How to Fulfill Narrative Promises in Your Book

​Today I’m going to be discussing narrative promises. Have you ever read a book only to, by the end, feel let down, even betrayed by it? Have you ever read one that really builds up romantic tension between two characters, only to let it fizzle out with no real resolution? Or maybe you’ve read an action book and they’ve really built up to a heist, chapter after chapter, and then the next chapter’s just talking about “Oh yeah, that heist went well” without ever letting you read it? Or, perhaps, you’ve been following two groups of people who are at odds, clashing, and you know that they have to work together if they’re going to save the world, and then they all do a 180 and they’re perfectly fine with one another and there’s no conflict—what were you worried about? . . . Well, frankly, I don’t blame you if you feel betrayed or let down or confused or disappointed if any of these things happened, because what these things are is when a narrative does not fulfill its narrative promises.
 
(If you’d like to view this post in video format, click here. It’s part of our “Advice from an Editor” series on YouTube.)

​A narrative promise is precisely what it sounds like: it’s a promise made by the narrative to the audience. Narrative promises can come in all different forms; books have hundreds of narrative promises in them. Some of these narrative promises are based on genre—for example, if you pick up a murder mystery, there’s a narrative promise that you will learn whodunit, and there’s a narrative promise that a mystery will be a major part of the book. If you are reading a book that has very elegant, old-fashioned prose, and it’s beautiful and lyrical, and then in chapter 10 it drops an F-bomb, it has also dropped the narrative promise of its prose style.
 
I mentioned in my Beginnings video that I have read a purported sequel to Dracula that began in Bram Stoker’s style and promised it was a worthy Dracula sequel only to drop that style and then never come back to it. How disappointed I was. What I didn’t mention in that video is that the character of Dracula himself doesn’t show up until the last chapter. The book is more than 500 pages long. Come on, book! You promised me a sequel to Dracula . . . give me Dracula! He needs to be a main character—that was an inherent narrative promise in the sort of book it was.
 
But of course there are a lot of narrative promises within the body of a book. I mentioned one of them: If two groups are fighting against each other, there’s a narrative promise that there will be some sort of truthful resolution to that. And by “truthful resolution,” I don’t mean that both sides just suddenly decide they’re friends. I mean, how did it actually happen? The idea that the narrative needs to tell the truth, to accurately (based on its world-building and its characters), to believably create what happens next, is an inherent and essential part of fulfilling a narrative promise. Because if the reader doesn’t believe the fulfillment, it’s not going to be satisfactory even if it’s what the reader might have thought they wanted.
 
One great place to look at and examine narrative promises is in romance. The reason I’m using romance is because most people inherently, in their heart, just know if a romantic plotline ends up like it should have—and by “should have,” I mean as it was promised, regardless of what that might be; it depends a lot on characters and genres. And so I want to take you through the basic beats of two romance novels: Gone with the Wind and Pride and Prejudice. They have similar beats but very different characters and very different resolutions. They’re equally good and equally satisfactory.
 
Let’s start with Gone with the Wind. In Gone with the Wind, our protagonist is Scarlett O’Hara. Scarlett is narcissistic and manipulative and vain and cunning, and she wants Ashley. Ashley is a good guy; he wants to marry a good woman. On the other hand, there’s Rhett Butler, who is also cunning, manipulative, narcissistic, etc., and he—knowing exactly what Scarlett is like—has fallen in love with her and wants her. And he actually does succeed in getting her to marry him for his money, but she is still going after Ashley until Ashley’s wife dies; and now that she finally actually could dump Rhett and go after him, Scarlett realizes he was never right for her, and she’s in love with Rhett.
 
Margaret Mitchell could have ended the narrative line here—she could have been like, “Hey, look, she’s in love with him; he’s in love with her; they’re going to be happy and live out all their days.” And she would have broken her narrative promise. Because, you see, we know these characters. We know how they bicker and how selfish they are, and we know the way in which this book works . . . something is going to go wrong. And sure enough, pretty much the same moment that Scarlett finally decides she’s in love with Rhett, Rhett decides that he’s had enough, that clearly Scarlett will never be in love with him, and he’s just going to take off. And he does. And when he comes back, to announce that he’s leaving permanently, Scarlett finally confesses, “I love you!” And he replies, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and he leaves.
 
Now, Margaret Mitchell could have ended it here. I mean, that’s truthful, right? Rhett actually would have left. Sucks to be you, Scarlett. But first of all, this isn’t satisfying based on the fact that we have just spent more than a thousand pages reading about these characters and we have been promised an epic romance between them, not one of them just taking off—no. That’s not the sort of book this is. This does not need a tragic ending. It needs a gritty ending, not a tragic one. Furthermore, we know what Scarlett is like. Sure enough, when Rhett leaves her, Scarlett’s reaction is: “I’m gonna get him back.” And the reader believes her.
 
And so, even though we don’t see it, the reader gets a satisfactory ending of these characters being together; they get the truthfulness of “Yeah, but they’re going to be together in their cunning, manipulative, narcissistic fashion, and it ain’t gonna be pretty” . . . but it’s sure gonna be fun.
 
Now, take this in comparison to Pride and Prejudice. As I said, it follows similar romantic beats but has, basically, reverse characters. Our protagonist, Elizabeth Bennet, is a good woman. She is generous and kind and humble—and flawed, but a good woman. And she is going after a man who is cunning and manipulative and narcissistic, generally a bad dude. On the other hand, Mr. Darcy is interested in Elizabeth, and he is a good, upstanding man although he has the flaw of being prideful. And so we get our first beat, which is Darcy proposing to Elizabeth. Jane Austen could have ended the story here: “Oh, look, Elizabeth says yes, and they live happily ever after.” . . . Except the reader knows that Elizabeth absolutely loathes Mr. Darcy at this point. She thinks very badly of him, she’s definitely not in love with him, and she’s heard all sorts of slander, which she believes, about him. And so what actually happens is that she tells this to him to his face, quite nastily. . . . Yeah, that went well.
 
But, as a result of this, Mr. Darcy not only gives her the actual information that no longer makes her believe the slander against him, but he also realizes that she’s right—his behavior has been inappropriately prideful and arrogant. And so he mends himself, and the next time Elizabeth sees him, she sees a new him—she sees what he’s really like, and the improved version of him, and she ends up falling in love with him. Jane Austen could have ended the story there: “Look, we know he loves her, and she loves him, and they can get married and live happily ever after.” Except they can’t, because Elizabeth has turned Mr. Darcy down, and Mr. Darcy’s a proud man, and so she’s convinced that he’s not going to “renew his offer,” if you will.
 
Of course, if this were Scarlett O’Hara, she’d be like, “Pfft, I’m gonna get him.” But she’s not. Elizabeth’s not cunning, manipulative, or selfish; she’s humble and willing to accept her broken heart. And this is truthful both to her character and to Mr. Darcy’s, but that is SO not a satisfactory ending.
 
The actual ending is Mr. Darcy coming to her again and saying, “You were right to tell me off—maybe you didn’t do it in the best way possible, but you were right to tell me off. I still love you. Do you have any interest in me?” And Elizabeth says, “Heck, yeah, I do,” and they get married and they live happily ever after. And the reader [gives a satisfied, happy sigh in the video, then points to self] is like that.
 
So, there we have it: narrative promises fulfilled successfully. Truth-telling ends to two parallel but different romantic plotlines that come to different ends and equally fulfill what they need to fulfill in line with their characters, plots, themes, tone, and quality. And so they should.
 
 
Are there any books you’ve read that have really fulfilled, or not fulfilled, a narrative promise? Do you have any other advice or thoughts about fulfilling narrative promises? Tell us in the comments section below!
 
For more writing tips, check out our Advice from an Editor YouTube series, or this set of blog posts.

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Deborah J. Natelson

​Deborah lives with a fluffy member of fauna named Flora. She is the author of Bargaining Power, a smart, twisty fantasy thriller; The Midnight Files, a serialized, action-packed dark fantasy on Kindle Vella; and various other books. Her author website is www.deborahjnatelson.com.