Constructing a first half so compelling it’s reader catnip
You want to write more than just a story they like. You want to pen one that drags them forward, hijacks their bedtime, and deposits them at the final page wondering what just happened to the last four hours of their life?
The Secret Formula (Kind of)
It’s not as if there’s a scientific formula, some kind of guaranteed set of steps (like some kind of narrative blueprint) that make any plot compelling. The writing process doesn’t work like that. But there are certain ingredients that help. So let’s break down the mechanics behind truly compulsive plots: the tension, the stakes, and the emotional grip that keeps readers glued even when nothing particularly explosive is happening on the page.
At some point, every new scribbler, trying to write a book, hits that maddening wall. The draft looks fine, the scenes work, the dialogue isn’t embarrassing. And yet the story simply refuses to generate that essential “just one more chapter” momentum. Maybe you’ve added twists. Maybe you’ve added jokes. Maybe you’ve even added a dragon, because why not.
And that, not spectacle, is what keeps readers turning pages.
When I first tried writing something even remotely gripping, I thought I needed to reinvent fiction itself. Creating an irresistible story isn’t about inventing something never-before-seen. It’s about telling the story only you could tell, rooted in relatable human tension. The universal writing structure behind nearly every great book is older than your browser history. Yes, I’m talking about Freytag’s Pyramid. You were probably introduced to in school while doodling dragons and fictional band logos in the margins of your notebook.
Freytag’s Pyramid is the structure of storytelling. What follows is kind of an upgraded version. The slightly more detailed structure I’ve discovered through experience, frustration, and the occasional forehead in contact with my desk.
The Hook (No, Not the Car-Chase Kind)
The Hook isn’t necessarily a car chase or a meteor heading toward Earth. More often, it’s something internal. Maybe a deeply rooted desire bumping up against a powerful fear. That tension has to exist before the big event crashes into your character’s life. If your protagonist feels totally fine at the start, your reader won’t feel much of anything either. The hook isn’t the external problem. It’s the hint that something inside this person is already falling apart..
The Inciting Incident (or: Goodbye, Cozy Bubble)
Next comes the Inciting Incident. This is the moment everything changes, even if that’s just a carefully curated illusion of control. The incident doesn’t need to be planet-threatening. It can be as simple as a spilled latte on the CEO’s laptop or a text message that really shouldn’t exist. The key is that this event pushes the protagonist outside their comfort zone. They can’t avoid the thing they’ve been avoiding any longer. They must react. That reaction becomes your first major jolt of story momentum.
The Build-Up. AKA “Everything Gets Messy Now”
After that come the consequences. Welcome to the Build-Up, where your character’s life becomes messier, weirder, and significantly less convenient. Now they have to face fallout from their earlier life choices, which means more internal wrestling and more questionable decision-making. This is where readers see the character’s quirks and flaws fully bloom. The hesitation. The overthinking. The hilarious mistakes. These are the reasons readers fall in love. Because the character feels human, not perfect.
The First Plot Point (Yes, They Choose Wrong First)
Now, it’s time for the First Plot Point. This is the moment your protagonist makes a decision that will change everything going forward. They’ll almost always make the wrong choice. Not because they’re dumb, but because fear is still steering the ship. They see what they want, but they aren’t brave enough to pursue it honestly yet. They’re still trying to avoid pain while chasing joy. It’s a delicate, doomed dance. And readers adore it.
The First Pinch Point: A Friendly Reminder That Things Will Get Worse
Once momentum is rolling, it’s time for the First Pinch Point. This is the tap on the shoulder that says, “Hey buddy, this is going to get worse.” Even without a supervillain cackling in the dark, novels need pressure. The world pushes back. Obstacles sharpen. The protagonist’s misbelief (the deeply flawed worldview they cling to) becomes their biggest enemy. Tension grows. Readers lean in.
Act Two: The Reactionary Hero (Panic with a Side of Denial)
Now we enter the glorious chaos of Act Two. The hero becomes what people who study story structure call the Pre-Midpoint Reactionary Hero. (I know; it’s a mouthful.) They respond to threats, but they aren’t leading the charge yet. They come up with a plan (usually a mediocre one) to get what they want without facing what they fear. It’s adorable. And frustrating. And utterly compelling. This is usually where dialogue starts popping, because the more the character tries to finesse the situation, the more their personality slips out, whether that means sarcasm, denial, or frantic attempts to appear competent.
The Midpoint: The Moment Everything Breaks (In the Best Way)
And then, boom. The Midpoint. The twist. The game-changer. This is the moment that flips the story on its head. Something happens. Maybe it’s a betrayal, a revelation, an unexpected disaster. It reveals the truth about what’s really at stake. Suddenly, the protagonist’s safe strategy crumbles. Their fear is no longer avoidable. The midpoint isn’t a surprise for shock value. It’s a deliberate tectonic shift. The story pivots from reactive to proactive. Now the character must evolve, or they’ll fail.
When you master the midpoint pivot, you take your story from “pretty good” to “Sorry, did someone yell ‘Fire’ a few minutes ago?” A compelling midpoint is what separates drafts abandoned in Google Drive from novels people binge-read during lunch breaks and in bathroom stalls.
By zeroing in on internal conflict, forcing characters out of comfort, escalating the consequences, and twisting the knife at the midpoint, you’ve built the spine of an irresistible story. You’ve given readers tension to crave, a character to root for, and stakes that keep rising. And yes, even your subplot about a missing cat can feel essential when framed through emotional urgency.
Writing a novel doesn’t require reinventing storytelling. It requires leaning into the messy, wonderful psychology of desire versus fear. Readers stay up too late not because your character has to defeat the dragon, but because they have to defeat the part of themselves that believes they can’t.
Make Their Life Worse. Then Worse Again
If you build a story where internal conflict pummels your protagonist, where every choice digs them deeper, where the midpoint hits like discovering there’s no coffee left in the cupboard — readers won’t put your book down. Not willingly. They’ll read until their eyeballs stage a protest and their phone battery taps out. And when they finally close the cover, they’ll mutter to themselves, “Just one more chapter… tomorrow.” That’s the magic. That’s the goal. And that’s how you transform your story from “nice try” into “notify next of kin; I’m busy reading.”
(Part 2 is coming. Because a truly unputdownable story always leaves you wanting more.)
This essay is one of a collection of pieces documenting the bedlam involved in writing and self-publishing my ongoing genre fiction series: The Misjudgements of Andy MacKay, available on Amazon.