Create Compelling Suspense and Tension No Matter What’s Happening in Your Story

Photo by Sean Foster on Unsplash

Today’s post is by editor Tiffany Yates Martin. Join her on Wednesday, Dec. 11, for the online class Mastering Suspense & Tension.

Unless you’ve been living in an underground bunker devoid of wifi access for the last months—or let’s say decades—chances are you’ve been experiencing a fair amount of conflict and uncertainty recently.

These are uncomfortable feelings, and most of us peace- and security-craving people try to avoid them. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling all full up on tension and suspense at the moment, thank you very much.

But as is so often the case, what makes for effective story doesn’t necessarily reflect our everyday lives, and questions, uncertainties, and friction are the lifeblood of story.

These crucial story elements may be easy to instill in scenes of setback, conflict or challenge, but not every story or scene lends itself to overt tension and suspense. You won’t always have obvious antagonists or arguments. Not every car ride ends in a crash. There aren’t knife-wielding killers lurking behind every door (hopefully).

Some stories are “quieter.” So how can you keep tension strong without scenes of overt tension and suspense?

Lean away, instead of leaning in

It’s an understandable instinct to lean in, full speed ahead, when your characters are headed in the right direction: meeting the love interest, surmounting a challenge, moving closer to a goal. But though you may be moving the story forward, if the road is too smooth, readers may lose interest.

Authors tend to relax tension in these moments: letting their characters lean into the romantic attraction, bask in the victory and enjoy the spoils, relish and flourish in the desired situation.

But tension is the rope pulling your readers through the story—and you are the sherpa holding the other end and leading them forward. The moment you let the rope go slack, movement stops. Even when the path evens out, you must keep that rope taut and pull your reader along.

Let’s use an example to explore what that looks like in story. Say your story premise is that your main character is being stalked by an ex and feels unsafe in her home, so she takes a job at a kids’ summer camp to hide out.

The bulk of the story may take place in the camp, where the protagonist makes new friends, finds romance, and discovers new purpose in her life with the job of leading the kids. But if your main source of story tension is the threat of her stalker and the suspense of whether he will find her, that’s not strong enough to sustain the entire story, and the urgency dissolves as soon as she’s “safe” at the camp. So you still have to find ways to instill every scene, every page—I’d venture to say nearly every line—with the questions and conflicts that are the rocket fuel of compelling story.

The key: Look ahead, not backward (you can’t pull a rope from behind), and focus on the obstacles, challenges, setbacks, and uncertainties in the current situation.

Rather than having the protagonist lean into what’s happening, think in terms of finding ways for her to lean away from it instead. Even amid her journey of self-discovery, look for what she resists, but what draws her in despite herself. For instance, rather than embracing the sanctuary of her hidey-hole, what if she resents having to flee? What if she’s outraged or irritated or upset about leaving her life and job and friends and everything comfortable and familiar? What if she disdains the facilities, complains to everyone around her, finds the kids annoying, phones it in as a counselor?

Authors often worry that a character and storyline like that will be whiny or off-putting or unlikable, jeopardizing reader investment. But there’s plenty of humor and pathos and even endearment to be mined from characters who bemoan and resist their situations—witness films like As Good As It Gets or Private Benjamin or Stripes or 28 Days, or books like Bonnie Garmus’s Lessons in Chemistry, Emily Giffin’s Something Blue, Jonathan Tropper’s This Is Where I Leave You, or Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove.

Rather than alienating readers from the character, you can make us root for their comeuppance or turnaround or redemption. And now you’ve got the makings of a powerful character arc, and somewhere to build from in showing how your on-the-lam protagonist slowly comes to appreciate her surroundings, despite her initial resistance … and that’s where the gold lies.

Now the stakes are higher. Now we get to see how she comes to accept and then appreciate the camp’s wild beauty and the nature and people around her, and you have built-in opportunities to mine endless tension from every single scene:

Rather than relaxing gratefully into the safety offered by the camp’s remoteness on her arrival, maybe she’s horrified by the primitive conditions?Instead of feeling safe and less lonely when assigned to a bunk with three other counselors, what if she squirms at the lack of privacy, feels excluded because all of them seem to already know each other, and bemoans they’re all at least a decade younger than she is?What if, instead of leaning into her romantic interest, she resists it, still stung by her last relationship that turned dangerous and sent her running here, or put off by the other character’s relentless, irritating positivity and cheer … even as she’s powerfully drawn to that person and their annoyingly happy energy despite herself. Every rom-com writer knows that if two characters feel a potent gravitational pull to one another, delicious tension arises from resisting it, not immediately embracing it (or each other).What if, instead of leaning right into a brand-new sense of purpose with the kids, she finds the little rugrats fairly disgusting, until an out-of-control mud fight drags her into their sense of play? Or she’s hilariously inappropriate with them … yet her realness and flaws hit a chord with the kids and to her surprise they adore her and the other counselors start asking how she’s reaching them so effectively? Or she’s the only one who finally connects with the troubled little boy who doesn’t ever speak?

All these scenarios give the author so much more juice to squeeze in the story, a series of little battles for your protagonist to face so you create the ups and downs that are the backbone of compelling story, instead of a smooth, boring straightaway.

And while the overarching suspense may come from the premise—if she fails or is kicked out, she’s right back in her stalker’s path—you make the stakes far greater than that by introducing new, even more meaningful suspense questions related to her inner journey: Does she have the stones to tough it out in the wilderness? Will she fail as a counselor or get kicked out and lose her safe retreat? Will she push away the love interest who is exactly what she needs to let go of her cranky or narrow worldview? Will she get out of her own damn way and embrace the opportunities she’s been thrust into?

Braiding together all these uncertainties that are directly related to her character journey weaves a rope strong enough to draw readers all the way through. Suspense questions like this pack much more punch than just the threat of her stalker—which is merely a framing device, a setup, a thread too slender from which to hang the entire story’s tension and suspense.

No matter your genre or premise, tension and suspense are the fuel of propulsive story—perhaps never more so than in the “quieter” stories and the upward trajectories.

That’s when it matters most to keep your foot on the pedal. Remember that triumphs are most compelling when the hero has to fight for them, so give them plenty of obstacles, challenges, setbacks, and uncertainties to navigate even when they’re on the right road.

Note from Jane: If you enjoyed this post, join us on Wednesday, Dec. 11 for the online class Mastering Suspense & Tension.