April Dávila

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Choosing Between Past and Present Tense in Fiction

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Have you ever paused mid scene and wondered whether your characters walked across the room or are walking? You are not alone. Many writers wrestle with tense. If you’ve ever caught yourself switching mid draft, or even mid paragraph, that does not mean you are doing it wrong. It means you are human.

Tense looks simple at the start of a manuscript, then quietly becomes a source of second guessing. The good news is that there is no single right answer. When you understand what each tense does well, you can choose the one that best supports your story and keep writing with confidence.

Why Tense Feels Tricky

Both past and present work beautifully in fiction. The key is consistency and intention. Each carries a different narrative energy. Knowing the difference helps you pick a lane and stay in it.

You may have noticed this in your own drafting. You start in past tense because it feels natural, then as the scene heats up, the verbs slide into present. That shift is not a failure, it is instinct. Think about how we tell stories out loud. We begin in the past (I walked into the store…), then when the moment turns intense, we slip into the now, (And then she says to me…) Present tense arrives when something feels urgent.

The Case for Past Tense

Most novels use past tense for good reasons:

  • It is the default mode of storytelling, familiar and comfortable for readers.
  • It offers flexible control of time, making flashbacks and timeline shifts smooth.
  • It tends to be invisible on the page, which can help the story feel effortless.

Past tense is especially helpful if your book spans generations, braids multiple timelines, or carries a reflective tone. If you like to revise as you go, the gentle distance of past tense can also make it easier to stay steady when working with emotionally charged material.

The Case for Present Tense

Present tense brings a vivid sense of now:

  • It creates immediacy, which can heighten tension and intimacy.
  • It keeps outcomes uncertain, a useful quality for high stakes stories.
  • It often pairs well with first person contemporary voices in literary and young adult fiction.

Done well, present tense feels raw and immersive, as if the reader is inside the moment with your characters. The trade off is that it demands careful attention. Even a small slip will tug a reader out of the spell, so vigilance matters.

A Quick Test

If you are undecided, run a simple experiment:

  1. Write the same short scene in past and in present.
  2. Notice which version feels more natural in your body as you draft.
  3. Notice where your emotional connection is strongest.
  4. Notice which version gives you more clarity or momentum.

This side by side test often reveals your best fit faster than thinking about it for days.

Do Not Let Tense Derail Your Draft

Here is the most important part: Do not let tense stop you from writing. If you notice inconsistencies midway through a draft, keep going. Make a quick note in the margin, then move on. You can align verbs later. Often, simply recognizing the pattern is enough to guide you toward a choice.

If you are early in the process, give yourself permission to try both. Use a few exploratory pages to test your voice and see how your characters want to be heard.

A Mini Practice To Build Confidence

Try this the next time you sit down to write:

  • Choose a scene you love, about 150 to 300 words.
  • Draft it in past. Read it out loud. Circle three places where the energy spikes.
  • Draft the same scene in present. Read it out loud. Circle three energy spikes.
  • Compare your circles. Which version carries the feeling you want the reader to have at the end of the scene. Commit to that tense for the next three chapters.

Final Thought

Tense is one piece of the larger puzzle of storytelling. Past or present, first or third, quiet or high concept, the power lives in your commitment to shape the work. Choose with intention, then move forward. The story only you can tell is waiting on the other side of that decision. Keep going.

Hooking the Reader: The Psychology of a Page-Turner

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What neuroscience can teach us about writing unforgettable first pages.

Writers talk a lot about “hooking the reader,” especially on that all-important first page. But what does that actually mean?

You might picture a dramatic moment: a car chase, a scream in the night, something big. But the truth is, the most effective hooks often whisper instead of shout. They draw us in not with volume, but with curiosity – and curiosity, it turns out, is a deeply human instinct.

Understanding how our brains respond to curiosity has completely changed the way I approach page one. Whether you’re revising a novel or just trying to figure out where your story even begins, here’s a look at the science of a page-turner – and how you can use it to write a first page that truly works.

Our Brains Hate Unanswered Questions

(And That’s Good News for Writers)

One of the most interesting psychological concepts I’ve come across is the Zeigarnik Effect. It’s the idea that our brains are wired to remember unfinished tasks more than completed ones. We crave closure, whether it’s in the form of a solved mystery or a resolved emotional arc.

This is exactly what stories offer us and what great first pages promise. A single question, a moment of tension, or a line of dialogue left unexplained can trigger that craving in a reader’s mind.

They lean in.
They want to know more.
They turn the page.

Let Me Share a Quick Story from My Own Writing Journey

When I was drafting my debut novel, I faced a challenge I think many writers can relate to.

A mentor read an early draft and gently pointed out that I had started the story too late. They suggested I needed to add about 100 pages before the point that I thought was the beginning.

A hundred pages.
I was stunned. But they were right.

That advice was a revelation. It helped me understand my characters’ motivations, their emotional journeys, and most importantly, the true starting point of the story. That experience taught me how critical the opening really is and how easy it is to miss your mark without even realizing it.

3 Kinds of Hooks That Trigger Curiosity

You don’t need explosions or elaborate set-ups to hook your reader. You just need to light a small fire of curiosity and let it burn.

Here are three types of hooks that work beautifully on the first page.

1. The Intriguing Situation

Start your story in motion. When readers feel like they’re walking into something already happening, they instinctively want to catch up.

2. The Emotional Question

Sometimes a hook isn’t about plot, it’s about emotion. When a first page tugs at the heart, it creates instant connection.

3. The Contradiction or Paradox

Contradictions grab attention. They interrupt our expectations and make us want to understand. And then, resist the urge to explain it right away. Give your reader space to wonder.

Common Mistakes That Kill Curiosity

A strong hook can pull readers in, but a misstep can push them away just as quickly. Here are a few habits to watch for:

❌ Too Much Backstory Too Soon

I get it – we love our worlds and our characters. But the first page isn’t the place for a history lesson. Start with something happening now, and layer the backstory in later, when we’re already invested.

❌ Cliché Openings

Some openings are just too familiar. Unless something truly surprising follows, we’ve seen it before.

❌ Explaining Too Much Too Soon

If you open with a compelling mystery, don’t explain it right away. Let the reader sit with the question for a bit. Tension builds when we’re allowed to wonder.

Crafting a First Page That Truly Hooks

Try this:

  1. Highlight the sentence on your first page that raises the most interesting question.
  2. If you can’t find one, brainstorm three ways to introduce curiosity whether through emotion, tension, or contradiction.
  3. Read your page aloud. Where do you lose interest? Start from there.

A good first page doesn’t answer all the questions. It asks the right ones and makes us care enough to seek the answers.

Do You Really Need a High Concept Idea?

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There’s a moment in nearly every writer’s journey where we ask ourselves: is my story “big” enough? Maybe you’ve heard the term “high concept” thrown around in writing groups or seen it on agency wishlists. It sounds impressive. It sounds like something we’re supposed to have.

Understanding what a high concept idea is (and isn’t) can help you make smarter choices about how you pitch, position, and shape your story.

What Is a High Concept Idea?

Put simply, a high concept idea is a story that can be summed up in one line and immediately hooks people.

Think:
“A teenage girl takes mushrooms and meets her 39-year-old future self.” (And, btw, if you haven’t seen My Old Ass, you really should)
Or:
“A team of specialists can infiltrate your dreams and implant ideas.”

Those are the kinds of premises that make agents and readers sit up. They’re quick to understand, easy to pitch, and loaded with story potential. The classic Hollywood definition? “A unique idea that sells itself.”

But here’s the key: a high concept idea doesn’t guarantee a good book. It just makes the story easier to pitch.

Why Writers Get Hung Up on High Concept

In a recent conversation with writers in our weekly Q&A, one writer wondered if her heartfelt story about a family dealing with change was “too quiet.” Another described her novel-in-progress as “probably too simple” to stand out.

It’s a vulnerable feeling especially in a world that often rewards splashy hooks and instant marketability.

But here’s what I shared with them: stories with quieter premises can absolutely find an audience. What matters most is execution.

Case in point: Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead is, at its core, about a boy growing up in difficult circumstances. Not exactly high concept. But it’s a stunning, emotionally rich novel. Why? Because it’s masterfully told.

The One Thing High Concept Can’t Replace

Even the most dazzling premise won’t carry a novel if the characters feel flat or the structure doesn’t hold. Many of us have had the experience of picking up a “big idea” book only to set it aside after a few pages because the execution didn’t deliver.

High concept stories need just as much care and craft as quiet ones. 

Some of the most satisfying novels don’t sound remarkable when reduced to a sentence. What makes them unforgettable is the way the author builds tension, grounds the reader in a vivid world, and reveals the complexity of her characters.

That’s the magic of execution.

So, Do You Need a High Concept Idea?

In short: no.

You don’t need a high concept idea to write a good book, to get published, or to reach readers. What you need is clarity, care, and a story only you can tell. That might come in the form of a big “what if?” or it might be tucked quietly into the space between two characters who love each other but can’t quite say it.

If you do happen to have a high concept idea? Wonderful. Make sure your execution lives up to it. If not, don’t let it stop you. Your story matters now, more than ever. 

Mindfulness and the Writing Life: How Meditation Supports Creativity

“Meditation is not about becoming a different person. It’s about being the person you already are, with a little more clarity, a little more space, and a lot more presence.”
—Dan Harris

If you’ve ever stared at a blinking cursor while juggling too many ideas and writing none of them down, you’re in good company. Writing demands attention, clarity, and emotional presence, and those are hard to come by in a noisy, overstimulated world.

Many writers find that treating meditation as the doorway into a writing session creates a reliable shift. It doesn’t have to be elaborate. 10 minutes can make all the difference. 

A 10-Minute Reset for Your Writing Brain

The next time you sit down to write, try this:

  1. Set a timer for 5–10 minutes.
  2. Sit comfortably. Close your eyes or soften your gaze.
  3. Choose one anchor: your breath, sounds in the room, or the feeling of your feet on the floor.
  4. When your mind wanders (it will), notice it and return to the anchor.

You’re not trying to stop thoughts. You’re practicing the act of noticing when your thoughts wander so you can let them go and come back to the anchor. This skill will help you come back to your story (time and again) after doubt, distraction, or the sudden urge to fold laundry tries to derail your work. 

Balancing Stillness and Momentum

Writing lives in a paradox. On one hand, it asks for steady action: showing up, putting down words, pushing a story forward even when it feels awkward. On the other, it benefits from stillness: pausing long enough to listen and notice what wants to emerge.

Mindfulness helps us hold both. It teaches us to pause without stalling, to return without force. The practice is one of showing up; the ease is allowing space. Together, they create a rhythm that feels sustainable.

Writing with Confidence Starts in Stillness

Something shifts when we pause before we write. We notice the quieter ideas. We hear what our characters are really trying to say. We work with less fear and more trust. And when fear does show up, we can meet it with curiosity instead of paralysis.

Meditation and writing aren’t separate practices. They support each other. In both, we notice what’s happening and respond with intention.

You Don’t Have to Be “Zen” to Start

You don’t need hours of meditation or a perfect cushion. Start small:

  • Five minutes before you write
  • One breath between scenes
  • A short walk before revising

Each return to the present moment strengthens your creative foundation. Writing doesn’t require force so much as presence.

If you’re feeling scattered, close your eyes before your next session. Take one breath. Notice it. Then another. Let the world fall away for a moment and see what emerges on the page. 

A few steady breaths can calm the nervous system and lower the noise so you can hear what the work is asking for. With repetition, this practice builds the muscles that matter: steadier focus, kinder self-talk, clearer choices. Revision comes with less flinch and more precision.

Meditation won’t write the pages for you, but it can help make the pages possible, replacing force with presence, panic with perspective, and scatter with rhythm. Each return to the breath strengthens the habit of returning to the work. That is the quiet engine of a sustainable writing practice: not control, not perfection, just the willingness to begin again.

Why Workshops S**k and Why Professional Feedback Matters

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Over the years, I’ve met so many writers who stopped writing for months (or even years) not because they didn’t care anymore, but because of what happened in a workshop. Sometimes it was one awful night of careless comments. More often, it was the slow accumulation of feedback that didn’t quite land. Either way, the result was the same: a bruise that never fully healed.

And I get it. Workshops can be wonderful. Every once in a while you stumble into a magical group where the chemistry works, the feedback is thoughtful, and the support is genuine. But more often than not, the traditional workshop model lets writers down and sometimes it does real harm.

Why Traditional Workshops Miss the Mark

Let’s start with the basics. Most workshops drop you into a room (or Zoom) with total strangers. Everyone comes with different goals, different levels of experience, and often no training in how to give constructive feedback. Even with the best intentions, someone who writes horror probably isn’t equipped to give a romance writer the kind of feedback she truly needs.

And then there’s the structure itself: you’re expected to critique work you may not care about, while others do the same to yours. That’s time and energy you could be investing in your own writing. The community piece, while nice in the moment, usually fizzles out when the workshop ends. People drift, support evaporates, and you’re left back at your desk alone.

Worse still, workshops aren’t always safe spaces. The model was built decades ago for a narrow slice of writers – mainly young, white, academically minded men. For anyone outside that mold, the environment can leave you feeling invisible or dismissed, as if your stories don’t count as “serious” or “universal” enough to matter. And here’s the thing: even for those the model was originally built to serve, it’s limiting. All writers, every single one of us, gain more creatively, professionally, and personally when they’re in spaces that welcome a broader range of voices.

What Writers Actually Need

Most writers don’t need twelve half-baked opinions on their pages. What they need is professional feedback – specific, thoughtful notes from someone who understands their genre and their goals. Notes that respect the stage of the project, that honor the writer’s voice, that help the story grow instead of tearing it down. 

Writers also need consistency. A space to return to week after week. A community where they feel safe to experiment, safe to stumble, safe to keep going.

And above all, they need to feel seen. Seen not just as someone who’s “being workshopped,” but as a writer in process.

Feedback Should Fuel, Not Wound

The best feedback doesn’t send you spiraling. It sends you back to the page with energy. It points out what’s working, where you can lean in more, and where you might sharpen. It aligns with your goals for the story instead of imposing someone else’s vision on it.

Too often, workshop feedback feels like judgment. It’s vague (“I just didn’t connect with the character”) or unnecessarily harsh (“This doesn’t work at all”). Without context or empathy, even well-meant notes can leave a writer second-guessing every choice.

But in the right hands, feedback becomes fuel. It builds clarity and momentum. It reminds you that you’re capable of finishing the story you’ve started.

Why Community Matters More Than Critique

Yes, feedback matters. But without context, it can derail a project faster than it helps. What writers truly thrive on is community, people who know their voice, who’ve watched their work evolve, who can reflect patterns over time and encourage growth without shame.

In a healthy community, feedback isn’t random. It’s calibrated. It’s honest and encouraging, grounded in a shared understanding of what the writer is trying to do. And because it comes from people invested in your voice, you begin to trust your own instincts more deeply.

Time to Rethink the Writing Space

The workshop model isn’t evil. It’s just outdated. It was built for another time, under narrower definitions of who gets to call themselves a writer. We’re not living in that time anymore.

Imagine instead a space where you don’t have to perform, where you can write alongside others, get professional guidance when you’re ready, and never feel pressured to rip apart someone else’s work just to earn your seat.

That’s the kind of community I believe in. It’s the kind of space I’m helping to build.

Find a Space That Honors Your Voice

If you’ve ever left a workshop feeling smaller than when you arrived, you’re not alone. Writing is hard enough without the added weight of careless critique. You deserve a space that nurtures your voice, that gives you feedback when you’re ready, and that sustains your energy instead of draining it.

Curious what that feels like in practice? Come join the Sit Write Here Mindful Writing Community. Try it for ten days, see how it lands. You may find it’s exactly the kind of writing space you’ve been needing all along.