Flat Conflict: The Silent Story-Killer
And how to fix your story's problems with the explosive power of “yes, but”/“no, and”
There’s a secret ingredient at the heart of truly great stories, and it might not be what you think.
Because while our characters, worldbuilding, themes, and plotlines are all undeniably important, there’s something that’s missing from the overwhelming majority of the novels I work on as a developmental editor, and we need to talk about it.
Doubt.
Here’s the thing not many people will tell you: doubt is the secret ingredient in the elixir of story. It’s the magic that keeps the reader glued to the page, and the fuel that drives the engine of our novel from the first page to the last.
I’m not talking about the doubt we feel in ourselves—gods know we have enough of that already! This is the doubt we provoke in our readers, and that makes them ask the single most important question in storytelling: what’s going to happen next?
Tension is the heart of your story, doubt is the blood in its veins
Have you ever noticed how the best stories always manage to keep you on the edge of your seat? Whether it’s a fast-paced space adventure or a brooding gothic mystery, when we don’t know what’s going to happen next, we keep reading: because there’s a risk that the protagonist might fail, and the smallest chance they might succeed.
Will the hero overcome the odds and reach their goal? We don’t know how they’ll manage it when everything’s against them, but we’ll sure as hell keep reading to find out.
But to truly keep our readers enthralled, it’s less about asking one big question, more about a hundred little ones. About breaking our main character’s goal down into scene-sized chunks, then the shards of individual moments, asking: “Will they achieve this thing? What about now? How will they get out of this?”
And great stories never let us off the hook. There’s always some new problem or fresh disaster. Quite often, the stories that refuse to let us go are an endless chain of these moments. Moments when we don’t know whether the character will fail or succeed.
In the very best books, it’s a mixture of both. Because when every victory contains a new problem, and every disaster holds the seed of new hope? That’s when the engine of story starts running at full speed.
When conflict falls flat
Flat conflict is one of the most common (and most fixable) issues I find in my clients’ manuscripts. When it comes to asking “what will happen next?” stories that answer too quickly start losing power—like an engine stalling out. It can be difficult to spot on your own, and your beta readers might not be able to put their finger on it, but if this problem goes on for long enough, our reader’s attention starts to drift, and we may even lose them entirely.
It generally plays out in one of two ways:
The protagonist (or point of view character) needs something and gets it easily.
When confronted with disaster, adversity, or a battle, they’re immediately defeated.
Notice how both are like the full stop at the end of a sentence: it’s over and done with. There’s no forward momentum. No unresolved thread to carry us on into the next scene.
It also happens when we threaten that something might go wrong, but it never actually does. Our protagonist tries to sneak into an archive, and we tease that she might get caught, but it goes off without a hitch. Another character needs to get into the palace, but the guards are everywhere, and the character simply gives up.
See how flat and inevitable this feels? It’s as though the story already knows things will turn out a certain way, and so they do. The protagonist is never facing any real risk, because the outcome is already decided. And our readers lose interest because we’re unconsciously spoiling things for them. If a character needs to succeed, the story lets them succeed. If the story wants them to fail, they never stand a chance.
It makes everything feel unreal, lacking in impact, and there’s a very important reason for this: story is the art of making the reader worry about how things will turn out. It’s about keeping them on the hook with that intoxicating mixture of hope and doubt from the first page to the last.
Fortunately, there’s one simple and deceptively powerful tool that we can use to achieve exactly that: the storytelling rocket fuel of “yes, but”/“no, and.”
In every breath, a battle
Let’s go back to the protagonist who’s trying to sneak into the archive. She has a clear goal, and one that can be easily broken down into smaller steps: sneak out of her room without waking her roommate, reach the archive without being seen, find a way inside, obtain the documents she needs, and so on.
When we answer any of these moments with a flat “yes, she gets what she wants” or “no, she fails,” we bring the story to a halt and leave our characters feeling like pieces on a chessboard. But what if we make her life more interesting?
Can she sneak out of her room without waking her roommate?
Yes, but she narrowly avoids one of the college guards prowling the hallways. This will be harder than she thought.
Can she reach the archive without being seen?
No, in trying to avoid one guard, she walks straight into another, and now she has to talk her way out of this.
Can she convince the guard that she has a valid reason for being here?
Yes, our hero has a silver tongue and talks them around. But it takes too much time and ruins her plans: by the time she reaches the archive, the last teacher has already left and locked the door behind them.
Can she find another way in?
No. She tries to break in through an outside window, but it’s tightly latched. She slips and falls, badly twisting her ankle, and one of the other students—sneaking around after dark for their own reasons—catches her red-handed.
See how every moment builds tension? How each answer leads to a new question—some fresh problem for our protagonist to solve?
This is the true power of “yes, but”/“no, and”: it’s not a gimmick, but a secret weapon. A tool to build immersion and plant seeds of doubt, dovetailing each moment into the next and leaving our readers rooted to the page, desperate to discover what happens next.
And we can use it to answer questions both big and small—ending a scene, chapter, or whole subsection of the story not with a flat “yes” or “no,” but adding a trailing “but” or “and” that forces the reader to keep reading.
In the scene above, we’re asking: can our protagonist retrieve the documents she needs from the archives?
At the end of the chapter, we might give one of two answers:
Yes, but now she’s indebted to the student who caught her, and he’s asking her to betray her roommate and best friend.
No, the other student gives her up to the teachers, and this is the opportunity the headmaster has been looking for to expel her.
The common element? Doubt.
Whichever path we go down, our readers are right there with us, thinking: gods, how is she going to get out of this? What will happen now?
One thing is certain: they’ll keep turning the pages to get answers.
Why it works
“Yes, but”/“no, and” transforms our stories from the inside—creating a potent mixture of curiosity, hope, and dread. When the end of each scene contains the seed of the next, when our hopes might be dashed at any moment, and every failure contains a secret side order of new problems, we create a sense of movement and excitement.
The story never stops, but becomes a perpetual motion machine that drives our reader onwards towards the last page. It’s how they end up sitting awake at 2am, thinking “one more chapter, maybe just one more...”
Every “but” we add is a doorway. Every “and” a match struck in the dark.
Suddenly, the outcome seems uncertain and the danger very real. Our stories sing with genuine tension, and as we push ourselves creatively—trying to work out how our protagonist will get out of this newest disaster—something spellbinding happens. The characters stop being pieces on a chessboard, and surge into glorious life.
Turning knowledge into power
We don’t have to be dogmatic about this, or use it in every single moment. Nor is it the only way. But even a little can breathe fresh air into our work and infuse it with scintillating energy.
No matter where you are with your WIP, here are some ways that you might capture a little of this magic for yourself:
Look at the end of each scene. Does it contain the seed of what your protagonist must do next? Does the end of each chapter introduce some new goal, or some fresh hell for them to deal with?
Does the main character have a clear goal in each moment? If they lack a target and forward momentum, chances are the story does, too.
Seek out 4-5 important moments in your story—fight scenes, chases, break-ins, any of the high-water marks in the ebb and flow of the narrative. Does the character succeed without difficulty? Do they fail right away? If so, how might we use a few cycles of “yes, but” and “no, and” to draw things out?
Don’t be afraid to paint yourself into a corner! Ask: What’s the worst possible thing that could happen? And: what if it actually did? How will my protagonist get out of that mess? Your own creativity will surprise you!
If you’re looking to delve deeper, you can also download the breakdown sheet I use with my editing clients—narrowing your whole novel down to one or two moments and playing with “yes, but”/“no, and” to see the results for yourself.
Conclusion: the chain that never breaks
This isn’t some dry and antiseptic piece of writing advice—about plot points and spreadsheets and structure. It’s the soul of our story, and how we draw the reader in and force them to care. How to keep the engine running from the first splutters of the opening chapter to roaring across the finish line on the last page.
Like all techniques, it can take a little practice. But the more you do it, the more it becomes second nature.
This is how a story’s heart beats:
Yes, but.
No, and.
Next time you’re reading one of your favourite books, listen closely. You’re almost certain to hear it.
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This is excellent advice! Thank you for sharing it. I’m a copy editor, but not a developmental editor. I will definitely learn from you. This is what I wish I’d known how to tell a client who wrote a mystery/thriller that just didn’t quite hit the mark. I line edited his manuscript and much of it was excellent, but I sent him my thoughts in a very carefully worded, compassionate email. He must’ve hated what I said because I never heard from him again. It’s hard when you want an author to succeed and give your feedback in the most constructive way you can, but it’s not accepted.
Good advice, which I why I follow and subscribe. Even if I already know what you're talking about, it's always great to hear it again and remember all the things that go into creating a good story.
I've got all my story beats for my mystery novel sitting in a Google Sheets file, and I like to go over them with this kind of methodology. What's the goal for each chapter? Is it success, and if so, what does it lead to now? If not, what's the next step? My MC refuses to give up, and that's perhaps her main strength.
Coincidentally, the chapter I just tweaked is entitled "Yes, but no, but yes" because she's having a moment -- maybe this big chance she's gotten is going to end in failure. So, there's the doubt about the plot, and the added doubt for the character that the dream she's had about being a private investigator won't pan out.