Making Every Scene Count
The Art of Precision in Fiction Writing
I've been working with a writer who writes long. And when I say long, her first draft was 250,000 words.
A few days ago, during her coaching call, we had a discussion about cutting down a series of scenes that illustrated feverish recovery from a injury that also involved a complicated journey across India. The conversation led to what each scene brought to the story, and the answer? Not much. She's now saving thousands of words by putting in a few paragraphs of scene transition in the form of a montage. The main character is slipping in and out of consciousness, so a montage makes sense.
With that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about precision in fiction writing.
You've probably read the following over and over again: "Every scene in your novel should earn its place on the page." If it doesn’t move the story forward, reveal something essential about the character, or raise the stakes, it risks becoming 'literary clutter'. And in today’s world of dwindling attention spans and fierce competition for readers, precision isn’t just a virtue—it’s a necessity.
So how do you tighten your scenes without stripping them of emotional depth or narrative richness? How do you eliminate fluff while keeping your story immersive and alive?
Let’s break it down.
1. Start with a Purpose
Before you write (or revise) any scene, ask: What is this scene doing for my story? Is it:
Advancing the plot?
Revealing a new facet of character?
Establishing or shifting relationships?
Escalating tension or raising stakes?
If a scene doesn’t do at least one of these things—and ideally two or more—consider reworking it or cutting it entirely.
A Purposeless Scene:
Ella stepped into the kitchen. The morning sun slanted through the blinds as she shuffled to the counter. She filled the kettle, set it on the hob, and waited. When it whistled, she poured the hot water over her tea bag and stirred slowly. She sat at the table, watching the steam rise.
Why it doesn’t work:
It doesn’t advance the plot in any meaningful way.
It doesn’t reveal anything new about Ella—her inner world, desires, or conflicts.
There’s no tension, conflict, or decision happening.
It lingers on mundane activity without adding weight or subtext.
A Purposeful Scene:
Ella stepped into the kitchen, still gripping the envelope. The morning sun slanted through the blinds, mocking her with its cheer. She set the kettle on the hob, her movements sharp, precise.
She didn’t open the letter yet. Not until the water boiled. Not until the kitchen was filled with the sound of something other than her thoughts.
When the whistle came, she poured the water too fast, scalding her hand. She hissed, set the kettle down hard, and stared at the envelope again.
“Just open it,” she whispered to herself. “You already know what it says.”
Why this version works:
Advances the plot: The unopened envelope suggests forward motion—a looming decision, a turning point.
Reveals character: Ella’s procrastination, her internal tension, and her self-talk show fear, avoidance, and perhaps a tendency toward control.
Adds tension and emotional movement: We move from hesitation to pain to resolve—all in a quiet, domestic moment.
2. Enter Late, Leave Early
I recently worked with some playwrights on a wedding proposal scene. Seven of the eight writers included the proposal, but one opened the scene with the guy on his knee, engagement ring offered, and the first line was the woman reaction. The audience didn't need to see the lead up, because that writer didn't need it - their scene's focus was on the potential bride's reaction to the proposal.
You don't need ease into a scene with too much setup or linger after the core drama has passed. Drop readers straight into the action or tension—without disorienting them—and get out before things lose momentum.
A Drawn Out Scene:
Cal sat on the sofa, remote in hand. He flipped through channels without stopping, eyes glazed over. The news. A cooking show. A rerun of something with a laugh track. He settled on a documentary about penguins, though he wasn’t really watching.
The phone buzzed again. Not a new message—just a low battery warning. The same text glowed on the screen: “We need to talk. I can’t keep pretending nothing happened.”
That had come through twenty minutes ago.
He scratched his jaw. Picked up the remote again. Lowered the volume. Raised it. Tossed the remote beside him.
The penguins were diving now. He watched one slip into the water.
He stood up. Sat down again.
Then finally, with a grunt, he pushed himself off the sofa, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, and jammed his arms into the sleeves. He picked up his phone, stared at it for another second, then shoved it in his pocket.
He opened the front door, paused, then closed it again. Locked it. Turned. Walked out.
Why it doesn’t work:
It includes mundane lead-in before the emotional tension is clear or active.
It drags past the moment of decision, showing every movement, coat grab, and door check.
It could be tightened significantly by trimming both ends.
An Enter Late, Leave Early Scene:
Cal muted the TV. He’d read the message twenty minutes ago, but the words were still burning behind his eyes: We need to talk. I can’t keep pretending nothing happened.
He stared at the screen—penguins diving in slow motion—but none of it registered.
He stood.
Why this version works:
It drops us straight into the emotional tension, skipping the aimless channel-surfing and noise-level fiddling.
It leaves on the decisive beat—the moment Cal stops dithering and acts, without dragging us through coat sleeves and doorknobs.
The penguins stay in—because they’re doing double-duty: showing what’s on screen and what Cal isn’t connecting with.
3. Replace Summary with Specificity
Fluff often hides in vague language and summary. Instead of: "She was nervous about the meeting," try: "Her hands trembled as she reached for the door handle, a sheen of sweat on her brow."
Precise details do double duty: they build mood and reveal character while keeping the reader grounded in the moment.
An Unspecific Scene:
Karen walked into the office feeling anxious about the meeting. She didn’t know what to expect and hoped everything would go well. Everyone else seemed calm and ready, but she wasn’t sure if she belonged there. She took a seat and waited nervously for it to begin.
Why this doesn’t work:
It tells us she’s anxious but doesn’t show us how that anxiety manifests physically or emotionally.
The language is vague and generic—“didn’t know what to expect,” “hoped everything would go well,” “waited nervously”—all summary.
We don’t get any concrete details about the setting, her behaviour, or her internal world.
A Specific Scene:
Karen paused just inside the conference room, her pulse tapping at her throat. The others were already seated, laughing softly, passing around a tray of pastries. Her eyes flicked to the empty chair nearest the door—too close. Too exposed.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear for the third time and forced a smile that felt brittle. The strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder as she moved toward the far corner. She caught it, too fast. It thudded against the table. A few heads turned.
She murmured an apology and sat, pressing her palms flat on her knees to hide the trembling.
Why this works:
We feel her physical symptoms of anxiety (pulse tapping, trembling, hair fussing).
Her thought process and behaviour show discomfort and self-consciousness without stating it outright.
The setting and others’ reactions add subtle pressure, amplifying her internal state.
4. Cut the Coffee
Readers don’t need to see characters order coffee, make toast, or drive in silence unless it adds tension, deepens character, or sets up something critical. These mundane actions can become dead weight unless used deliberately.
When in doubt, ask: Would anything change if I cut this? If the answer is no, you know what to do.
A Mundane Scene:
Jake parked the car, turned off the engine, and sat for a moment, watching people walk by. He got out, locked the door, and walked into the café. The line was short.
When it was his turn, he stepped forward.
“Large black coffee, please.”
The barista rang it up. He tapped his card, waited for the receipt, then moved to the end of the counter.
He grabbed a napkin, stirred in some sugar, and sipped the drink. Then he found a table by the window and sat down, looking out at the street.
Why this doesn’t work:
Nothing happens. There’s no conflict, tension, revelation, or choice.
The actions are entirely skippable—a reader wouldn’t miss anything if this were cut.
It feels like the writer is stalling or filling space.
An Actions-With-Purpose Scene:
Jake sat in his car outside the café, fingers drumming the steering wheel. He’d told himself he was over it—that seeing her again wouldn’t matter.
He got out and pushed through the café door. The line was short. Of course it was. No time to turn around now.
“Large black coffee,” he said, barely hearing his own voice.
He moved to the end of the counter, pretending not to scan the room. Then he saw her—by the window, same leather notebook, same twisted necklace she always fiddled with when she was thinking.
Jake added two sugars he didn’t need, just for something to do with his hands. Then he walked toward her, unsure if he was hoping she’d look up—or hoping she wouldn’t.
Why this works:
The mundane actions (ordering coffee, adding sugar) are now tied to emotional tension and avoidance behaviour.
There’s character insight—he’s anxious, second-guessing himself, using small actions as a distraction.
The scene introduces a clear conflict or turning point (will he talk to her? how will she respond?).
5. Track Emotional Change
Every scene should shift something emotionally for your protagonist—even subtly. Maybe they begin confident and end uncertain, or go from guarded to slightly open. This emotional movement keeps your character arc alive and your readers invested.
A Emotionally Flat Scene:
Claire knocked on the door and waited. Her fingers tapped against her phone as she stood on the porch.
The door opened. Her sister stood there, arms crossed.
“Hey,” Claire said.
“Hey,” her sister replied.
They stared at each other for a moment.
“Want to come in?”
“Sure.” Claire walked inside. They went to the kitchen. Claire sat down.
“Do you want tea?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice.”
Her sister filled the kettle. Claire looked out the window.
Why this doesn’t work:
The tone and emotion remain flat throughout.
There’s no change in Claire’s mindset, body language, or emotional temperature.
The scene doesn’t reveal or resolve anything—it just exists.
A Emotionally Rich Scene:
Claire stood on the porch, arms tight across her chest, rehearsing the apology for the fifth time. The door opened before she knocked.
Her sister filled the doorway—expression unreadable.
“Hey,” Claire said, voice thinner than she’d meant.
“Hey.” A beat passed. Then, “You look tired.”
Claire huffed a dry laugh. “Didn’t sleep much.”
Her sister stepped aside. “Come in.”
Claire hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The kitchen was the same—mugs on the rack, a half-finished puzzle on the table.
“I was just putting the kettle on,” her sister said. “You still take sugar?”
Claire blinked. “Yeah. Two.”
The kettle clicked on. Claire sat slowly, the apology still on her tongue—but maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t need to be said first.
Why this works:
Claire begins guarded, rehearsing what to say.
Through small exchanges and gestures, there’s a shift toward warmth and tentative reconnection.
The scene ends on a changed emotional note, suggesting a new possibility between them.
6. Watch for Repetition
I had some feedback on a manuscript recently—yes, book coaches need feedback, too!—that pointed out that my main character's struggle with duty was heavy-handed. Looking at my manuscript with fresh eyes, the feedback was spot on, so I replaced all but one internal monologue about duty with moments that showed my main character's struggle with making decisions that forced a choice between duty and what they really wanted. No heavy handed internal monologue required!
On the page, readers catch on.
Ask yourself: Have I already shown this? If yes, combine or cut.
Emotionally Repetitive Moments:
Scene 1:
Ben sat alone at the dining table, staring at the empty chair across from him. He picked up his phone, scrolled to Lena’s name, then put it down again.
He missed her. It had only been a week, but the silence was brutal.
Scene 2 (Later in the same chapter):
Ben wandered into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. He turned on the Playstation but didn’t fire up a game. His eyes drifted to the framed photo of Lena on the shelf.
He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over her name. Still, he didn’t call.
He sighed. The apartment felt too quiet.
Why this doesn’t work:
Both moments deliver the same emotional beat: Ben misses Lena but can’t bring himself to contact her.
There’s no progression, new insight, or raised stakes in the second scene—it’s just a slightly different angle on the same feeling.
On the page, readers will feel like the story is stuck.
Emotionally Progressive Moments:
Ben sat at the kitchen table, scrolling to Lena’s name for the third time that day. Still, he didn’t call. The silence felt like punishment.
He tossed the phone onto the counter and walked into the living room, meaning to distract himself. But the photo on the shelf—Lena with her ridiculous sunglasses, mid-laugh—stopped him.
This time, he picked up the frame. Not the phone.
“I get it,” he muttered. “I messed up.”
He set the photo down. Then picked up his phone—not to text, but to delete the draft message he’d written hours ago.
Not yet. But soon.
Why this works:
The scene acknowledges the same emotion (missing Lena) but builds on it with a shift in Ben’s response.
There’s movement—he doesn’t just repeat the same indecision, he reflects, makes a choice (even a small one), and ends in a different place emotionally.
It eliminates the need for two separate scenes by combining beats into one tighter, more impactful moment.
7. Use Dialogue with Intention
Dialogue should never be filler. It should:
Reveal character dynamics
Deliver conflict or subtext
Advance the plot or deepen theme
Small talk, pleasantries, and "as you know, Bob" exposition can go unless they're doing something specific.
Flat Dialogue:
“Hey, Mark,” Sarah said, walking in. “I just got off the call with Finance.”
“Oh yeah? What did they say?”
“They’re updating the Q3 forecasts again. And the product launch timeline is changing.”
“Again? Didn’t they just change it last month?”
“Yeah. Something about supply chain delays and budget constraints. Anyway, it’s going to impact our team. We’ll probably have to rework our part of the rollout.”
Mark sighed. “That’s annoying. They should really communicate these things better.”
“Totally. Also, I think Colin already knew about it.”
“Huh. That’s weird.”
“Yeah.”
Mark looked at his screen. “Do you know where the next meeting is?”
“In the big conference room.”
Why this doesn’t work:
It names the key topics (launch plan, Colin, etc.) but doesn’t do anything with them.
The dialogue lacks urgency, conflict, or character insight—they’re just passing information back and forth.
There’s no emotional tone or subtext—just two people narrating plot points without reacting meaningfully to them.
It’s mostly filler that could be summarised in one sentence: Sarah updated Mark on the changes from Finance, and they suspected Colin already knew.
Rich Dialogue (and a little revenge):
Sarah stepped into the office and shut the door behind her. “I just got out of the Finance call.”
Mark didn’t look up from his laptop. “Let me guess. Forecasts are wrong. Again.”
“They’re not just wrong,” she said. “They’re rewriting the entire launch plan. Without us.”
Mark’s fingers paused over the keys. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were. And I’m pretty sure Colin knew before the meeting.”
He looked up. “Of course he did. He’s been gunning for the project lead since March.”
Sarah crossed her arms. “So… we roll over, or we fight back?”
Mark closed his laptop. “Let’s ruin someone’s afternoon.”
Why this works:
The dialogue reveals character dynamics—Sarah as the instigator, Mark as the sharp but jaded ally.
It delivers subtext—tension with Colin, power struggles, trust issues.
It advances the plot—the stakes of the product launch, the beginning of a decisive action.
There’s conflict, voice, and movement—even though it’s about office politics, it feels alive.
8. Make the Most of Transitions
Instead of narrating characters from one location to another, consider whether you can cut directly to the next point of tension. Readers are smart. Let them fill in the gaps where appropriate.
An Overwritten Transition:
Ava left the apartment, locking the door behind her. She walked down the stairs, two at a time, and pushed through the front entrance into the bright morning sun.
She headed down Maple Street, passing the dry cleaner’s and the corner bakery, where the smell of fresh bread made her stomach growl. She paused to dig in her purse for her sunglasses, then kept going.
At the next corner, she waited for the light to change, then crossed. The coffee shop was two blocks away, and she reached it ten minutes later. She pulled open the door and stepped inside, scanning the room.
That’s when she saw him—Daniel, sitting at the back table, just like the text had said.
Why this doesn’t work:
The transition dominates the scene, dragging us through unimportant details of Ava’s journey.
The tension is buried at the end, with no buildup—Daniel is mentioned almost as an afterthought.
Most of this could be skipped without the reader missing anything.
Efficient, Tension-Focused Transition:
Ava stepped into the coffee shop, heart already racing.
Daniel was exactly where the text had said he’d be—back table, hands wrapped around a paper cup like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
She took a breath. This was either going to fix everything, or break it completely.
Why this works:
The transition is implied—we don’t need to see Ava walk down the Maple Street; we’re dropped at the moment that matters.
The scene has tension—her nerves, his body language, the stakes of the meeting.
It trusts the reader to fill in the gap between her leaving home and arriving.
Final Thoughts
Precision in fiction doesn’t mean stripping your story bare. It means honing each moment until it hums with purpose. When every scene earns its place, your novel becomes tighter, sharper, and infinitely more compelling.
So go ahead. Be ruthless. Be intentional. Make every scene count.
So much gold here, Stuart. I love the reminder that cutting isn’t about losing depth - it’s about revealing it. Precision with heart is such a powerful skill.
Wonderful post! A wonderful diagnostic list to keep on hand during revision.