Quick warning before we dive in. This rule is for the tension dealers. The chaos architects. The maniacs who treat storytelling like psychological warfare. Writers who don’t just want to entertain — they want to hijack the reader’s nervous system. If you’re here to write about sunrises and self-reflection? Cool. Just… not here.

But if you’re here to twist guts, cut the brakes, and leave readers breathless? Welcome to the club. Strap in.

Let’s not sugarcoat it. You’re not just writing a story. You’re fighting for attention in a world addicted to speed, stimulation, doomscrolling, and swipe-after-swipe dopamine hits.

Here’s what you’re up against
You’re not just competing with other books. You’re competing with billion-dollar algorithms designed to hijack your reader’s mind. Your reader isn’t distracted. They’ve been kidnapped. They’re on the toilet, chasing dopamine. On the couch, chasing another hit. At work, in bed, in line at the grocery store — chasing the next micro-hit. Their attention isn’t wandering — it’s being hunted, harvested, sold, and resold just to sell more ads.

Every scroll, every ping, every autoplay — it’s not just entertainment. It’s weaponized distraction. It’s precision-engineered brain hacking. TikTok is neural theft in under 7 seconds. Instagram reels aren’t “short-form content” — they’re attention traps. YouTube doesn’t show them what’s good — it shows them what’s impossible to stop watching. They’re not bingeing. They’re being fed. Slack. WhatsApp. Group chats. News alerts. Their phone lights up every 30 seconds like a digital slot machine whispering, “Just one more.”

Netflix? They’ve got 200 films and TV shows sitting in their queue — untouched. That’s billions of dollars in A-list actors, explosions, and Oscar bait… just waiting for their time. And they haven’t even gotten to it yet. That’s what you’re up against. An entire industry of psychological engineers working around the clock to make sure no one ever reads your story.

And now, you’re supposed to cut through all that — with a sentence?

Black text on a white screen. That’s all you have. That’s your weapon of war. So your sentence? It better hit like a flare in a hurricane — because you’re not trying to impress. You’re trying to be seen through the chaos.

This is a war for the reader’s mind. And every word is a bullet. This isn’t distraction. This is possession. And on top of all that? 3,000–5,000 new books uploaded to Amazon every single day. And a literary graveyard of millions of brilliant books already written, already published, already forgotten — before you were even born. That’s what you’re up against. Not just other writers — but an entertainment machine that’s louder, faster, and always one swipe away from stealing your reader forever.

All you’ve got is words. Black text. White page. So make them count. Make them burn. Make them grab — or die trying.

In Rule One, we talked about grabbing the reader with your hook. But grabbing them once isn’t enough. Rule Two was about structure. This one? It’s about Suspense. How to fill that structure with suspense that doesn’t breathe. Rule Three of Suspense Club is: Grab them — and never let go.

Your first sentence is the handshake. Your first page is the punch. Every chapter. Every paragraph. Every line. It’s either raising the stakes — or killing the momentum. There’s no neutral. No room for filler. No space for softness. No paragraphs that “warm up” the reader.

You’re not writing to be admired. You’re writing to keep them reading. Every sentence must drag the reader to the next. Every paragraph must pull them deeper into the trap. Every chapter must end with a reason to say… “Just one more.” This is the kind of writing that keeps people up past 2 a.m. Eyes bloodshot. And their Kindle on 1% battery. But they can’t stop. Because you won’t let them. That’s the job.

Let’s look at how THE MASTERS of storytelling open their books:

Ken Follett — Pillars of the Earth. One of the greatest historical thrillers ever written and one of my favourite books — and he starts with: “The boys came early for the hanging.” That is the OPENING sentence. No weather. No mood. No throat-clearing. Just the rope.

Stephen King — Misery. “Grunting, sweating, trembling, Paul Sheldon turned the Royal upright and sat down with his ruined legs screaming.” You’re INSIDE the pain in one sentence.

Lee Child — Gone Tomorrow. “Suicide bombers are easy to spot. They give out all kinds of telltale signs. Mostly because they’re nervous. By definition they’re all first-timers.” BOOM. Where are we, what is going on? You’re in. What happens next? You must find out.

Ruth Ware — The Woman in Cabin 10. “The first inkling that something was wrong was when I sliced my hand open on a piece of metal embedded in the wall.” Visceral. Mysterious. You’re immediately tense and on alert.

Megan Abbott — The Fever. “The first time, you can’t believe how much it hurts.” No context. No names. Just pain and danger.

Gillian Flynn — Sharp Objects. “My mother’s lips are pale pink and glistening with blood.” No easing in. It’s beautiful, disturbing, and deeply wrong.

James Patterson — Along Came a Spider. “Maggie Rose was kidnapped at gunpoint at 10:30 in the morning, on a bright, blue-sky day in Washington, D.C.” He doesn’t waste a second. Stakes. Scene. Crime. You’re already sprinting.

And how do you end your chapter on a cliffhanger?

Dan Brown — The Da Vinci Code. His chapters are one-page punches. He ends them like this: “Langdon knew he had only seconds. He bolted for the exit. And slammed right into the barrel of a gun.” Boom. Chapter ends. You MUST turn the page and find out what happens next.

Gillian Flynn — Gone Girl. “He does things like that: changes his mind and then acts as if nothing happened. He doesn’t see it as a lie, just a rearrangement of facts. I think this will be my last entry.” This sounds like a goodbye. Maybe a suicide note. Maybe a setup. Whatever it is — it’s not over. You must read the next chapter to find out.

James Patterson — Along Came a Spider. “They had been looking in the wrong place. The killer had been inside the house the entire time.” Classic reversal. The chase just flipped 180 degrees. You have to see what happens next.

Lisa Jewell — The Family Upstairs. “It wasn’t just blood. It was everywhere.” You thought it was a domestic drama. Nope — now it’s a crime scene.

Stephen King — Misery. “She turned the axe like a baseball bat and swung it at his foot.” It’s exactly what you feared — and now you’re frozen. You need to know how bad it gets.

That’s what great suspense writing looks like.

Let me show you how I tried to do that in my own story — Escape From Somalia. This is how my story opens:

“The explosion ripped through the silence of the night, a deafening roar that tore the President of the United States, James Harrington, from the depths of troubled sleep. The aircraft shook violently, metal grinding against metal in an unholy symphony that drowned out the screams from the passengers. James grabbed the sides of his bed as Air Force One dropped in altitude, sending his stomach to his throat.”

Now — I’m not saying that’s great writing. I’m not claiming to be some literary oracle. I don’t have a degree in English Lit. But I know how to start a story. I know how to pull the reader straight into the fire. Because the truth is — you don’t need permission to write something unputdownable. You just need to make them care — fast. And then never let go.

So here’s your gut check: If someone skimmed your chapter — would they miss something vital? Are the stakes higher than they were ten pages ago? Could the chapter end on a gasp, a twist, or a punch to the throat?

If not? Cut it. Tighten it. Rewrite it until it hurts. Every line must do one of four things: Move the story. Raise the pressure. Force a decision. Reveal something we don’t know.

Anything else? Dead weight. And in suspense — dead weight kills the pulse. You’re not writing to be polite. You’re writing to hold a stranger’s attention in a world that wants to forget you in five seconds.

So grab them by the collar. And don’t let go. Not for a paragraph. Not for a scene. Not for a single breath. Keep it hot. Keep it tight. Keep it ruthless. Or don’t keep it at all.

And if you’re the kind of writer who’s nodding along right now — thinking, “Yeah… this is how I want to write. This is how I want to be read…” then I’ve got something for you.

I’m looking for the first 50 writers to help launch Suspense Club. You will get in before the readers show up. No fees. No credit card needed. Just your story — raw, burning, unfinished — and your willingness to build it with me.

I’ll personally workshop it with you. One-on-one. Scene by scene. Hook to twist to ending. You keep 100% of your rights. Always. No fine print. No shady deals. When your story hits 5,000 followers? You unlock your own store on Suspense Club. Sell pre-orders. Audiobooks. Signed editions. Crowdfund your book like a badass.

Hit 10,000? We launch you on Amazon — right through our official Suspense Club publishing channel. And here’s the twist: We don’t make a cent… until you do. We take 20% of whatever you earn. That’s it. No subscriptions. No monthly fees. No “premium access.” We only win if you win.

Because that’s how it should be. Writers first. Readers in charge. No middlemen. No gatekeepers. Just pure, ruthless storytelling.

So if you’ve got a thriller, a horror, a mystery, or a pulse-pounding “what if” — this is your moment. Go to SuspenseClub.com. Apply now. Be one of the first 50.

Let’s build something unputdownable. Together.