A tweet is 280 characters. That feels tiny for a whole novel, and it is. Which is exactly why it makes a good test: if your story won’t fit, it’s not because it’s too rich. It’s because you haven’t yet worked out which of the many stories in your head is the one you’re telling.
We’ve already covered what a premise is and why it’s worth writing early. This time we’re taking the back off, like a watch, to look at the parts.
The parts
A premise that works usually has six things in it. Not always all of them, not always in this order.
- A character with a tag. Not “a woman”, but “the out-of-town librarian”. Three words, and you already know something about how she sees the world.
- Whatever breaks their normal. The event that starts the story: the dragon egg is stolen.
- What they set out to do about it. A goal you can see: find it.
- What stands in the way. A person, a circumstance, or both.
- A clock. A deadline. Optional, but it really tightens things up: six days, before the festival.
- A spark of irony. Something that clashes, that makes you smile or raise an eyebrow. That’s what turns a correct premise into one people want to read.
Four attempts
This is how it tends to go in real life. Nobody writes the good one first.
Attempt 1. A novel about a stolen dragon egg in a mountain town.
That’s a subject, not a story. There’s an object and a place, but nobody who wants anything. It could be a mystery, a picture book or the Valdrago tourist office brochure.
Attempt 2. A librarian investigates the theft of a dragon egg in her town.
Better: now somebody’s doing something. But why her and not the police? What’s in it for her? If she doesn’t find it, as far as we can tell, nothing happens. And if nothing happens, nobody turns the page.
Attempt 3. A librarian is accused of stealing the town’s dragon egg and has to find it to clear her name.
Now there’s something at stake: her name. And a personal reason to dig. It’s a perfectly decent premise. It’s missing two things: urgency and spark. She could take ten years to clear her name, and nothing in it clashes.
Attempt 4. When someone steals the dragon egg that the town of Valdrago has kept on display for three hundred years, Mara, the out-of-town librarian and prime suspect, has six days to find it before the festival, and the only person who can help her is the police officer determined to arrest her.
It’s all there. The tag (“out-of-town”, which also happens to be her sore spot). The event. The goal. The obstacle. The clock. And the spark: the one person who can help her is the one who wants her in handcuffs. That last bit also promises a romance without ever using the word.
Full disclosure: it’s 286 characters. Six over. We’re letting it slide, because there’s nothing in it to cut. The tweet rule is a compass, not a judge.
The usual traps
Giving the theme instead of the story. “A novel about loneliness and belonging.” Your book may well be about that (Mara’s is, underneath). But readers discover the theme by reading. The premise says what happens.
Giving away the twist. You don’t need to, and it usually spoils things. The premise of Wanted: One Dragon doesn’t say the egg hatched. That’s “Upside Down,” halfway through the book, and it lands better as a surprise, even for the person you’re pitching in the elevator.
Taking roll call. “Mara, Alex, Olivia, Bruno, the hairdresser, the head of the festival committee and the twins from the bar…” A premise with more than two names in it is a cast list. Keep your protagonist and, at most, whoever makes life hard for them.
Back-cover adjectives. “A thrilling, heartwarming, laugh-out-loud adventure.” That’s what the publisher says once the book exists. Your premise has to show it, not announce it. A cop who wants to arrest you and is also your only help is already funny.
A protagonist who just watches. If things happen to them in the premise but they don’t do anything, take another look. “Mara is accused” is the setup. “Has six days to find it” is what makes her the protagonist.
The “and also”. “…and also she uncovers a family secret and falls in love and the town is hiding a conspiracy.” Every “and also” is a subplot. Subplots are great. In the novel, not here.
A quick test
Once you have a version, read it to someone who knows nothing about your story. Then ask: “What do you think happens in the middle of the book?” If they come up with something, even if it’s not what you had in mind, your premise works: it started a story in their head. If they just look at you, a part is missing. Usually the fourth.
For today
Write your premise in four attempts, like the ones above. Don’t delete the earlier ones: seeing how it improved helps you spot what it was missing. Then go through the list of parts and check off the ones your last version has.
In Sunday Plot, your premise lives in Settings, in the field called “The novel in one sentence”, and guided mode asks for it in its very first step. You can change it whenever you like. You’ll probably rewrite it several times while you plan. That’s not failure. That’s the novel coming into focus.