Raising the Stakes (not steaks)

In my Master’s of Creative Writing Program, I’m taking a screenwriting class. I chose screenwriting because I figured I’d learn formatting rules, maybe pick up some dialogue tricks, and better understand how films are structured. What I didn’t expect was how much it would reshape my thinking about my short stories.

Screenwriting is ruthless about engaging your audience. Every scene must justify its existence. Every moment must either up the tension, deepen characters, or move the story forward. If it doesn’t, it gets cut. That discipline has started to change how I see my own writing.

In fiction, especially short stories, I sometimes fall into the trap of lingering. I can wallow in my world-building or circle around a character’s thoughts. Sometimes that works. But sometimes what I call atmosphere is really just avoidance, and the story is treading water.

Screenwriting exposes inactivity

Because a screenplay translates to about a minute per page, you can almost feel the clock ticking. If nothing meaningful happens for three pages, that’s three minutes of a viewer’s life—three minutes of restlessness or them checking their phone.

But raising the stakes isn’t about adding car chases or explosions

Before this class, I thought raising the stakes meant making something more dramatic in an obvious way, like louder conflict, bigger consequences, or an obvious crisis. Now I see it’s subtler than that.

Raising the stakes means:

• Clarifying what the character stands to lose,

• Spotlighting the cost of failure,

• Ensuring every scene shifts the balance, and

• Removing easy outs.

In a screenplay, if a character wants something, the script immediately pressures that want. Obstacles aren’t decorative; they’re structural. They force decisions, and decisions reveal character.

When I look back at some of my short stories, I can see places where characters want something, but nothing substantial threatens that desire. The story moves, but it doesn’t tighten.

Screenwriting demands momentum. Scenes enter late and exit early. Dialogue is compressed. Subtext replaces explanation. The result is a narrative that feels alive because it is constantly in motion. Applying that mindset to my short stories has been surprisingly liberating.

Screenwriting has shown me that engagement isn’t accidental—it’s engineered. Stakes aren’t implied; they’re constructed. Conflict isn’t atmospheric; it’s active. When I apply that lens to my short stories, I start to see the soft spots—places where I could make the tension bigger or more urgent.

My opinion? Instead of trimming words, tighten the stakes. Your stories will feel stronger for it.