NARRATIVE CONSISTENCY

A black wooden sign showing the words Consistency is more important than perfection

Plot Holes & Other Catastrophes

A Guide to Narrative Consistency

Once Upon a Mind-Melting Continuity Error…

Why are we all so besotted with stories? Because the best of them make us forget about the rent, the dog's vet bill, and that slightly suspicious fridge smell we've been ignoring. Whether it's a quiet whisper or a thunderous roar, great storytelling grips us, shapes us, and occasionally makes us cry in public.

It's why readers stay up until 3am thinking “just one more chapter,” only to emerge hours later, bleary-eyed and betrayed by the sunrise. That, dear scribbler, is the power of storytelling.

But to pull this off—to truly cast the spell—you've got to keep your story believable. Not “realistic,” necessarily, but logically sound within its own world. And that means keeping everything consistent. No plot twist should feel like it was dropped in by a confused time traveller. No character should wake up and act like a completely different person for no reason (unless they're actually possessed—then, fine).

So, how do we avoid being metaphorically egged by our readers? Let's get stuck in.

Welcome to Your World – Now Don't Break It

So you've crafted a glorious new world—complete with mystical beasts, rebel princesses, or possibly cybernetically-enhanced ducks. Wonderful. But even the most fantastical settings must operate with internal logic.

Readers will accept nearly anything—telepathic fungi, invisible dragons, sentient toasters—so long as you stick to your own rules. The moment you break them, your readers will spot it. And then they'll spot the exit.

Case in point: Game of Thrones: Season 8. We were promised a brutal world where no one is safe. Then Sam survives the undead horde by... being there? With no defence and no explanation? Suspension of disbelief snapped harder than a Valyrian steel sword.

Make your world's rules early. Stick to them like a hobbit to second breakfast.

Pacing & Tone: The Rhythm Section of Your Novel Orchestra

You wouldn't play a funeral dirge at a toddler's birthday party—unless you're writing that kind of story. (In which case, carry on, you delightful goblin.) But for the rest of us, matching pacing and tone is vital to keeping our readers happily ensnared.

Let's start with pacing. This isn't about speed; it's about flow. Think of it like breathing. Fast-paced scenes—your chases, arguments, dragons bursting through ceilings—should quicken the pulse. But too many of them and your reader won't just be on the edge of their seat—they'll fall off it and collapse in a heap. You need contrast. Slow moments give your story weight. They're where your characters reflect, relationships develop, and the plot takes a breath before the next storm.

On the other hand, a book that moves slower than a tortoise in a hammock risks being abandoned entirely. So balance it. Use pace like a well-placed spice—bold when needed, subtle when necessary.

Now for tone. Whether your story is melancholic, whimsical, razor-sharp or dark as a tax audit, the emotional resonance should stay consistent. A light-hearted romcom shouldn't suddenly dip into grimdark existential horror—unless that's the point, and you've given us fair warning. Otherwise, it's like watching someone crack jokes at a funeral: confusing, jarring, and likely to get you escorted out by security.

Your story's tone is its emotional promise. Honour it. Be playful, bleak, charming, brutal—just don't do all of them at once. Readers signed up for a ride, not a mood swing.

Characters: Not Just Mood Swings in Trousers

Imagine a graph. On one end: a character who never changes (yawn). On the other: one who does absolutely anything, with no rhyme, reason, or regret (utter chaos). Somewhere in the middle? Gold.

Consistency in character behaviour is crucial. If your pacifist monk suddenly goes full John Wick with no explanation, your readers won't gasp—they'll groan. Unless you've foreshadowed their descent into madness or a shocking reveal, you're just throwing darts at a dartboard blindfolded and drunk.

Readers should know your characters—not just what they'll do, but what they won't. That's what makes their choices powerful.

Ned Stark won't lie. Ramsay Bolton won't be nice. Batman won't kill. (Unless he's in certain films, but let's not start that fight.)

The Joy of Labels: Name It or Confuse Everyone

Ah yes, names, places, and made-up lingo. It might seem dull, but this is where your world gets its flavour. “Mordor” sounds grim. “Flufflebottom Hollow” less so.

But don't stop at snazzy names—be consistent. If your magical relic is called the “Chronos Cradle” in chapter three, don't call it “the Time Nest” later on and expect readers not to notice.

Make a glossary. Create a world bible. List character names, nicknames, hometowns, eye colours, moral codes, and the one food they'll always hate. Future-you will thank you. So will your editor.

Narrators: The Voice in Your Head Needs a Backstory

Every story has a narrator—even if they're sneakily invisible. But here's the bit many new writers miss: that narrator isn't you. (Unless you're writing memoir, in which case, carry on.)

The narrator has a standpoint—a perspective shaped by time, place, and values. If your story is set in 1300, the narrator shouldn't be referencing iPhones or the Queen's Jubilee. If your narrator has a cynical streak, don't let them suddenly wax poetic without a reason.

And above all, pick your point of view and stick to it. Head-hopping without warning is like switching drivers mid-race—it's jarring, dangerous, and likely to end in tears.

Voices in Their Heads: Consistency in Dialogue & Inner Monologues

Let's talk about dialogue and those delicious inner monologues where characters think about murder, muffins, or the deep ache of unrequited love.

Your characters' voices—spoken or internal—should be as distinctive and consistent as their wardrobe choices. If your character is a terse, no-nonsense ex-detective in chapter one, don't have them suddenly spouting poetic nonsense in chapter fifteen unless they've taken up haiku therapy in the interim.

And those inner thoughts? Pick a method, and stick with it. If you're using italics for inner monologue, don't suddenly drop the italics halfway through the book like they offended you. If your narrator interprets the character's thoughts indirectly—don't abruptly switch to first-person thought bubbles. Readers notice this stuff. They shouldn't be wondering whether they've entered a dream sequence or picked up a different book entirely.

More importantly, voice is character. The way someone speaks (or thinks) tells us who they are. It's not just about vocabulary—it's rhythm, tone, and emotional layering. A nervous teen doesn't sound like a jaded warlock. A Victorian governess won't casually drop modern slang unless you're doing something very clever with time travel.

Dialogue should sound like it belongs in the world you've built. And inner monologue should feel like the direct feed into your character's mind—not a disconnected authorial voice that wandered in because it got bored.

Remember: readers don't want to be reminded they're reading. They want to be there. In the moment. Inside the mind. Don't rip them out with formatting chaos or tone whiplash.

Tense Situations: Choose Wisely and Stick With It

Ah, verb tense—the silent saboteur of many a manuscript. You think you're sailing smoothly along, then BAM: a sentence that time-travels without warning. One moment you're in the thick of a battle, and the next the hero was drawing his sword while also runs screaming. It's narrative whiplash, and not the good kind.

Tense might seem like a dry, grammatical footnote, but it's one of the most powerful tools in your narrative toolkit. Whether you're writing in past, present, or the very rare and dangerous future tense (reserved mostly for ominous prophecy or experimental sci-fi), your chosen tense forms the invisible timeline of your story. And it needs to be consistent.

Past or Present? Pick a Lane

The vast majority of stories are told in past tense—it's the literary equivalent of a comfy pair of slippers. “She walked into the room. She knew something was wrong.” It's familiar, unobtrusive, and most readers settle into it with ease.

Present tense, on the other hand, gives immediacy: “She walks into the room. She knows something is wrong.” Used well, it can make a story feel breathless and urgent. Used poorly, it can feel like a teenager on too much caffeine narrating a dream they had five minutes ago.

There's no right answer—only the right answer for your story. Just know that switching between the two mid-novel (unless you're doing it very deliberately and with masterful control) is a surefire way to make your readers check if their Kindle's broken.

Flashbacks and Trickery

“But wait!” you cry, “What about flashbacks?” Excellent question, dear reader. Flashbacks are allowed their own tense, provided they're clearly signposted and you don't make your readers play detective to figure out what decade we're in.

For example:

Present tense narration with a past tense flashback: Totally acceptable.

Past tense narration with a deeper-past flashback using past perfect ("she had gone") before easing back into standard past tense: A classic move.

Just don't hop around like a literary time lord unless you have a very clear sense of where—and when—you are at all times.

Keep Your Timeline on a Leash

Consistency in tense gives your reader a sense of stability. It lets them focus on the drama, the emotion, the dragon in the parlour—not on deciphering whether the dragon is currently breathing fire, used to breathe fire, or will have been breathing fire in some not-yet-established future timeline.

Pick your tense. Own it. Love it. Stay faithful to it. Because nothing pulls a reader out of your story faster than wondering if your narrator has been possessed by a time-travelling grammar goblin.

Magic & Other Plot Devices That Shouldn't Act Like Chewing Gum

Magic is wonderful. But sloppy magic? That's the stuff of reader rage.

Here's the thing: you can have a world of fireballs and flying pigs, but you must set the rules. If your character uses a spell to escape a cave in chapter two, and then in chapter twelve they're stuck in another cave with no mention of the same spell, your readers will notice. Then they'll scream into a pillow.

Magic (or advanced tech, or sudden ninja skills) shouldn't be a “get out of plot free” card. Make it part of your world's logic—test it, break it, explain its limits. Magic should feel like a science your world understands, not a lazy plot bandaid.

And yes, if your combat-trained villain loses to someone who once punched a pillow too hard and got a nosebleed, explain why. Logic matters—even when dragons are involved.

In Conclusion: Be a Benevolent Puppetmaster, Not a Chaotic Goblin

Narrative consistency isn't glamorous. It won't make your readers cry, laugh, or tattoo your characters' names on their forearms (probably). But it will keep them immersed. It's the glue that holds your fantasy epic, sci-fi drama, or gothic mermaid thriller together.

We've talked about plot consistency, character arcs, pacing, tone, timelines, dialogue, and the oh-so-underrated importance of making sure your protagonist doesn't inexplicably change eye colour unless it's a plot point. We've reminded ourselves that readers are clever, observant, and not to be trifled with when it comes to continuity errors. And most importantly, we've accepted that consistency isn't a prison—it's scaffolding. It holds up your story, supports your twists, and makes your characters believable.

Worlds must follow rules. Characters must have continuity. Narrators must have a compass. And your plot must never, ever, ask readers to turn off their brains—unless it gives them a very good reason first.

Before you hit “publish,” “query,” or “send to long-suffering beta reader,” run your manuscript through this trusty consistency checklist to make sure it's not secretly moonlighting as a continuity nightmare. Think of it as narrative quality control—without the high-vis jackets and clipboard-wielding supervisors.

Now, go forth, dear writer. Weave your spells, swing your swords, leap through time and space. Just, for the love of Tolkien—make it make sense.

Download Consistency Checklist