Reader Intelligence
When we embark on the writing journey, there’s an infinity of unknowns that we often try to tackle through a practice called futurology—an attempt to control the future by contemplating it. Amid these uncertainties, one common fear lingers: the fear of the reader, the audience. We worry they might become bored or predict the unfolding events. Today, I’m here to tell you that dwelling on these concerns, especially excessively, is a futile endeavor.
Greetings, Neophyte. We’re delving into a sensitive topic today: Reader Intelligence, or more precisely, what we should expect from our target audience. Understanding the audience’s reactions becomes one of the most obscure aspects of our work.
Certainly, there are models, and I’m sure publishing houses and large corporations have entire rooms filled with customer profiles and strategies for selling to them. However, that’s the average, and as an individual, you must strive for excellence, not the average.
We, as writers, carry a curse, Neophyte—at least, I believe I do. Since I am neither unique nor special, I’m certain it’s a shared affliction. “Is this too obvious?” “Will they predict where this is going?” “Is this good enough?” These and countless other similar questions plague me as I write. We fear revealing too much or too little. We constantly vacillate between underestimating and overestimating the audience’s intelligence when it comes to unraveling a story, ultimately succumbing to creativity-blocking fear.
Now, Neophyte, I would metaphorically slap you if regulations permitted, but this fear, though valid, is also foolish—like many fears. It revolves around something intangible, something beyond your control. Moreover, you can never be certain who will read your works or how popular they will become.
In my reading habits, I’m as omnivorous as they come. From Young Adult novels to esoteric compendiums, nothing is off-limits. I have preferences, but if a piece piques my interest, I’ll dive in. Through this diverse reading experience, I’ve found that even if I could often predict the story’s direction or foresee upcoming events, it seldom detracted from my enjoyment. Why, you ask, Neophyte? Well, let me tell you.
Predicting the general direction of a story is not the same as certainty, and more often than not, it doesn’t diminish the eventual payoff (a topic for later discussion). In many cases, predicting an outcome enhances reader satisfaction when the anticipated moment finally arrives. The triumphant “Yes! I knew it!” reaction adds to the overall experience. Conversely, the unexpected twist of “I wasn’t expecting that” can intensify tension or anticipation, drawing the reader even more deeply into the narrative. There are few rewards in the craft better than these.
Your role is to refine the story until it is deemed acceptable, good, in your eyes and those of your beta readers. Additionally, you must acknowledge a reality: you will need to guide the audience, explicitly or implicitly, to what is important or will become relevant. The art lies in doing so with subtlety, refinement, and class. The worst mistake is being too “in your face.” Need an example, Neophyte? Allow me to illustrate.
In one of the later Die Hard movies set in Russia (as far as my personal canon goes, the last one was the third, but I digress), there’s a scene where Bruce Willis’s character is stuck in traffic in a taxi. The taxi driver rambles on about how this always happens and how it’s always annoying—a clumsy way of inserting an important plot point that will later become significant.
This is where fear strikes—the uncertainty of whether you’re handling things correctly, of whether the audience might outsmart you. Don’t fret, Neophyte. Just don’t worry about that. Focus on making the story good, and everything else becomes secondary.
Until Next Time
