How Can You Spot and Fix Pacing Problems?
Pacing isn’t just about how fast or slow something feels—it’s about control. When it’s right, the audience doesn’t even notice; they’re swept along. When it’s wrong, even brilliant writing starts to feel like a slog.
I’ve seen this happen in manuscripts where every chapter is packed with action, yet readers still drift because there’s no rhythm, no room to breathe.
On the other end, I’ve read beautifully written character studies that crawl so slowly I forget what the conflict even was. Pacing is the current that pulls your reader through the work.
And here’s the kicker: problems sneak in even for experienced writers. The trickiest part is that we can be blind to our own timing issues—because we already know what’s supposed to happen, we fill in gaps the audience can’t. That’s why examining pacing with ruthless honesty (and sometimes brutal cuts) is essential at the expert level.
What Pacing Problems Actually Look Like
When people talk about pacing, they often reduce it to “make it faster” or “slow it down.” That oversimplification drives me nuts. Experts like you already know that pacing is way more complex. It’s not just about tempo—it’s about modulation, expectation, and balance. Think of pacing less like a stopwatch and more like a musical composition. Too much allegro and the listener is exhausted; too much adagio and they fall asleep.
Structural drag that kills momentum
The classic example is the sagging middle act in novels. You know the one: stakes are set up in the beginning, the ending is waiting, and the middle just spins its wheels. I worked with a writer who had a 160,000-word draft where the protagonist spent nearly 30,000 words investigating dead-end leads. The pacing problem wasn’t that it was “slow” in the literal sense—it was that the energy curve flatlined. The reader stopped feeling forward motion, even though a lot of stuff was technically happening.
Micro-level rhythm issues
Sometimes pacing falls apart on the sentence or beat level. In dialogue, for instance, overextended back-and-forth can kill urgency. Imagine a thriller scene where two characters are supposed to be fleeing danger but spend half a page discussing whether they locked the door. That’s not just a “clunky” choice—it’s a pacing mismatch between content and circumstance. Conversely, I’ve seen scenes cut so tightly that there’s no time for the emotional beat to land, leaving the audience uninvested in what comes next.
The imbalance between density and space
Another subtle pacing problem comes from narrative density. Heavy exposition crammed into a single stretch can feel like hitting a brick wall. But here’s the twist: the opposite—too much white space or clipped description—can make a story feel thin and oddly rushed. Expert pacing lives in that tension: how do you weave in density where depth matters, and loosen up where speed matters? If you’ve ever read Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road,” you’ll know how sparse prose can create relentless drive—but imagine that same style applied to an intricate political novel. It would feel underdeveloped.
Abrupt or unmotivated transitions
Scene transitions can also betray pacing problems. I once read a screenplay where the protagonist was mid-argument in a kitchen scene, and then suddenly we’re at the funeral of a character who hadn’t even been foreshadowed. That jarring cut didn’t just confuse me—it snapped me out of immersion. Pacing is about how we move between events as much as the events themselves. Smooth transitions build continuity, while rough or rushed ones fracture it.
Expectation and payoff mismatches
This is where pacing becomes psychological. If you set up a huge battle or emotional confession and then undercut it with a quick, offhand resolution, readers feel cheated. Likewise, dragging out a resolution for pages after the audience has already guessed the outcome creates impatience. Good pacing respects the reader’s intelligence while still managing their anticipation.
Medium-specific challenges
Let’s not forget that pacing manifests differently across forms. In novels, it’s often about word count distribution and scene length. In screenwriting, it’s tied to runtime and visual rhythm. In UX writing, pacing is about how much text a user has to absorb before they can act. The underlying mechanics are the same, but the execution changes. This is why pacing isn’t just “fast versus slow”—it’s about matching rhythm to medium, audience expectation, and emotional intent.
Why experts still get tripped up
So why do even seasoned writers struggle here? Because expertise can be a double-edged sword. When you know all the “rules,” it’s easy to fall into predictable patterns: escalating stakes by the book, spacing reveals at regular intervals, keeping scenes under X pages. But readers and viewers aren’t machines—they feel pacing more than they analyze it. What looks neat on a plotting diagram might feel mechanical in practice. And that gap between theory and lived experience is exactly where problems sneak in.
Take the Marvel films, for example. They’re masters at pacing spectacle, but watch closely and you’ll see moments where the obligatory joke undercuts a tense buildup. The formula works commercially, but from a craft perspective, it teaches us something: formulaic pacing creates diminishing returns when the audience starts to anticipate the rhythm. Surprising deviations—whether slower or faster than expected—are what keep stories alive.
Wrapping this section together
At the end of the day, pacing problems aren’t just about too many words or too few. They’re about the relationship between story, structure, and reader psychology. The danger at the expert level is assuming you’ve outgrown the problem. But pacing isn’t a beginner’s hurdle—it’s an ongoing challenge, like tuning an instrument before every performance. You might hit the right notes, but if the rhythm’s off, the whole piece stumbles.
How to Spot When the Rhythm Is Off
Here’s the funny thing about pacing problems: the work never comes with a blinking neon sign saying, “Here’s where readers get bored!” Instead, you’ve got to train yourself to see and hear those red flags before your audience tunes out. And the trick is to build a checklist you can return to again and again, no matter how advanced you are. Let’s walk through some of the biggest giveaways that pacing isn’t doing its job.
The story feels like it’s stalling
If you’ve ever read a chapter and thought, “Wait, what actually changed here?” that’s pacing screaming at you. It doesn’t matter if the writing is gorgeous or the dialogue sparkles—if nothing meaningful shifts, the story stalls. And readers pick up on it instantly. I’ve seen this happen most often in middle acts or long-form essays where the author is circling the same point instead of pushing the idea forward.
Exposition that weighs down the flow
We’ve all been guilty of the dreaded info-dump. You get excited about worldbuilding, research, or backstory, and suddenly you’re spending three pages explaining instead of storytelling. The problem isn’t information itself—it’s the density and placement. Drop a long exposition block right after a high-stakes moment, and you’ve broken momentum. Worse, you’ve trained readers to skim.
Scenes that end too late (or too early)
A pacing red flag is when scenes hang around long after their dramatic moment has passed. The reverse is just as damaging: scenes that cut off before the emotional payoff has landed. In workshops, I’ve seen writers “nail” a confrontation, then tack on five more lines of small talk. It diffuses tension instead of sharpening it. Likewise, cutting too soon can leave readers unsatisfied, like being forced to leave the theater before the final chord.
Dialogue that meanders
Here’s one I’ve bumped into a lot in thrillers and dramas: dialogue that just won’t shut up. Not in a witty, Sorkin-esque way, but in a “we lost the thread three pages ago” way. If a conversation could be cut in half and the story wouldn’t lose anything, pacing is in trouble. On the flip side, ultra-snappy exchanges can sometimes be too clipped, robbing the scene of texture. The sweet spot is rhythm that feels natural but keeps energy alive.
Tension that flatlines
Pacing lives and dies on tension curves. If stakes aren’t rising, shifting, or surprising the reader, you’re in dangerous territory. I once worked with a writer who had created an incredible sci-fi world, but every scene had the same level of intensity. No valleys, no peaks—just a steady hum. The result? Readers put the book down even though “exciting” things were happening. Without modulation, excitement gets monotonous.
Abrupt tonal shifts
A sudden swing in tone can throw pacing into chaos. Think of a heartbreaking moment immediately undercut by a quirky joke—or a lighthearted scene hijacked by an out-of-nowhere violent beat. The issue isn’t contrast (contrast can be brilliant), but whether the transitions earn their shifts. When the shift feels unearned, the pacing takes the hit.
Time jumps that don’t land
Another classic pacing misstep: skipping ahead without preparing the reader. If a character is mid-crisis on page 120 and suddenly “three months later” we see them sipping coffee, the jarring leap breaks immersion. Time jumps need momentum bridges—small signals or narrative cues that make the transition feel intentional instead of abrupt.
Reader restlessness
Here’s the most practical red flag: when your beta readers, editors, or even you during a reread feel restless. That moment when you find yourself skimming your own work? That’s pacing telling you to pay attention. The human brain is a brutally honest sensor for rhythm—it knows when the beat is off, even if you can’t articulate why.
The checklist in practice
The beauty of spotting pacing issues is that it doesn’t require mystical instincts—it requires pattern recognition. Train yourself to ask:
- Did something meaningful shift here?
- Am I balancing density and space?
- Does tension rise and fall, or just sit there?
- Would trimming this scene or beat sharpen the effect?
- Does this transition earn its place?
If you can answer those questions honestly, you’ll catch 80% of pacing issues before they ever reach a reader. The rest? That comes from experience, and from developing a feel for when your own rhythms are betraying you.
Fixing the Pacing Without Breaking the Story
Spotting the issue is only half the battle. Fixing pacing problems—especially in a draft you’ve already poured your soul into—can feel like open-heart surgery. You want to make adjustments without killing what’s already working. The good news is, there are strategies that let you recalibrate without rewriting your whole project.
Start with macro adjustments
If the problem is structural (like that sagging middle act), you’ve got to zoom out. One of my favorite tricks is to chart the tension curve across the whole manuscript or script. Literally graph it scene by scene: where does tension rise, where does it dip, where does it plateau? If your curve looks like a flat horizon, you know where to intervene.
Another macro move is to collapse or combine subplots. A lot of pacing problems are really subplot bloat. Do you need both that workplace rivalry and that secret family drama? Or can one serve as the emotional engine while the other gets trimmed or folded in?
Tighten with micro-level edits
Once structure is sound, zoom in. This is where trimming dialogue, shortening descriptions, and cutting filler sentences work wonders. I’m a fan of the “two-line rule”: if a paragraph or exchange can say the same thing in two fewer lines without losing texture, cut it. Nine times out of ten, the cut sharpens pacing.
Another micro adjustment is sentence rhythm. Long, winding sentences can lull readers; short, staccato bursts create speed. Mixing them intentionally lets you control not just pace but also emotional tone.
Use white space strategically
Readers experience white space as breath. Adding line breaks, paragraph breaks, or even section dividers creates pauses that accelerate flow. Ironically, adding space often makes pacing feel faster, because readers can process the text more fluidly. Look at Hemingway versus Faulkner—both geniuses, but their pacing lives in the balance of white space versus density.
Anchor fast moments with slower beats
Sometimes the best way to fix pacing is to slow down deliberately. If you’ve got relentless action, add a moment of stillness—a breath where characters process, where readers catch up emotionally. It’s like in music: silence is part of rhythm. Without rest notes, the melody collapses into noise.
Reframe transitions
If your story feels jumpy, don’t just smooth with filler—engineer your transitions. A single image, phrase, or echoed detail can bridge huge gaps in time or tone. In one project, a writer jumped from a character’s heated argument to a scene months later. We fixed it by adding a transitional line: “For weeks, that last word hung between them like smoke.” Suddenly the time jump felt earned.
Test with performance
This one gets overlooked all the time: read your work aloud. When you hear it, pacing issues jump out. If you’re stumbling, if a passage feels endless, or if the rhythm falls flat—you’ll know. Screenwriters already test pacing with table reads. Novelists and essayists can borrow the same tool.
Use beta readers as rhythm sensors
Even at the expert level, outside feedback is invaluable. Hand your work to trusted readers and ask them to mark the spots where they felt restless or rushed. Don’t explain; don’t justify. Just see where their instincts flag pacing. Often, their gut will confirm what your charts and edits suggest.
Experiment instead of defaulting
The last fix is philosophical: don’t always “fix” by defaulting to faster. Sometimes the bold move is to slow things down. I’ve seen writers trim everything until the story lost weight. Pacing isn’t just efficiency—it’s contrast. Sometimes a long, lingering scene is exactly what the rhythm needs, as long as it’s intentional.
Before You Leave..
Pacing is slippery—it hides in the spaces between words, in the timing of reveals, in the rhythm of a scene. But once you start to see it, you can’t unsee it. The real secret isn’t about being perfect; it’s about listening to your story’s pulse and knowing when to nudge it back into rhythm.
Spot the stalls, make the fixes, and suddenly your work doesn’t just read well—it flows. And that flow is what keeps readers hooked, page after page.
