David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
The navigator had left the object on screen allowing it to materialize as we got closer.
I had to marvel at the magnification the scientists had managed to produce for the scanners on this vessel, the first of a new class, and based on our experiences, no doubt later ships would have less of the quirks we had found so far.
Not that any were serious, or if they were, that common sense and prior experience couldn’t resolve. It was the reason why we had this chief engineer.
He had retired and was happily spending the rest of his life with the woman who had put up with all those absent years, until she died suddenly, and left him without purpose.
This ship had changed that.
I could see the outline of the distant ship and although it might not follow a standard design, it showed all the signs of coming from our planet.
Was that because we had no idea what a ship might look like from another planet or alien race? I still wanted to believe there were other life forms out there, but how much of that was hoping they looked like us?
“The system still cannot identify what type of ship it is, sir, but it doesn’t look alien.”
It didn’t, now that it was much clearer.
“Would you know if it was?”
“No, sir. Not really. Time to intercept, just under fifteen minutes. If they are intending to intercept.”
Number one just came out of the elevator and onto the bridge. He wasn’t rostered for this time, but I suspect he had been watching the drama unfold in his cabin.
“Suggest we go to code Red, just in case their intentions are not friendly.”
We had a weekly meeting of department heads to discuss what we would do in an alien encounter, other than shoot first, and talk later, usually the military first response to any problem.
Some ground rules were implemented, one of which was to keep fingers off the triggers of our weapons, until we had justification. It was noted we had no idea what kind of weapons they would have, or how good our shield systems would be, that would come after the first encounter.
But we did know the ship could withstand any attack from an earth-origin attack, from the nuclear bomb to cutting edge lasers. It was a little more problematic for the humans though.
“Agreed.”
Code Red, our highest alert, meant that Number one and I could not be in the same place, for obvious reasons. He would go down the attack room, where the bridge systems were replicated, along with an array of other units. It would be from there where a relation, or attack, would be managed.
And no, the lights in the bridge did not turn red, just dimmed. The only indication was a red bar running across the top of the viewing screen, on which the oncoming vessel was now clearly visible.
“It’s from earth, the scanners have identified the propulsion system, and from the scan analysis, it appears to be more advanced than just about everything back home.”
“The infamous Russian ship, do you think?”
“Doesn’t have to be. Anyone with enough money could have financed the project, though it would be hard to hide something like that. The question has to be, what’s it doing this far out, and, for all intents and purposes, returning.”
“We’re assuming again. Perhaps they were just going to the outer edge of our known galaxy so that they could say they were the first.”
There had always been that great space rivalry between the Russians and the Americans. Later, the Europeans and the Chinese had also thrown their hats in the ring, and it was possible this ship could be Chinese. They too had a burning desire to be the first, and there’d be no surprise if we found a Chinese or Russian flag on the first liveable planet outside our solar system.
But, right now, that was all ahead of us. At this moment, it was a little disconcerting to discover we would not be the first outside our known galaxy.
It seems that we can be completely focused on a single task to the detriment of all else, and, when that task is complete, suddenly we feel totally drained.
That’s how I feel right now.
The current year is almost half over… Where did the time go?
All I have to do is get past the publication of my next two books, take some time away from writing, and then I should be invigorated. Perhaps COVID had something to do with it because I found it very easy to get lost in and stay in my new imaginary world, rather than the horrible new world that had been thrust upon us, with more heads down and tail up, with nowhere to go, no travel to plan, and not able to go anywhere.
This is despite our fearless leaders telling us that COVID is no longer a problem, which it probably isn’t, but what do I care? And for computer programmers who never leave their semi-darkened lair, ordering pizza and Coke, it must have been a Godsend.
Given that I prefer to be at home, working on any number of stories, it usually is for me too.
But have I been working too hard, and it’s finally got to me? I mean, you can only write so much before the brain starts to fry? Or you disappear down that proverbial rabbit hole and gradually turn into the character.
I have been working on the two novels that needed to be completed, and they are finally there. And other than NaNoWriMo, which saw another go through the mill, I’m still writing a few pages a night, and another two that I have been working on here and there are now ready for the first edit.
This has all happened to the detriment of my episodic stories, which have lain idle for almost a year, but in recent weeks I picked up one or two and wrote two or three more episodes, just to keep it ticking over. Another has five episodes, and I hope to publish them soon. The last I’ve finally finished, and I am feeling pleased with myself. My editor has it now.
Something else that pleases me, and is entirely unexpected, is that I have sold several copies of my books in the last few months or so. I know I’m not about to be vying for the top of the bestseller list, but it’s still satisfying.
The Inverted Pyramid of Story Structure: Why Authors and Journalists Need It
Imagine reading a newspaper article where the author spends the first five paragraphs describing the weather, the protagonist’s childhood trauma, and the history of the town, before finally mentioning that a bank was just robbed.
You’d probably stop reading.
In journalism, that’s a cardinal sin. Readers want the facts—and they want them now. To solve this, journalists rely on a time-tested framework known as the inverted pyramid of story structure.
At first glance, this structure looks antithetical to creative writing. After all, fiction thrives on slow burns, rising tension, and delayed gratification. However, understanding and mastering the inverted pyramid isn’t just for reporters fetching morning coffee. It is a secret weapon that fiction authors can use to hook readers, sharpen their prose, and conquer the dreaded “middle-of-the-book slump.”
Here is a deep dive into what the inverted pyramid is, how it works, and why it matters to both journalists and authors.
What is the Inverted Pyramid?
Picture a standard triangle. The base is at the bottom, and the point is at the top. Now, flip it upside down.
The inverted pyramid is a metaphor for how information is prioritised in a piece of writing. The widest part of the triangle sits at the very top, representing the most crucial, must-know information. As the triangle tapers down to a sharp point at the bottom, the information becomes less critical, serving as background context, minor details, or “nice-to-haves.”
Traditionally, a news story structured with the inverted pyramid looks like this:
The Lead (The Broad Base): The opening sentence or paragraph. It answers the classic journalistic questions: Who, what, when, where, why, and how? The most vital news goes here.
The Body (The Tapering Middle): Supporting details, crucial context, quotes, and lesser evidence that explain the lead.
The Tail (The Sharp Point): Background information, tangential details, and wrap-up facts that can be easily chopped off by an editor if the page runs out of space.
Why the Inverted Pyramid is Crucial for Journalists
For journalists, this structure is driven by human psychology and the realities of media consumption. Here is why it reigns supreme in newsrooms:
It respects the reader’s time: Modern readers scan. If a headline promises a major political scandal, the reader wants to know what happened immediately, not three paragraphs down.
It accommodates editorial cutting: Historically, if an article was too long for the physical newspaper column, editors would simply chop it off from the bottom up. Because the least important information lived at the tail, cutting text didn’t ruin the core story.
It combats information fatigue: By putting the heavy lifting at the beginning, the reader can drop out of the article at any point and still walk away with the main takeaway.
The Plot Twist: Why Authors Need the Inverted Pyramid, Too
At this point, you might be asking: If fiction is about building suspense, why would an author want to give away the best parts at the beginning?
While novelists shouldn’t write their entire books like a news report, the underlying philosophy of the inverted pyramid solves several common creative writing hurdles. Here is how authors can apply it to their craft:
1. Hooking the Reader on Page One
In the attention economy, modern fiction authors face the same problem journalists do: readers have endless options, and their patience is thin. If your opening chapter is a slow, meandering description of a magic system or a family tree, you will lose them.
Applying the inverted pyramid to your opening scene means starting with your highest-impact material: high stakes, immediate action, a compelling voice, or a gripping emotional dilemma. Give the reader the “news” of your story right away, and save the deep lore for later when they are already hooked.
2. Structuring Scenes and Chapters
Every scene in a novel should function as a micro-story. If you apply the inverted pyramid to scene design:
The Top: Start the scene with the immediate conflict, goal, or revelation.
The Middle: Explore the reactions, dialogue, and rising tension.
The Bottom: End with the fallout, internal reflection, and setup for the next scene.
This prevents “sagging middles” in chapters where characters just walk and talk without moving the plot forward.
Authors love world-building. Unfortunately, readers usually don’t love reading unprompted history lessons.
The inverted pyramid teaches you how to prioritise information. The present danger or current character motivation sits at the top of the pyramid. The history of how the character got there sits at the bottom. By structuring your exposition this way, you ensure that backstory is only introduced when the reader has enough context to actually care about it.
4. Crafting Mysteries and Thrillers
In mystery and thriller writing, the inverted pyramid is practically mandatory. You start with the most shocking piece of information possible—a dead body, a stolen artifact, a ticking bomb (the top of the pyramid). The rest of the novel works its way down the pyramid, peeling back layers, offering clues, and providing context, until the ultimate truth is revealed at the narrow point.
Best Practices: Combining Narrative Art with Journalistic Efficiency
If you want to incorporate the inverted pyramid into your writing without turning your novel into a textbook, keep these best practices in mind:
Prioritize emotional impact over chronological order: You don’t have to start your story at the protagonist’s birth. Start with the moment their life changes, then flash back later.
Treat exposition like the “Tail”: Always ask yourself: Does the reader need to know this right now to understand the scene? If the answer is no, push it further down the pyramid.
Respect the reader’s intelligence: Give them the vital hooks upfront, but leave enough unanswered questions to pull them down the rest of the structure.
The Bottom Line
The inverted pyramid is far more than an outdated journalistic relic; it is a masterclass in prioritisation.
For journalists, it ensures clarity and efficiency in a fast-paced world. For authors, it serves as a powerful antidote to slow beginnings, info-dumps, and meandering plots. By learning to put your most vital, engaging material right at the top, you respect your reader’s time—and ensure they stay on the page until the very last word.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
The Inverted Pyramid of Story Structure: Why Authors and Journalists Need It
Imagine reading a newspaper article where the author spends the first five paragraphs describing the weather, the protagonist’s childhood trauma, and the history of the town, before finally mentioning that a bank was just robbed.
You’d probably stop reading.
In journalism, that’s a cardinal sin. Readers want the facts—and they want them now. To solve this, journalists rely on a time-tested framework known as the inverted pyramid of story structure.
At first glance, this structure looks antithetical to creative writing. After all, fiction thrives on slow burns, rising tension, and delayed gratification. However, understanding and mastering the inverted pyramid isn’t just for reporters fetching morning coffee. It is a secret weapon that fiction authors can use to hook readers, sharpen their prose, and conquer the dreaded “middle-of-the-book slump.”
Here is a deep dive into what the inverted pyramid is, how it works, and why it matters to both journalists and authors.
What is the Inverted Pyramid?
Picture a standard triangle. The base is at the bottom, and the point is at the top. Now, flip it upside down.
The inverted pyramid is a metaphor for how information is prioritised in a piece of writing. The widest part of the triangle sits at the very top, representing the most crucial, must-know information. As the triangle tapers down to a sharp point at the bottom, the information becomes less critical, serving as background context, minor details, or “nice-to-haves.”
Traditionally, a news story structured with the inverted pyramid looks like this:
The Lead (The Broad Base): The opening sentence or paragraph. It answers the classic journalistic questions: Who, what, when, where, why, and how? The most vital news goes here.
The Body (The Tapering Middle): Supporting details, crucial context, quotes, and lesser evidence that explain the lead.
The Tail (The Sharp Point): Background information, tangential details, and wrap-up facts that can be easily chopped off by an editor if the page runs out of space.
Why the Inverted Pyramid is Crucial for Journalists
For journalists, this structure is driven by human psychology and the realities of media consumption. Here is why it reigns supreme in newsrooms:
It respects the reader’s time: Modern readers scan. If a headline promises a major political scandal, the reader wants to know what happened immediately, not three paragraphs down.
It accommodates editorial cutting: Historically, if an article was too long for the physical newspaper column, editors would simply chop it off from the bottom up. Because the least important information lived at the tail, cutting text didn’t ruin the core story.
It combats information fatigue: By putting the heavy lifting at the beginning, the reader can drop out of the article at any point and still walk away with the main takeaway.
The Plot Twist: Why Authors Need the Inverted Pyramid, Too
At this point, you might be asking: If fiction is about building suspense, why would an author want to give away the best parts at the beginning?
While novelists shouldn’t write their entire books like a news report, the underlying philosophy of the inverted pyramid solves several common creative writing hurdles. Here is how authors can apply it to their craft:
1. Hooking the Reader on Page One
In the attention economy, modern fiction authors face the same problem journalists do: readers have endless options, and their patience is thin. If your opening chapter is a slow, meandering description of a magic system or a family tree, you will lose them.
Applying the inverted pyramid to your opening scene means starting with your highest-impact material: high stakes, immediate action, a compelling voice, or a gripping emotional dilemma. Give the reader the “news” of your story right away, and save the deep lore for later when they are already hooked.
2. Structuring Scenes and Chapters
Every scene in a novel should function as a micro-story. If you apply the inverted pyramid to scene design:
The Top: Start the scene with the immediate conflict, goal, or revelation.
The Middle: Explore the reactions, dialogue, and rising tension.
The Bottom: End with the fallout, internal reflection, and setup for the next scene.
This prevents “sagging middles” in chapters where characters just walk and talk without moving the plot forward.
Authors love world-building. Unfortunately, readers usually don’t love reading unprompted history lessons.
The inverted pyramid teaches you how to prioritise information. The present danger or current character motivation sits at the top of the pyramid. The history of how the character got there sits at the bottom. By structuring your exposition this way, you ensure that backstory is only introduced when the reader has enough context to actually care about it.
4. Crafting Mysteries and Thrillers
In mystery and thriller writing, the inverted pyramid is practically mandatory. You start with the most shocking piece of information possible—a dead body, a stolen artifact, a ticking bomb (the top of the pyramid). The rest of the novel works its way down the pyramid, peeling back layers, offering clues, and providing context, until the ultimate truth is revealed at the narrow point.
Best Practices: Combining Narrative Art with Journalistic Efficiency
If you want to incorporate the inverted pyramid into your writing without turning your novel into a textbook, keep these best practices in mind:
Prioritize emotional impact over chronological order: You don’t have to start your story at the protagonist’s birth. Start with the moment their life changes, then flash back later.
Treat exposition like the “Tail”: Always ask yourself: Does the reader need to know this right now to understand the scene? If the answer is no, push it further down the pyramid.
Respect the reader’s intelligence: Give them the vital hooks upfront, but leave enough unanswered questions to pull them down the rest of the structure.
The Bottom Line
The inverted pyramid is far more than an outdated journalistic relic; it is a masterclass in prioritisation.
For journalists, it ensures clarity and efficiency in a fast-paced world. For authors, it serves as a powerful antidote to slow beginnings, info-dumps, and meandering plots. By learning to put your most vital, engaging material right at the top, you respect your reader’s time—and ensure they stay on the page until the very last word.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
It was mid-afternoon and a half hour before her plane touched down when I arrived at the airport by water taxi. It was not a trip I made often, but that final run from the city across the open water was at times invigorating, sometimes quite pleasant.
Today, the water had a chop, and the ride was less smooth than usual. The driver also seemed to be in a hurry, just about leaving the dock before I’d got off the boat. It was one of the more interesting ways of arriving at an airport.
It was a leisurely walk to the terminal building, and just as I passed the first of the arrival boards, I saw her plane had landed, about ten minutes early.
I headed to the gate, where, as I arrived, the first of the passengers was coming through the door. She was not at the front of the plane, and it was a full flight; it might be a while before she appeared.
I checked to see if there was anyone who seemed out of place, expecting that Larry would not be that trusting to allow her any freedom, but there were no suspicious others, except if you counted me in that category, lurking within eyesight, but masked from the exiting passenger’s view.
It was several minutes before she appeared, casually dressed as a tourist might, in a bright coloured floral dress with a denim jacket, and travelling with a cabin bag she wheeled in front of her.
She looked different from the photograph, not as gaunt in the face, as if she had recovered from a serious illness. I could not see the expression on her face, but one thing was clear: she was not happy.
Then I saw why.
A man came up to her just as she left the lounge area, appearing suddenly, which meant he had been hidden from me, and she looked surprised, then angry, angry enough that airport security started walking towards them.
The man, seeing the police approaching, said something to her, then quickly walked away. I took a photograph and, looking at it, realised it wouldn’t be difficult to remember him if I needed to.
Alfie would no doubt tell me who he was in due course. In the meantime, Juliet had waited for the police and then spoke to them briefly before heading towards the water taxi terminal.
I was closer to that exit and got there before her, checking to see if the man who had accosted her was waiting outside, as he had left in that direction, and had passed quite close to me. Most noticeable about him is the tattoo of a snake wrapped around his neck.
It gave him that fearsome look that he no doubt used in his profession.
I couldn’t see him, so I headed towards the terminal, this time with the intention of getting the public water bus, otherwise known as a Vaporetto. She followed more casually, taking in the sights as if it were her first time in Venice.
It also gave rise to the thought again of how she was going to ‘run into me’ in a city full of alleyways and hidden passageways, making it easy for even the most experienced traveller to get lost at least once during their visit. The only possibility was in St marks Square or the promenade along the Canal that led out of the square from the Doge’s Palace.
Then I saw him, waiting by a water taxi, or perhaps a private motorboat. She saw him too and headed straight for the Vaporetto, boarding just before it departed, giving him no chance to catch her. It was an amusing charade and an act of defiance she would probably pay for later.
It provided an opportunity to follow him, and when he left, I asked the driver of my water taxi to follow him, coming up with a suitable excuse why I would want to do so, but not sure the driver believed me. One thing was certain: with a captive passenger, he could charge a premium fare knowing I’d have to pay it.
Keeping a suitable distance between us, he followed the boat to Murano, the island of glass-blowing factories. He waited until the driver of the boat left the dock and then took his place for me to disembark, and then I gave him a head start before following discreetly, or as discreetly as I could in the circumstances. There were not many visitors about, so I could hardly lose myself in the crowd.
We passed several glass showrooms on the way alongside the Canal until he reached a bridge and crossed it. On the other side, I could see a basilica, yet another of the many churches in the city, each as old and ornate as the next, and one of the many I’d visited over time and many visits to the city.
But this was not one I’d been to before.
On the other side of the bridge, not far from the church, he stopped and turned around. It was as if he knew he was being followed, and fortunately, just at that moment, I was all but hidden behind the base of the bridge on the opposite side of the Canal.
A long, hard stare at each of those he could see, including those crossing the bridge, then he shrugged and walked towards another man, similarly dressed, waiting outside the church.
I managed to get a better photograph of him and one of his new companions, too, just before they met and walked into the church. I was not going to follow them in. I was hoping Alfie would find out who they were and where to find them, though I had a feeling I was going to meet them again, but not in similar circumstances.
Another question popped into my head as I walked back to the Vaporetto station. Where was Larry right now? On his way to Venice? Or would he wait until Juliet made contact? I knew which hotel she was staying in, a rather small but interesting one I’d stayed at the first time I came to Venice, so I could find her any time I wanted to.
