Most writers obsess over having the perfect hook. Whether it’s a killer first line, or premise that immediately sucks the reader in.

A solid hook is great, but if there’s no story behind it, you won’t keep the reader engaged for long.

You've probably heard agent feedback like: "The writing is strong, but the story didn't quite work for me" or "It didn't feel like enough was happening." That doesn't necessarily mean your scenes are boring—it may mean your premise isn't pulling its weight.

For example: a woman receives a cryptic letter containing only her childhood address and a photograph of a tree. She hasn't lived in that house for twenty years, not since her younger brother disappeared without a trace. So, she goes back to her hometown to investigate.

Sounds intriguing, right? The writer certainly thought so. They spent 80,000 words building atmosphere, dropping hints, and creating an elaborate web of small-town secrets. The protagonist interviews former neighbors, discovers hidden family tensions, and slowly unravels what appears to be a conspiracy of silence.

But here's the problem: there's no emotional engine driving any of it.

The premise asks us to believe that a woman would uproot her entire life based on an unsigned letter about a twenty-year-old cold case. Why now? What's changed? The writer never answers this because they're too busy orchestrating mysterious encounters and cryptic conversations.

This is a case where "intriguing setup" has been mistaken for "compelling motivation."

A strong premise is the foundation on which the story is built—it’s what drives the narrative. The premise raises a compelling question or issue that the plot and characters work toward resolving.

A hook pulls the reader in. The narrative arc keeps them turning the pages. This manuscript had the first but completely lacked the second.

One of the issue I see in submissions is when key information is withheld—sometimes the entire premise is designed to protect a twist or mystery. The intention is good. Writers want readers to be curious. But too often, this ends in disappointment because once we get to the reveal, it doesn't justify the journey. (This is also why I read the synopsis before reading an entire manuscript)

If the truth of your story is something that could've been revealed in Chapter 2, "saving it" isn't strategy—it's deflection. You're creating the illusion of meaning through structure, not delivering actual meaning through story. This could also result in the reader feeling tricked.

Let’s go back to that sample manuscript. After 80,000 words of atmospheric buildup, it turns out the brother never actually disappeared. He staged his own disappearance because he was being bullied at school and wanted attention. He's been living two towns over, working at a hardware store, and simply never contacted his family because he "didn't know how to explain."

The twist is meant to be shocking. Instead, it's disappointing, frustrating and anti-climatic.

A good plot twist should feel both surprising and inevitable. It should make you want to immediately reread the story to catch all the clues you missed. Most importantly, it should deepen the story's themes rather than abandon them.

The brother-in-hiding twist fails on multiple levels:

No rational adult maintains a fake disappearance for twenty years over childhood bullying—at least not one that cares about their family. The timeline doesn’t feel plausible.

The protagonist's two-decade search becomes meaningless. Her pain, her family's grief, her entire character arc—all rendered pointless by a reveal that her brother was just being selfish and cowardly.

What is this story saying about family, loss, or the price of truth? Nothing meaningful. The twist doesn't illuminate the human condition; it just ends the plot.

This is what happens when “surprise” is prioritized over satisfaction. While the ending technically answers the central question, it completely undermines the emotional journey of the reader.

We’ve all seen versions of these ploys. The shocking revelation that explains everything, but means nothing. While I use TV shows as examples – I see them a lot in submissions. I think it’s rare to have a published book “jump the shark” - but if you know of one, please put it in the comments:

These tropes aren’t inherently bad – but when used to avoid creating actual character-driven conflicts and resolutions, they feel like cheats. In the end, they aren't really twists, they're convenient trap doors writers use when they've painted themselves into a corner.

So, if your big reveal could be replaced with "the aliens did it" without changing the story's emotional impact, there’s a problem.

Red-herrings aren’t just for thrillers and mysteries. They can be fairly useful in multiple genres. However, keep in mind red herrings still have to make sense.

A good one fits organically into the story. They should complicate the protagonist’s journey in a meaningful and plausible way. Even if they aren’t the “real” reason for something, they should add something productive to the story.

A cheap red herring is the equivalent of dangling a shiny object to distract the reader. They have no real connection to anything. It might be a character who seems suspicious for no reason, or a clue that’s dropped and then forgotten about. Most of the time these characters will feel obvious or tacked on, and can be frustrating to readers when it becomes clear they served no real purpose.

There are plenty of times when keeping secrets from your reader isn't manipulation—it's strategic writing.

The difference being: earned mystery deepens character and plot, while cheap ploys just delay plot information and have no emotional or narrative weight.

Consider Gone Girl. Flynn withholds Amy's true nature not to trick us, but to explore how well we really know the people closest to us. The revelation doesn't just change our understanding of Amy—it forces us to question Nick's reliability, our own assumptions about marriage, and the roles played in relationships. When the truth comes out, it doesn't negate everything that came before; it reframes it in a way that makes the story more profound.

Or take The Sixth Sense. The twist works because Malcolm's journey toward accepting his death mirrors the audience's journey toward understanding his reality. The withholding serves the emotional arc—we discover the truth at the exact moment Malcolm is ready to face it. Every scene before the revelation gains new meaning, but none of it feels false or manipulative in hindsight. (I absolutely went back to see the clues I’d missed the first time.)

These reveals, while shocking, served a purpose. The secrets exist to serve character growth and/or thematic depth. The timing of the reveal is driven by when the character and/or story are ready for that truth, not just a “gotcha” to the reader.

Resolution doesn't always mean everything ties up neatly. It means the central question of your story—the one that sent your character on their journey—gets answered in a way that often illuminates something about the human experience.

Back to the missing brother story. What if, instead of a selfish deception, the truth was that the brother had tried to run away but died in an accident the night he left? What if the protagonist's search uncovered not just his fate, but her own role in his desire to escape? What if the real mystery wasn't where he went, but why she never saw how much pain he was in?

Suddenly, the twenty-year search makes sense. The protagonist isn't just investigating a disappearance; she's confronting her own guilt and the person she was at fifteen. The resolution doesn't just solve the mystery—it transforms the character.

The twist still changes everything that came before it—but now it deepens the story instead of undermining it.

As I’ve said before, polish and great writing matters—but they won't save a story that isn't built on a solid foundation.

If you've read this far and recognize your writing in some of these examples, you're already ahead of the game. The ability to step back and examine your own work—to ask whether your premise truly carries your story, or if it’s story for story’s sake, is an important step.

You don't need to hide behind elaborate structures or withhold information to keep readers engaged. You need to give them characters worth caring about and conflicts and clues worth following.

Every writer has written themselves into a corner. Every writer has been tempted by the quick fix or easy out. These problems can be fixed.

A weak premise can be strengthened. A cheap twist can be replaced with an earned one.

The story you're trying to tell is worth telling. It’s all a matter of figuring out the right way to tell it. Easier said than done, I know. Nobody ever said writing a great book is easy.

Building a House of Cards: Story Without Structure

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