Stopping time when it counts.
Most of the craft of storytelling is about maintaining momentum. Keep the energy moving. Don’t let the reader’s attention flag. Push forward, forward, forward. But here’s the secret that separates good storytelling from great storytelling: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is stop.
This is the in-breath. It’s the moment before the moment. The pause that makes the payoff land harder.
Think of a punch. The faster you throw it, the less damage it does. The more you coil up first, the more force it carries. You pull back. You gather energy. Then you release. The pause creates the power.
In story terms, this means invoking the senses at a critical moment. Building tension deliberately. Slowing the pacing down right before something major happens.
My shipwreck story uses this perfectly. The serene sky. The beautiful, normal moment. Then “the boiling sea.” Then “REEF! REEF!” — the moment of actual crisis. But the power doesn’t come from the crisis itself. It comes from the contrast. The pause between peace and danger. That moment of recognition. The in-breath before the scream.
Here’s the trap: this costs something. An in-breath is a disruption of momentum, which means if you overuse it, people get tired of waiting. It only works if it’s rare and earned. If you’re stopping for every emotional beat, you’re just being slow.
The rule is simple: use it once, maybe twice, in any significant piece of writing. Only at the moment that genuinely requires it. Only when you’ve built enough momentum that stopping creates contrast. Only when the payoff is worth the pause.
The in-breath says: pay attention now. Everything slows. Everything narrows to a single point. Then the moment arrives, and because you slowed down to meet it, it hits with full force.
That’s pacing. That’s rhythm. That’s the difference between writing that runs through you and writing that sticks.