The Surprising Pitfall That Could Destroy Your Book’s Appeal—And How to Dodge It
Ever noticed how in real life, everyone’s nodding along, shaking hands, and saying “You’re right” feels all warm and fuzzy? But slap that same agreement onto a page, and suddenly—bam!—your story’s heartbeat flatlines. Strange, huh? See, as much as we love harmony off the page, fiction thrives on sizzling tension, sharp clashes, and the delightful friction between characters pushing and pulling at each other. It’s like watching two magnets try to convince you they should be best friends—spoiler alert: the sparks fly only when they repel. So, if you’ve ever wondered why your dialogue feels more like a dull chore than a nail-biter, here’s the kicker: agreement kills momentum. Dive in to discover why avoiding the cozy “yes, you’re right” can transform your writing from forgettable to can’t-put-down good. LEARN MORE
Agreement is polite in real life, yet on the page, it kills momentum
Here’s one of the best tips I can give you if you want to write a book readers can’t put down: Avoid agreement.
I know — it sounds backwards. In real life, agreement is a good thing. Harmony. Compromise. Mutual understanding. But in fiction? Agreement is a flatline. It dulls your dialogue and drains your tension. I’ve said this many times in my stories, but I’ll say it again: a good story needs conflict.
Page-turners thrive on friction. They’re driven by opposition — people who want different things, who see the same event through different lenses, who collide just when you think they’ll align. This is what keeps the readers reading.
Agreement Is a Scene Killer
Let me show you what I mean. Imagine this:
“I think that girl got kidnapped. We should report it to the dean.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
That’s not tension. That’s paperwork.
Now let me show you how this works in practice — in my latest book, Ghost in the Attic, which is now available on pre-order.
The inciting incident takes place late at night. Angela and her best friend — college students and roommates — sneak into the campus pool at night. They’re not supposed to be there. And while they’re swimming, they witness what looks very much like a kidnapping: a girl being carried out, unconscious, by two adults.
They agree on one thing: it was suspicious. But that’s where agreement ends.
Angela wants to report it. Her friend doesn’t.
Why? Because they weren’t supposed to be at the pool in the first place. Reporting what they saw means admitting they were breaking campus rules — and risking the scholarships they worked so hard to earn. Not to mention that there could have been a reasonable explanation. Maybe the girl was sick and that was her family taking her home. Unlikely.
Angela believes it’s worth the risk. Her friend doesn’t. That disagreement? That tension? It’s what sets the entire story in motion.
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