures
The infographic below summarises how different viewpoint choices shape what the reader knows in crime fiction and thrillers.
Each approach controls information in a different way – by limiting it to one character, distributing it across multiple perspectives, restricting it to external observation, or expanding it through omniscient access. Across all of them, the key principle remains the same: the reader’s knowledge is carefully earned through the way the narrative is structured. 
Summing up
Most contemporary crime and thriller writers rely on a restricted or limited viewpoint to carefully control earned knowledge – what the reader is allowed to know, and when they are allowed to know it.
Rather than using a single fixed mode, you can blend restricted POV for deep, character experience with moments of objective narration for external clarity and distance. Across both approaches, the principle stays the same: information is never simply given to the reader. It’s earned as they assemble what’s revealed to them … and what’s withheld. By carefully managing that, you’ll ensure that your story stays one step ahead of its audience, and that you give your readers plenty of what thy love about this genre – tension and suspense. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
This practical framework shows you 9 steps for line editing scenes in crime and thriller fiction so that every sentence pulls its weight and delivers the appropriate level of tension.
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Why your novel’s not gripping the reader
If you feel like your novel’s not gripping the reader, it’s all too easy to blame something going on at story level. Perhaps it’s not twisty enough. Maybe the plot’s too thin. Perhaps the structure’s not balanced and the prose feels saggy in the middle of the book.
Before you rework the whole thing, take a step back and ask yourself if it’s the line work. The reason I say that is because line editing for crime fiction and thrillers takes place within the same foundational framework as any other genre. However, there’s an additional matter that needs engineering at line level: tension. That tension can’t just live at the macro level – in the story. It has to have a home in the sentences too. What is line editing?
Structural editing is SHAPING work. It examines big-picture elements like plot, pacing, structure, character arcs and coherence. Editors focus on improving the clarity and impact of the whole story.
Proofreading is QUALITY CONTROL work. It focuses on surface issues, amending spelling, grammar, punctuation, formatting and consistency issues to ensure the novel’s ready for publication. Line editing is EXPRESSION work. It sits in between the structural and proofreading stages, and considers what the scene is trying to do – whether that’s creating drama, building tension, revealing character, conveying information – and then making stylistic improvements to ensure the language actually achieves that. Use the framework below to check each scene and make sure that every sentence is pulling its weight. 1. Check for clarity
The first step is to check for clarity. Here, you’re making sure that:
Just because a line is lean doesn’t mean it needs to be boring. Sometimes writers need to tell it like it is and give the reader the cleanest pathway through so that they can live in the moment of the action rather than having to untangle it. This is particularly important in high-stakes situations, where the clock is ticking or a character’s in pursuit or being pursued. Examples
In the edited version, clarity has been improved by following a cleaner telling of the order of play: time (the watch), movement (hurried) and path (direction). I’ve also used more precise verbs ('checked' and 'hurried') to show how the character’s actions are controlled. This means we can ditch the adverbs ('urgently' and 'briefly') because those verbs do the heavy-lifting. I’ve also suggested free indirect speech ('What if the … no matter'). That’s more concise and takes us into the character’s headspace without the need for the cluttering filter words ('wondered' and 'realized'). Key principle: Keep tension intact by ensuring your reader doesn’t have to stop and re-read a sentence. 2. Manage narrative velocity with sentence length
Narrative velocity is the speed at which the reader perceives events taking place in a story. At scene level, it’s shaped by sentence structure, pacing and how quickly information and action are delivered.
Just because you’re writing crime fiction or a thriller doesn’t mean the pace has to rocket in every sentence. Instead, make sure it’s controlled in a way that shows rather than tells the perceived speed. How sentence length affects perceived speed As a general rule, long sentences tend to slow the pace of a scene, while short sentences accelerate it. There’s space for both, of course, so think about what’s happening in your scene in terms of stakes. Is danger increasing? Is time running out? Is something shocking revealed? Try shortening your sentences in those cases. For extra impact, use sentence fragments – though sparingly, because then the reader won’t notice that you’re doing it, only how it makes them feel. If, however, the scene is more reflective – perhaps a law-enforcement officer is trying to make sense of some inconsistent evidence, or they’re remembering a former case – a longer sentence will mirror the more stretched-out thought process. Example
Notice how in the example above, the leading longer sentences elongate the perceived time, reflecting the tedious graft that our character’s putting in. Then, as something unexpected is discovered, shorter sentences and fragments make the prose snappier. This truncates the moment into something immediate and jarring.
This mirrors real-life human experience. When we’re under pressure we tend to think in bursts, whereas when we’re in a safe, calm space we have more time for reflection. By controlling the length of a sentence in prose we can mirror that tension, or the lack of it. Key principle: Mix up sentence length so that you’re reflecting mood. 3. Build micro-tension with rhythmic tools
Rhythm determines how quickly a reader moves through a scene. Faster rhythms can convey urgency, action, fear, anger and shock. Slower rhythms can convey sadness, calm, thoughtfulness and introspection. Interruptions to rhythm force the reader to pay attention.
We’ve already looked at how sentence length affects pacing, so here are five more rhythmic devices that you can call on at line editing stage to create or ease tension. Think about what’s happening in the scene and what the character’s feeling, then consider which tool might be most effective:
Examples In all five examples below, there are different levels of micro-tension in play, and the rhythmic tools help mirror the emotional pressure experienced by the characters.
The repetition feels weighty and emphasizes the character’s desperate longing and the pressure he’s feeling.
The omission of conjunctions in the asyndeton example allows the list to flow rapidly, conveying urgency.
Postponing who’s in the chair builds suspense.
The succession of conjunctions mirrors the character’s exhausting pursuit.
Short one-line paragraph: The man in the photo was him.
By giving this pithy one-liner its own space, the revelation lands hard.
Key principle: Rhythmic tools help readers tap into character experience viscerally, but they need to be used judiciously so that they don’t overshadow the story.
4. Regulate what the reader knows, and when
When there’s a gap between what’s happening and what the reader understands about it, you create suspense. It’s your chance to make them wait and wonder what’s going to happen – to tease them so that their anticipation builds! And all the while, tension increases.
If a particular scene has important information or a surprise in it, even a small one, look for line editing opportunities to delay the reveal by a line or two. If you have several revelations in your scene, think about how you can break them up so they land in stages. Example
In the example above, the tension builds as Marv grapples with his conundrum, and the reader isn’t any the wiser. We uncover the reveal at the same time as him.
I’ve kept that reveal short, concrete and slightly incomplete to maximize impact. This means the reader has to do some of the work in that moment. Further revelation and explanation can come later. 5. Control narrative point of view
What the reader knows, or doesn’t know, is key, so review the scene to check that you’ve reinforced the limits of your chosen narrative point-of-view style.
If you’ve used a limited or subjective viewpoint, which is common in crime fiction and thrillers, check that:
Examples (Arjun is the perspective character)
In the first example, Arjun can’t know that a person is behind him, never mind one holding a gun, precisely because this action is happening behind him. In the revised version, he senses movement, but that’s all. The reader knows only what the character knows, and if Arjun’s uncertain, so are we. That delay in information adds to the tension. Key principle: Limit the information reported in the narrative to what the perspective character can experience. 6. Strengthen your verbs
If you want to maximise tension, looking at your verbs is a great place to start. Small tweaks can make a big difference to whether an action feels like it’s gentler and happening at arm’s length, or strong and immediate.
Generally speaking, weak verbs dilute tension, while stronger ones amplify it, so line edit in a way that focuses the reader’s attention sharply on what’s being done. Example Imagine an escape scene and take a look at the following two options:
Nothing’s technically wrong with the first version, but the action feels expository. Note the verb – ‘was running’. It’s the past continuous tense, or action in progress. That’s grammatically unproblematic but it’s somewhat soft. This is exacerbated by the addition of a clause that reminds the reader what they already know given that this is an escape scene. The second version seeks to draw the reader into the moment. I’ve suggested a more forceful verb – ‘sprinted’. Using the simple past tense conveys urgency. I’ve also replaced the expository ‘trying to get away’ with an additional precise verb – ‘skidded’. Now we leave the reader to join up the dots, and instead of telling them what the intention is – to escape – we focus on what the character’s doing right now. It’s a small change, but one that transforms the energy in the scene and makes it feel more tense. Key principle: If a verb has scaffolding around it – ‘was [verb]ing’, ‘began to [verb]’, ‘seemed to [verb]’ – experiment with stripping it down so it’s more precise and conveys a sense of impact rather than effort. 7. Sharpen dialogue with subtext
Real-life speech is often filled with stuff that comes out of social norms (eg saying hello and goodbye, offering drinks, talking about the weather).
However, including this in your crime fiction or thriller risks ripping the tension out of a scene because it’s not what the reader’s interested in. When you’re line editing, look for opportunities to:
Example: Authentic but distracting
Example: Focused and tension-filled
The first version feels real enough, but it's rather expository. There’s no tension between the two speakers.
In the second version, the filler is gone, and one of the characters is cagey, then interruptive when their colleague goes on the defence. The subtext – that one of them missed something – is shown rather than told. Key principle: Dialogue should do triple duty – reveal character (voice), show the mood (the subtext of the conversation), and deliver intent (so that the story advances). 8. Ensure description matches the stakes
Line editing is also the time to consider whether the stakes in a scene are apparent. The reader should never forget what’s at risk, so check that characters’ actions and reactions match the situation.
Examples of high stakes could include:
In these situations, line edit to ensure your description is targeted and precise. That way, the information conveyed is vivid but delivered fast, creating more immediate pressure-based tension. Examples of low stakes could include:
In these situations, the description can be more detailed and the pace slower. You can still deliver tension, but it’s more stretched out because there’s no imminent threat. Examples
In the high-stakes example, the description is more focused on the immediate movement, which inflates a sense of urgency. Here, the prose creates a mood that’s abrupt and determined. In the low-stakes example, the character is able to move in a more procedural fashion, and take in their surroundings and notice the details. Here, the prose describes a drab, neglected space, and creates a bleak and institutional mood. Key principle: Ensure the level of detail given to the reader reflects the character’s ability to process it in any given situation. 9. Review your story beginnings and chapter endings
A super first line in a novel makes readers ask questions and creates a sense of intrigue that draws the reader in. Think of it as a tension pull.
A powerful closing line in a chapter withholds just enough resolution or adds a twist, which creates momentum. This is the tension push – the encouragement to turn the page and read the next chapter. Examples: Opening lines that pull readers into a novel
Those four novel opening lines provide mystery, imbalance and unanswered implication. Rather than explaining, they disturb the equilibrium and force the reader to ask questions. Examples: Closing lines that push readers onto the next chapter
Those four chapter closing lines function as momentum triggers. Each one either opens a new question, shifts the reader’s perception or interrupts their certainty. Key principle: Start the book with something that disrupts normal expectations of situation, logic or truth. End a chapter at a moment where certainty shifts. Summing up
Every story needs to have a great plot – a structured sequence of events where characters pursue goals, face obstacles and experience change through conflict and resolution. Getting that right is structural or developmental editing work – the shaping stage.
But every novel needs to work at line level too, because that expression work is what will keep readers interested and focused, rather than skimming. Related resources
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Learn what every thriller must accomplish in its first five pages, including compelling opening lines, early pressure points, clear viewpoint characters and narrative momentum. Discover how to hook readers, build tension and set the stage for a gripping, page-turning story from the very first sentence.
In this article
Why the first 5 pages are a pitch to the reader
Thrillers live or die by their opening pages. We can think of them as a hook or a pitch – the thing that convinces readers to invest in the rest of the novel. This is the space that sets the tone, whets the appetite and sells the idea of what’s to come.
Readers pick up a thriller expecting immediate tension, momentum and intrigue. An editor will be looking for those same qualities too. Here’s what you should look out for when reviewing your first five pages. 1. Is the opening line compelling?
The very first line in a novel sets expectations for the entire story. When it comes to thrillers, readers love hearing a distinctive voice, a sense of movement or tension, and a hint of the predicament or situation a character’s dealing with.
Weak opening lines These often begin with neutral description or background information. For example:
These opening lines struggle because nothing specific or interesting is happening. The information is generic. There are no stakes and no reason for the reader to be curious. Strong opening lines Strong opening lines feature a character in motion or a problem. Harlan Coben is brilliant at writing knock-out opening lines. Take a look at these examples and compare them with the yawn fest above:
Notice how he zooms right in on a problem – rejection, harm, murder. It’s not just that Coben gets to the point. It’s that he injects so much emotion into each of those sentences. He does this by making sure that the psychic distance between the reader and the narrator feels close, like the character is talking to us intimately … There’s oodles of suspense too. Absolutely no way are we putting down any of those books after we’ve read their opening lines because, in just a few words, the author has made us a promise – that having set the scene he will answer the questions we’re already asking:
Tip for writers and editors If the opening line doesn’t pique the reader’s curiosity, or create tension or intrigue, consider a recast. 2. Have you introduced a pressure point?
A thriller's first five pages don’t need to be infused with violence or high-octane action, but they should show the reader where the pressure is.
Weak pressure Review your first few pages and make sure they’re not dominated by the routine and mundane. Waking up, commuting and casual conversations risk making your reader skim. Readers of the genre expect to be thrilled, and if you don’t satisfy that appetite early on, they may disengage and start wondering when the story’s going to pick up. Strong pressure Here’s how authors might could inject pressure points into the early pages of their stories:
Tip for writers and editors Scan the first pages for early conflict or unusual events. Ask yourself this: Is there an indication that something’s already wrong or off? If not, and exposition or a calm setup are dominating, consider how curiosity, danger or high stakes could be introduced. 3. Is a clear point-of-view character present?
When readers can step into a character’s perspective early on, they become engaged faster and more deeply invested in the story.
It doesn’t have to be the protagonist. It could be an anonymous antagonist or transgressor. It could be a victim. The point is that we want to know whose story we’re following in those first few pages. Weak perspectives A thriller whose early pages focus on vague, objective information with no emotional resonance can distance readers. We end up not understanding who we’re supposed to be rooting for or who we want to see stopped. Strong perspectives Readers are people. They know what it is to be human – to love, to fear, to hate, to despair. Compelling opening pages feed that innate knowledge. They provide information that helps us invest in a particular character, even if that emotional investment is negative. We should get an early sense of the following:
Tip for writers and editors Consider whether the first five pages tell readers what the viewpoint character stands to lose, why this situation matters to them and what is motivating them to act? If those personal stakes aren’t shown early on, the prose will feel flat and readers might switch off. 4. Have you created momentum?
Thrillers rely heavily on forward movement throughout, but the opening pages are particularly critical because that’s where writers get their first chance to earn readers’ trust and prove that momentum will be attended to.
Weak momentum The first five pages are not the place for information dumps that provide:
There is definitely a place for all of that stuff, but it’s better to introduce it appropriately after the story has got moving, particularly if it’s detailed. Not doing so means things could end up feeling rather static. Strong momentum Early pages that focus tightly on a problem, a mystery, a decision or an unusual situation will hold readers’ attention. We don’t need to be given all the answers or supporting information at this point – there’s a whole novel to do that. And in fact, not having all the background helps build intrigue and drive curiosity. The opening five pages of TM Logan’s 29 Seconds (Zaffre, 2018) give a superb example of narrative momentum. Readers are offered the following:
Throughout these few pages we’re presented with, first, a mystery, then tension as she tries to manage her shock and fear during the harassment. There are more questions than answers, but Logan makes us wait, concentrating on momentum rather than filling in all the detail. Tip for writers and editors Focus on motion rather than explanations in the first five pages. That energy will ensure that readers are prepared to wait for the detail that fills in all the gaps. Summing up
The first five pages of a thriller should do four things:
When those elements are in place, readers will want to turn pages 6, 7 and beyond. About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Backstory helps readers understand why characters act the way they do and what their motivations are. This post offers five tips on how to introduce it so that it enriches, rather than distracts from, the main story.
In this post ...
Read on to find out more about:
What is character backstory?
Backstory is the fictional history of a character before the main plot begins. It could include past events, relationships, traumas or achievements that shape their present behaviour and decisions. Backstory should be:
To ensure you hit the mark, think about which of the following mechanisms might work best for your novel. 1. Drip feed the information
Think of backstory as the seasoning rather than the main dish. It can be tempting to give readers everything you want them to know about the past in a dedicated and detailed chapter. However, this comes with risk. Your reader, who’s itching to move forward and find out what’s going to happen next, is forced backwards.
The focus is no longer on the now of the novel, but on a different time and space. That in itself can be distracting. Plus, by giving readers all this backstory in one fell swoop, you could lose the opportunity to introduce suspense, mystery or intrigue. Instead of an information dump, try instead a brief but telling reference that’s related to the current action. For example, if your character’s past involves an event that’s made them mistrustful of small spaces, you could hint at this in the narrative, but explain it more fully in a piece of dialogue later on. Here’s how that might look at first mention. The backstory nudge is in bold.
This way, you’re revealing backstory in smaller chunks – ones that invite the reader to think: What happened last time he went into a dark alley?
This builds suspense and leaves readers with questions that you can answer later. And for now, the reader stays in the moment with Baz, running towards the square and finding safety in the crowd. 2. Use natural dialogue
Dialogue can be a superb way of unveiling backstory. Depending on when it comes up, you can drip feed or go into more detail.
The key is to ensure that it sounds natural rather than being a convenient tool. For example, if Marcus already knows about Baz’s fears, the following will feel overworked. The dialogue is for the reader’s benefit only, not what these two people might actually say to each other. What to avoid
This kind of dialogue-for-convenience is sometimes referred to as maid-and-butler dialogue. To avoid it, try something like the following instead.
What to do instead
Again, this version hints at a traumatic event in the past, but leaves an intriguing space for more to be revealed later.
3. Interject with narrative reflection
If the time has come to reveal more, you could use the space between the dialogue to offer a little more insight.
Take care to restrain it. Give the reader just enough, then pull them back to the present action. Here’s how that might look.
4. Use other characters to reveal backstory
You could decide to hint at a character’s backstory through how others see them. Again, readers should be given only what they need to know, and the reveal should be relevant to the scene.
Notice how we’re given a nudge about something in Baz’s past that means alternative arrangements have to be made. These add a little complexity to the plan Fi and Marcus are working on, but there’s space to explore in more detail at a later point.
If it’s time to introduce that extra detail, an alternative could see Marcus reflecting internally on a plan he’s put together. Here, the backstory is more detailed but it’s still relevant to the present issue that he’s focusing on – planning an escape.
5. Use sounds, objects or settings as triggers
The external environment can be effective tools with which to introduce backstory. Your protagonist might see, hear or touch something that triggers a memory or an emotion.
Here are two examples. Once more, they’re mere nudges that make the reader ask questions, rather than lengthy explanations that risk flattening the prose.
Summing up
Backstory is as a tool that gives your crime fiction and its characters emotional depth at any point it’s introduced. If it doesn’t affect how the reader engages with the story in the moment, remove it.
Keep it taut so that the reader remains engrossed in the novel’s present – what the characters are doing/feeling now. Nudges and hints at first mention are often far more suspenseful and intriguing. If backstory is dragging on for multiple paragraphs or even chapters – a within-novel biography – rethink its structure and how you might break it up so that you reveal it gradually. Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Find out how to balance the scenes in a crime novel or thriller by using different types of beats that help readers understand the fictional world they’re immersed in. There's a free sample scene analysis too!
What’s in this post?
5 types of beats in the fiction writer’s and editor’s toolbox
Fiction writers, and the editors who support them, can use different types of beats to make a scene interesting: emotion, action, inaction, description and dialogue beats.
All have their place. Here’s how each works to create a more fully rounded scene. I’ve focused on examples from crime fiction and thrillers, but the advice below could equally be applied to other genres. Emotion beats
Emotion beats tell readers how the viewpoint character is feeling. They bring sensibility to a scene.
A viewpoint character is the character from whose perspective we experience the story. In first-person-limited and third-person-limited narratives, readers have access to what’s going on inside their heads – for example, their emotions, thoughts and decision-making processes. Access to this internal space helps us empathize with them and make sense of their motivations. That doesn’t mean we have to like them, but we do understand them. And that brings them to life and makes them more interesting.
Example from published fiction
Adrian McKinty, The Chain, Orion, 2020 (Kindle version, Chapter 1)
Action beats
Action beats help readers imagine how a character is physically behaving and can give us insights into the environment and the person’s traits. They bring movement to a scene.
Perhaps a viewpoint character stands up because the overly soft chair is making their sciatica play up; maybe an object’s being discussed, and they push it away in disgust; or perhaps they rub their bare feet across the rough pile of a rug in order to soothe themselves in an unformattable situation. These beats are particularly useful when an author wants to convey emotions being experienced by a non-viewpoint character whose internal head-space isn’t accessible in limited narrative styles. Perhaps wiping sweat off their forehead indicates they’re feeling nervous, or their fidgeting with a beer mat indicates boredom.
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1)
Inaction beats
Inaction beats are pauses, hesitations and moments of silence or stillness. Even when these are short, they help the reader understand pace. They bring breathing space to a scene.
They’re powerful because they can show rather than tell more than one character’s contemplation, consideration, indecision, or shock. The prose might state the stillness or silence directly, or it can be nuanced and come in the form of a character’s taking stock of a situation or bracing themselves for a potential upset.
Example from published fiction
Kate Hamer, The Girl in the Red Coat, Faber & Faber, 2015 (Kindle edition, Chapter 6)
Description beats
Description beats give readers objective information about the character or environment. They bring stability to a scene.
They help readers understand what characters are wearing, what they look like, what’s surrounding them, what they can hear, see, smell, touch or taste. That brings the scene alive.
Example from published fiction
Harlan Coben, Win, Arrow, 2021 (Kindle edition, Chapter 1)
Dialogue beats
Dialogue beats tell readers what characters are saying and let readers hear those distinct voices in action. Vocal speech can be heard, and so dialogue beats bring expression to a scene.
Like action beats, dialogue is an opportunity to bring depth to non-viewpoint characters in limited narrative styles. Their internal opinions and feelings – which we don’t have access to because we’re not in their heads – are revealed to us.
Example from published fiction
Adrian McKinty, The Chain, Orion, 2020 (Kindle version, Chapter 1)
Why mixing up beats makes scenes more interesting
Too much of anything is rarely a good thing, and the same applies to a novel’s beats. When a scene’s constructed primarily around a particular type of beat, there’s a risk the reader will become frustrated and lose interest.
Writers and their publishing teams can use the drafting and editing stages to analyse the prose and evaluate whether there’s sufficient balance. How to analyse a scene for beat balance
Must all 5 beats be introduced? No, certainly not. There’s no formula to writing compelling fiction. Good line craft means making a judgement about what’s missing and what might be added.
APPROACH 1 One way of approaching this is to think not in terms of the different types of beats but instead in terms of what they contribute, and whether there’s too much or too little. And so writers and their editors can ask: Which of the following should the reader experience in this scene, and are they present? Here’s a summary of those elements:
Example: Is too much expression dampening the scene? An over-reliance on dialogue – even if it’s extremely well written – leaves a reader with no nudges about the emotions characters are experiencing or the environment they’re operating in. It’s two or more talking heads on a page. If there should be expression in the scene, but the characters are chattering too much, think how you might turn the volume down, or at least disrupt it. Consider introducing a few action, description and emotion beats. Or even turn some of the information contained within the speech into narrative. Example: Is too much stability flattening the scene? An over-reliance on objective description – even if it gives the reader a rich sense of the environment – leaves readers with no way of accessing mood. It’s a menu of what’s where. Description should stabilise the scene, not crush it so that it’s as flat as a pancake. Help readers get under the skin of the characters and their environment by adding emotion or dialogue, or a little action that gives the scene some movement.
APPROACH 2
Another option is to colour-code the text in a scene according to what type of beats are in play. This can help authors and editors evaluate whether one type of beat is overbearing, and where they might add in additional types of beat to disrupt that dominance. It's a powerful way of communicating the problem visually and quickly. Summing up
Using different types of beats in a scene helps readers to understand where the character is, what’s around them, how they feel and what’s important to them. Over-reliance on one type can lead to boredom and frustration; mix things up to keep them interested and turning the page.
Download a free beats booklet
Other resources you might like
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Flat chapter finales are a fast track to reader disappointment. Here’s how to nail those last few lines so that readers can’t wait to turn the page.
Suspense makes readers turn the page
Readers turn the page to find answers to questions. Why did that happen? Who’s responsible? What will happen next?
Unanswered questions at the end of chapters place us in a state of suspense. We’ll try to predict the answers based on the information we’ve been given. We might be proved right. I thought so! We might be proved wrong. I didn’t see that coming! Either way, as long as there’s suspense, we’ll turn the page. Here are some ideas, with examples from published fiction, about how to do it, so that even predictable outcomes are structured line by line such that readers are itching with anticipation. 1. Wrap up the chapter in the middle of something interesting
There are two people in a bedroom. They’ve survived a harrowing encounter. And there’s oodles of sexual tension between them.
A less confident writer might wrap up the chapter as follows:
The problem here is that the suspense dissipates. Mark begins to undress but we don’t bother to wonder what will happen next – whether he and the woman will have sex, or try to but be interrupted, or do the deed and grab some food. We don’t need to – we’re told.
Fear not! This is actually a tweaked version of an excerpt from Solo by William Boyd, Vintage, 2014 (pp. 259–60). Boyd is cannier. This is what it really looks like:
In the real version, we do ask those questions. The artistry lies in the fact that we have to turn the page to find the answers and relieve our suspense.
They’re given in the next chapter. A sex scene follows. It’s an interlude – a chance to breathe, for them and us – before Bond leaves and sets up a diversion that will confuse the CIA’s surveillance of him. 2. Wrap up the chapter with foreshadowing
Chapter endings that tell of incoming storms are powerful. When they’re short and taut, even better! Take a look at this super example from p. 210 of Clare Mackintosh’s Let Me Lie (Sphere, 2019):
That final line is like a punch in the gut. It begs us to ask: When will he come? What will he do? And how will she protect herself? It’s six words of masterful suspense.
3. Wrap up the chapter with emotional reflection
In the The Man with No Face by Peter May (Riverrun, 1981), the protagonist, a journalist called Neil Bannerman, walks into a restaurant and alerts a minister that he has evidence about a government cover-up. That’s the juicy bit.
Bannerman then exits, leaving the minister to mull over the revelation. That’s the mundane bit and May needs a way to close the chapter with a pop. Emotional reflection is the tool of choice. Here’s the excerpt from p. 233:
The journos and minister won’t be enjoying their meal but this isn’t an exercise in gastronomy. The end-of-chapter suspense comes in the form of questions: Will there be consequences for Bannerman? How will those play out? Will the minister get his just deserts?
4. Wrap up the chapter with a surprise interruption
Another way of wrapping up a chapter when the big stuff has already played out is to introduce some sort of surprise interruption. Perhaps there’s a knock on the door from an unexpected visitor, or an odour that forces the viewpoint character to direct their attention elsewhere.
Here’s another excerpt from Let Me Lie (p. 226). Murray, the viewpoint character, has just had a telephone call with Anna, during which he told her that her parents had indeed been murdered. She becomes emotional and commands him to drop the investigation, despite her bringing the case to him in the first place.
What would ordinarily be a domestic mundanity serves to show his mood; his shock is so immersive that he’s forgotten everything around him until the alarm goes off.
We leave the chapter imagining the shrill noise, the odour of burnt food, the smoke in the kitchen, and wondering what on earth has happened to make Anna change her mind. 5. Wrap up the chapter with a shocking last line
There’s nothing better than a final line that the reader doesn’t see coming. Here’s a magnificent example from David Baldacci’s True Blue (Kindle edition, Macmillan, 2009).
In Chapter 4, we meet Roy, a young lawyer. He finishes a game of basketball and slopes back to the office where, we learn, he earns a healthy pay cheque by plea-bargaining on behalf of mostly guilty defendants.
Baldacci sets up the whole chapter as just another day at the office. We should know better than to be lulled into this false sense of security, but Baldacci’s narrative is strong enough from the start to convince us this might go in another direction.
Maybe Roy is crooked. Perhaps he’s about to be fired. Maybe he’s going to get a phone call telling him he has to go to court and represent someone he’d rather not. What we don’t expect is the wallop when a body falls out of the fridge. And now we have a ton of suspenseful questions. Who is she? How did she get in the fridge? Why was she killed? To find out, we’ll have to turn the page. 6. Wrap up the chapter with dialogue that demands answers
One great line of dialogue can close a chapter beautifully. No action beats, no narrative, no response – just the spoken word. It works as an outro when the speech leaves us with questions, and therefore in suspense.
Here's an example from New Tricks by David Rosenfelt (2009, Grand Central Publishing, pp. 215–16):
The dialogue forces us to wonder: Why has Richard not carried out the redirect? Has some new evidence come to light? How will this affect the case?
Rosenfelt doesn’t dampen the suspense by cluttering his prose with the detail of what came next – maybe people in the courtroom looked surprised or confused; perhaps there was an objection, and the judge banged their gavel and announced a recess. Instead, all that stuff is left unwritten – we just imagine it. It’s one line of dialogue and the chapter’s done. 7. Wrap up the chapter in the middle of one character’s speech
Here’s Rosenfelt again in Dog Tags (Grand Central Publishing, 2010, pp. 28–9). Unlike in the example above where there’s a natural chapter break because of a shift from the courtroom to the chambers, this time he inserts the chapter break in the middle of one person’s speech.
Less confident authors might shy away from this, but it can work – if it’s an appropriate suspense point that leaves the reader reeling with questions.
That final line is a shock, for lawyer Andy Carpenter and us. Why would a dog need a lawyer? How can such an absurd conversation be happening? We learn the answers to these questions in the next chapter, and that’s exactly where they should be because ‘The government’ is the suspense point that grabs us by the scruff of the neck and demands we keep reading.
Do you know when it’s closing time?
Like artists who can’t put down a paintbrush, less confident writers sometimes lack the courage to end with one line that evokes questions rather than solutions.
Yet that’s what the authors in all the examples above have done, and that’s why their outros are suspenseful and page-turning. If your chapters have a saggy bottom, maybe you haven’t identified closing time. I line edit for an author who writes knockout chapter endings … he just places them 10 lines further up the page than they should be to create a suspenseful finale! When you find yourself stuck, look up the page to find the point that will make the reader think How’s that going to play out? or Why did she do that? or That was a surprise! or Ha! You deserved that. … those few lines that will kick them up the backside and push them forward. If those lines are already there, think about whether they should be moved to the end of the chapter, or whether the prose after them should be shifted (or even deleted). If they’re not there, write them. Think about the very last sentence in your chapter too. How long is it? Your writing style and genre might dictate the style of your final lines but notice how lean the word count is in most of the examples above. The brevity acts like a command: Read me. Pay attention. Turn the page. Summing up
Every chapter should end with a pop, regardless of genre. Those last few lines are what the reader remembers before they pause. An otherwise beautifully crafted chapter can be ruined if it flops at the finishing line.
Find the suspense point – the lines that make readers ask questions – and use them to wrap up your chapter. And pay attention to the very last sentence. Sometimes less is more. Related resources
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP) and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
Not every reader can stomach violence in fiction, and not every writer wants to go the whole hog with it. Here are two ways to approach it: compressed reporting after the fact; and showing it all as it happens.
Compressed reporting after the fact
Reporting the outcome of violence after the fact can be a superb alternative to detailed descriptions that might upset or sicken authors and their readers. This technique is used on the screen too.
Example: Line of Duty In Series 5, Episode 3 of Line of Duty (BBC1), the perpetrator breaks into the home of a core character’s ex-wife. The transgressor proceeds to torture the victim. There’s a drill involved and lots of screaming. It’s gross. Well, it would be if we saw it. But we don’t. All we see is the outcome. The ex-wife lies in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. We glimpse patches of skin, her flesh swollen and angry. Her face is physically untouched though trauma is etched into it. And even the slightest movement results in a whimper and a wince; despite the medication, she’s in pain. All we know so far is that something awful has happened to her but we don’t know what. The scene cuts to two police officers listening to an audio file of the torture. Now we hear the drill and the screams. The officers play a little of the audio then switch it off and express their horror. A phone conversation with the victim’s husband ensues and we discover a little more about what’s been done to the woman. They finish the call and discuss the crime between themselves. Then the audio’s back and we hear a few more snatches. Off again, and there’s more analysis. It’s a powerful rendition of extreme violence that protects viewers from the gory detail but leaves us in no doubt about the suffering that’s been endured. This method can work just as beautifully in a novel. It’s not that the violence is diminished but that we access less of it. Example: Run Away Harlan Coben’s Run Away (Century, 2019, pp. 68–9) provides an excellent example. Aaron, a corrupt and possessive junkie, has been murdered. Coben elects not to show us the violence as it plays out. Instead, we learn what happened via a later conversation between Simon and Ingrid.
Two things stand out about this scene:
Cosies are a subgenre that bend particularly well to compressed after-the-fact reporting. Yes, people get hurt and die in grisly ways but most of the horror is left to the imagination. Example: The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries Here’s an example from Emily Brightwell’s The Inspector and Mrs Jeffries (C&R Crime, 2013, pp. 1–3):
Brightwell focuses on the impact of the poison on the body; unlike in the Line of Duty screen example, there’s nothing that tells us about the suffering endured. That’s the cosy way.
And as with the Coben example, the implied violence is balanced by dialogue that unveils character personality. It’s not just the readers who shy away from the horror; Inspector Witherspoon does too. We also learn how he’s perceived by others in the scene – as a bumbling buffoon who can’t see the obvious. This sets the scene nicely for Mrs Jeffries’ more capable intervention later on in the novel. Showing it all as it happens
Some acts of violence – such as fight scenes – work best when we’re shown everything as it plays out. Rendering a fight after the fact (as in the examples above) would destroy the dramatic tension.
Still, a fight scene needs to hold the reader’s attention. That means paying attention to pacing and providing just enough stage direction to enable the reader to understand the choreography. Example: The Poison Artist This extract from The Poison Artist by Jonathan Moore (Orion, 2014, pp. 244–5) appealed to me because it avoids high-octane, kickass tropes. Rather, the author captures the transgressor’s mysterious sensuality in the violent narrative. Her psychotically calm speech and composed movements have an ethereal quality. In sharp contrast, the protagonist’s actions are punctuated with sentence fragments that elevate the pace and introduce tension.
Moore, like Coben, doesn’t overwork it. The scene never drags even though the pace changes depending on who we’re watching.
Example: The Matlock Paper Here’s a high-octane example from Robert Ludlum’s The Matlock Paper (Orion, 1973/2005, pp. 268–9). Ludlum never bores us, just tells us straight. The pace is quick and every word counts.
Ludlum keeps the stage direction lean and the pace consistent. But I also love how he introduces the earth and rain into the narrative, but only briefly. The weather doesn’t distract us. The mentions are just enough to ground the violence in a physical environment that can be felt and heard; the men aren’t fighting in white space.
Lean is good but not too lean! Omitting the detail would render the scene inauthentic. Imagine reading this:
Really? So how did he manage that? Was is that easy? Jack Reacher’s good but he’s human. Readers still need to know how he won the day, how he was challenged, what obstacles he had to overcome. That way we can rally behind him.
Example: Bad Luck and Trouble Here’s the real extract from Lee Child’s Bad Luck and Trouble (Bantam, 2007, p. 492). Child gives us the detail, shows us the choreography of the fight, but it’s focused. None of the steps are repeated so we don’t get bored.
Child uses sentence fragments to accelerate the pace, and polysyndeton to introduce a sense of rampancy. And he deepens our interest by shifting the narrative distance – we move from observers in the wings to right inside Reacher’s head.
Summing up
For showing-it-all violence:
For reporting-after-the-fact violence:
A final word. If your scenes of violence include weapons or specialist fighting techniques, do your research. Some of your readers will know their guns and martial arts. Placing suppressors on pistols that don’t take them or getting your martial arts moves wrong will pull readers out of your story and provide the pedants with excuses to knock stars off your Amazon reviews. Further reading
About Louise Harnby
Louise Harnby is a line editor, copyeditor and proofreader who specializes in working with crime, mystery, suspense and thriller writers.
She is an Advanced Professional Member of the Chartered Institute of Editing and Proofreading (CIEP), a member of ACES, a Partner Member of The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), and co-hosts The Editing Podcast.
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