Today we’re exploring the magic of subplots, because when handled skillfully, they pass the baton of tension from one story thread to the next, never letting it lag.

Mishandled subplots stall a story, and this pitfall has very little to do with how interesting a subplot is on its own. In fact, the more interesting the subplot, the more likely you, as the author, will struggle to discern whether it truly adds to the story.

Let’s call on trusty Sir RidesALot to help us out.

Avoid episodic subplots

Sir RidesALot encounters a village plagued by a vicious bridge troll. Not one to leave innocents at the mercy of monsters, he stops and battles the beast. The fight is a well-choreographed nail-biter, and when Sir RidesALot swings his sword one final time, dashing the troll off a mile-high cliff, the villagers swoon with gratitude. Sir RidesALot mops off his brow and rides on toward the castle, satisfied by a job well done.

On the surface, this is dramatic, it shows Sir RidesALot’s competence, and it may even be memorable. But nothing has really changed. Sure, the troll is gone and the villagers are safe, but once Sir RidesALot crests the next hill, the subplot seals itself off. We return to the main plot, which is entirely unchanged by this trollish diversion.

These side quests lose their power when they merely enrich the protagonist’s résumé without altering the trajectory of the story.

Skillfully weave compounding subplots

✍️ This time, let’s change nothing about the surface action, but get this subplot working much harder for the story.

Sir RidesALot gallops into the village and vanquishes the troll. Afterward, while enjoying his congratulatory meal at the local pub, the villagers reveal something unsettling: the bridge troll wasn’t an anomaly. In this once-peaceful region, monsters have become frighteningly common, such that a third of the villagers have already packed up and moved.

Suddenly, the bridge troll isn’t a one-off worry. It’s a sign of a bigger problem.

Oh, and did I mention that Old Mister Thorndike, once he’s had an ale or five, starts ranting about Count McFang meddling with forces best left alone, weakening the magical wards separating our realm from the Underworld?

Even if, at this point in the story, Sir RidesALot doesn’t know about his eventual showdown at Count McFang’s castle, these details seed that future conflict, a conflict that will feel earned and satisfying to readers when those threads converge.

And if he’s already en route to the castle? This disturbing intel lays the groundwork for the eventual reveal: that McFang intends to use Sir Beloved as a magical battering ram to break down those protective wards for good, overrunning the mortal world with creatures that will make that bridge troll look like the Easter Bunny.

Even after we leave the village, pressure remains. The journey to the castle is no longer a simple race against time, but a narrowing corridor of worsening conditions. The story doesn’t reset—it tightens.

This is what effective subplots do, and one useful way to think about them is as a river. Your main plot is the river’s current. Subplots shouldn’t be calm, isolated ponds ten miles from the bank. They should be tributaries feeding the same flow, and each time we return from a subplot, the main current should be stronger than before.

By the time you reach the climax, the river has swollen into white-water rapids. The outcome feels inevitable not because it was predictable, but because everything has been pushing in that direction all along, even if the reader didn’t know it at the time.

What about static subplots?

What if your subplot isn’t a village-ravaging troll, and it’s more of a throughline that doesn’t change much throughout the story?

For instance, in my upcoming book The Magician & the Labyrinth of Yesterdays, Ev Knox’s financial woes is one subplot. I’m being a bit vague to avoid spoilers, but essentially, there’s a big ol’ bill she needs to pay by a certain date, and she doesn’t have the money.

I need to return to this subplot from time to time—I can’t just mention it once and then drop the subplot until the bill is due. Not only would it be highly unlikely for Ev to think of this massive problem once and never again, but dropping this subplot ensures that the reader will forget all about it. When the subplot concludes, rather than the reader eagerly wondering if Ev will succeed or fail, it will feel like a whole bunch of nothing.

But given the subplot’s static nature, how do I keep the financial subplot from feeling tiresomely one note?

✍️ Let’s retrofit our river metaphor to show how you can keep a subplot feeling fresh and propulsive, even when the surface details aren’t changing much or at all.

This time, think of the river as the character’s arc. If Ev is changing throughout the story, even if she steps into the river at the same exact spot—financial worries—it’s no longer the same river, because she’s not the same person she was 10, 20, or 100 pages ago.

What does this look like in practical terms?

At different points, the very same money pressure might lead Ev to:

• Question whether she’s staying in her relationship for financial security, triggering guilt and anxiety.
• Fear repeating those patterns in a future relationship.
• Try to scrounge up the cash, perhaps by selling off precious heirlooms or taking out a loan.
• Confront the erosion of her self-efficacy as she realizes that, as a grown-ass adult, she can’t fully support herself.

The problem hasn’t changed, but Ev has, and where she is relative to both the main plot and her character arc will determine her experience each time she steps into the river.

Next time, I want to reveal a hidden current that kept tugging at my stories, quietly shaping them without my awareness—and what changed when I finally named it.

See you then.