Crafting Gripping Narratives: Who, What, Where, When, Why, & How Part 2
Part Two: When & How
In Part One, we explored WHO—The Eye, the lens through which a narrative is told. Now we turn to the next two pillars of storytelling, When & How. Every story unfolds along a timeline. Every narrative rests on a structure. Together, they form the spine of the reader’s experience.
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WHEN: The Clock
All stories run on a clock. Not the clock on the wall, but the internal clock that governs how the narrative flows. Before a single scene unfolds, before a character speaks or a shadow falls across the floor, the writer must choose their clock. And the mechanism that drives that clock is tense.
Tense shapes how time moves through the story. It controls rhythm, emotional distance, and the reader’s sense of urgency. It’s the difference between recounting a haunting memory or living through the haunting itself.
Past or present tense isn’t just a grammatical toggle. It decides when the reader is chasing echoes or breathing in the moment. Whether they’re sifting through the ashes of what happened … or bracing for what’s happening now.
PAST TENSE: The Inevitable
It’s the most popular choice in fiction, and for good reason. Readers fall into its rhythm easily. It mirrors how we tell stories in real life: “this happened,” “they ran.” That familiarity makes it the most common pairing with Third-Person POV, especially in genres like crime thrillers, historical fiction, and epic fantasy, where timelines are critical.
Past tense gives the writer tighter control over pacing because it lets you decide how long to stay in a moment. If you want to slow things down, you can linger in a character’s thoughts, stretch out their observations, or let them replay something that already happened.
If you want to speed things up, you can skip over the in‑between moments — Later that night … By morning … Before she knew it … and jump straight to the next action scene. Past tense makes those leaps feel natural.
It works because past tense lets the narrator guide the reader’s anticipation — slowing when you want tension to simmer, speeding up when danger is closing in, and planting clues that pay off later.
Foreshadowing is easy. You can drop a quiet hint with just a few words: She’d regret leaving the door unlocked. He didn’t know it yet, but that call changed everything. These small nudges tell the reader something is coming without revealing what.
Flashbacks feel seamless, letting you slip into earlier moments without jolting the reader. Perspective shifts land more naturally, especially in third‑person limited or omniscient. And because the narrator is recounting events, foreshadowing and dramatic irony flourish—the perfect setup for future revelations or consequences.
Past tense is built on revelation, creating a sense of inevitability. The reader knows something has already happened, and they’re trying to understand how and why. That alone creates an undercurrent of suspense. Mysteries thrive on curiosity, dread, and the slow tightening of tension, and past tense has all three. The reader pieces together clues alongside the narrator, knowing the whole truth hasn’t surfaced yet—and that awareness is what keeps them turning the pages.
PRESENT TENSE: The Uncertainty
Present tense, on the other hand, immediately throws readers into the action. Every moment unfolds in real time, creating an instinctive sense of urgency. It’s happening right now. There is no distance, no safety net, no hindsight—just raw experience. Every decision, every danger, every revelation hits with immediate force.
The reader experiences events alongside the character, step by step. Emotions—fear, confusion, excitement, adrenaline—hit harder because the character is feeling them in the moment. And with no knowledge of what’s ahead, suspense sharpens. The narrator can’t hint at the future or soften the blow. The reader discovers the truth at the same time the character does.
Present tense often pairs with first-person POV, where readers don’t just observe events; they’re inside the protagonist’s mind, reacting as the protagonist does. But this immediacy comes with a risk. The reader can become overwhelmed by the constant pressure of the moment, especially in scenes filled with fear, confusion, or chaos. Present tense is potent, but it demands careful pacing so the intensity doesn’t become exhausting.
Tense and POV in Action
Understanding how tense and POV combine to shape a scene can dramatically influence what the reader perceives.
FBI Tracker Adrian Dillard leaned back in his chair; his long legs outstretched under a table tucked in a dark corner of the room.
Written in third person, past tense, what does this tell the reader? We know his name and what he does for a living. We have a brief description—a table tucked into a dark corner of the room. There’s a subtle hint of confidence in his posture and physical presence. And the moment raises a natural question. What is an FBI agent doing in this shadowed, suspenseful location?
Now let’s look at this same scene in first-person, present tense.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs beneath the table tucked into the darkest corner of the room.
We know less. There is no identification of the narrator—no name, no title, no context. The reader is inside Adrian’s head before they know who he is. The tone becomes more intimate and immediate, but less authoritative. The mystery shifts from What is an FBI agent doing here? to Who is this person, and why is he hiding in the dark?
In first‑person, present tense, the writer must supply those grounding details much earlier, because the reader has no context beyond the narrator’s immediate perceptions.
SHIFTING TENSES
Unintended tense shifts within the same story are among the more common errors in writing. A scene begins in the past tense, then—without warning—the narrative slips into the present tense. Or the reverse happens: a present-tense scene suddenly drifts into the past. It’s typically the result of the writer being caught up in the moment, following the emotional current of the scene rather than the structural choice they made at the beginning.
The problem is that the reader feels the shift immediately, even if they can’t articulate why. When a writer unintentionally shifts tense, even a single verb — saw becoming see, walked becoming walks — can jolt the reader out of the story. In a thriller or mystery—genres that rely on momentum, suspense, and tension—that break can be costly.
Tense-shifting also muddies the emotional logic of the scene. Past tense carries the weight of hindsight; present tense carries the urgency of now. When the two collide without purpose, the emotional signal becomes chaotic. Is the narrator remembering this moment, or living it? The reader can’t tell, and that confusion weakens the scene’s impact.
At its core, tense is the story’s timeline. It tells the reader where they are in relation to the events on the page—what has already happened, what is unfolding now, and what emotional distance exists between the two. When that timeline slips, even briefly, the reader loses their footing. When tense, whether past or present, is maintained consistently, it becomes a powerful guide, carrying the reader through the story with clarity and purpose.
HOW: The Blueprint
The importance of structure in storytelling cannot be overstated. Structure is the framework that shapes how a narrative unfolds, influencing pacing, emotional impact, and reader engagement. Without it, even the most compelling plot can feel disjointed or lose momentum.
Few topics spark livelier debate among writers than how to approach the writing process: the divide between plotters and pantsers. Both approaches can produce powerful stories, but each comes with its own strengths and challenges.
Plotters meticulously craft outlines, planning every twist and turn before they write the first chapter. A solid outline provides direction and reduces the likelihood of writer’s block. With a clear structure in place, it’s easier to maintain continuity in plot and character development, which often means fewer rewrites and a smoother editing process.
But plotting isn’t without its pitfalls. A rigid outline can feel like guardrails that limit spontaneity, making the story predictable if the writer isn’t careful. It’s not unusual to become so absorbed in planning that starting the actual writing becomes a hurdle in itself. And when the story wants to deviate from the outline, adjusting it can feel like wrestling rather than flowing with the narrative.
Pantsers, on the other hand, dive in headfirst, letting the story reveal itself as they write. They follow intuition, discovery, and the thrill of uncovering the plot alongside their characters. This freedom often sparks unexpected twists, especially since it’s easy to pivot mid‑story when inspiration strikes.
Yet this approach has its own challenges. Without a roadmap, plot threads or character motivations can drift off course. It’s surprisingly easy to write yourself into a corner with no clear way out. And when the momentum stalls, writer’s block can hit hard because there’s no outline to fall back on. The editing phase can also become far more demanding, sometimes requiring major restructuring to fix where the plot and characters came off the rails.
No matter where a writer falls on that spectrum, every story ultimately relies on structure to hold it together. Several well-established frameworks serve as effective guides for shaping a narrative, each offering its own advantages: the Three-Act Structure, the Five-Act and Seven-Act expansions, the Hero’s Journey, and the Fichtean Curve. Among these, the two most widely used are the Three-Act Structure and the Fichtean Curve.
Three-Act Structure
This is the most traditional approach, dividing the story into three distinct phases: setup, confrontation, and resolution. It’s versatile across genres, especially popular in cozy mysteries and romance, where its straightforward structure supports a smooth, engaging reading experience. At its core, it ensures the story has a beginning, middle, and end with a logical flow that keeps the reader engaged.
- Act One — Setup
Here, the protagonist and the world they move through are introduced. This is where a writer knocks the character off balance with an inciting incident that changes everything. From there, the pressure builds. Each step pushes the protagonist closer to the central conflict until they hit the first significant turning point. The moment when the story locks into place, and there’s no going back.
- Act Two — Confrontation
The second act is where the trouble deepens. The protagonist runs into obstacles, complications, and revelations that test them at every turn. Tension rises as the stakes grow sharper, forcing the character to act. This is the heart of the story, where pacing, suspense, and emotional investment matter most. Every choice tightens the grip of the conflict.
- Act Three — Resolution
The third act brings everything to a head. The climax hits—the moment of highest consequence, when choices are made, and stakes reach their peak. This is what I like to call the point of Deadly Peril. Afterward comes the fallout. The consequences of the climax and the settling of unfinished questions. Loose ends are tied off, and the reader is left with a sense of closure.
The Fichtean Curve
This dynamic structure is all about keeping the tension high and dropping the character straight into the action. There’s no easing into the story with a long setup. Instead of one major obstacle, the protagonist faces a rapid series of escalating challenges, each forcing them to react and raising the stakes. The climax becomes the breaking point—everything boils over in a decisive moment—followed by a swift resolution that handles the aftermath. The Fichtean Curve is ideal for thrillers, mysteries, and any genre where nonstop suspense keeps the reader hooked until the final page.
Both structures effectively guide stories, but they differ in pacing and emphasis. The Fichtean Curve prioritizes relentless escalation, keeping the reader on edge as a series of mounting crises unfolds.
The Three-Act Structure, by contrast, offers a more gradual build, allowing for deeper character development while maintaining a steady, balanced narrative.
Choosing the right structure depends on the story’s needs; whether it demands intense momentum or a slower, evolving arc. Regardless of the approach, structure shapes a story’s impact and helps ensure it resonates with readers.
Many well‑known novels follow these structures. The Wizard of Oz, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, and The Hunger Games are classic examples of the Three‑Act Structure. Books like Gone Girl, A Game of Thrones, and A Confederacy of Dunces utilize the Fichtean Curve structure.
In the third and final article in our series, Crafting Gripping Narratives: Who, What, Where, When, Why, & How, we’ll shift our focus to What, Where, & Why.
Excerpts were drawn from the following novels by Anita Dickason
