Do you ever wonder why some stories feel perfectly paced while others seem either way too short or to drag, even when you love the characters? The difference often isn’t talent or genre. It’s structure. Writing a 50,000 word book versus a 100,000 word one requires a different rhythm, a different layering of conflict, and a very different sense of when and how your characters grow.

Why Word Count Isn’t the Real Issue

Recently, I read a novel by one of my favorite authors and found myself unexpectedly frustrated. I adored the characters and the setup, yet the story felt repetitive and stalled for several chapters. It reminded me of another book years earlier that had left me with the same unhappy reaction.

Both writers began their careers crafting delicious shorter novels, yet the stories that didn’t quite land for me were their longer ones.

And because I’m me, I wanted to know why. Why didn’t I love a story that had all the right ingredients? Why did I feel restless instead of satisfied at the happy ending?

After some reflection, I realized both stories stumbled in the same place: the handling of conflict. What worked beautifully for a 50,000-word book fell apart when stretched to double that length. The same intensity that fuels a short novel can become repetitive or exhausting in a long one if the writer doesn’t evolve the story’s emotional and structural layers.

This led me to asking myself why some of the shorter novels I’d tried reading this past year ended up as DNFs. And in almost all of them, there was too much and too convoluted of a plot for the length of the story, making it read like a synopsis rather than a novel.

In this article, we’ll look at three key elements that must be handled differently in shorter and longer novels: internal conflict, external conflict, and characterization.

For clarity:

A short novel runs between 35,000 and 60,000 words.

A long novel starts around 70,000 words and up.

The 10,000 word gap between them is a creative gray zone that can lean either way depending on how complex your story elements are.

To illustrate, I’ll reference two of my own books:

Cinderella’s Jilted Billionaire – 52,000 words (Contemporary Romance)

Ruthless Enforcer – 110,000 words (Mafia Romance / Romantic Suspense)

1. Internal Conflict: Layering the Onion

In a shorter novel, one or two layers of conflict keep readers engaged. Anything more can make the story feel crowded. Readers expect intensity, but not a marathon of emotional back-and-forth.

In a longer novel, though, relying on the same unresolved issue for hundreds of pages creates an exasperating sense of repetition for the reader. That’s where layering the onion comes in. You begin with a core conflict, then gradually reveal or add layers that deepen motivation and raise the emotional stakes.

Example from Cinderella’s Jilted Billionaire
Annette left Carlo at the altar, and he’s never forgiven her. She wants reconciliation. He wants closure. Their emotional tug-of-war sustains the story without layering additional emotional conflict or letting that conflict morph into something new.

Example from Ruthless Enforcer
Lucia is haunted by loss and afraid to connect. Atlas, damaged by childhood trauma, has shut down his emotions entirely. Their sexual chemistry pierces both their defenses, paving the way for initial resolution of their emotional conflict. When Lucia discovers Atlas’s secrets halfway through the book, the core conflict evolves from fear of loss to fear of trusting again. Atlas goes from not feeling emotions to not knowing what to do with the ones now roiling through him. That shift keeps a 110,000-word story emotionally alive.

Takeaway:
Short novels can thrive on a single emotional wound. Long novels require transformation. The conflict must grow, shift, or evolve to satisfy readers throughout the story.

2. External Conflict: Expanding the Web

Just as internal conflict must deepen, external conflict must also expand in a long novel. Plot tension in shorter novels works best when it’s focused and direct. Long novels, on the other hand, need subplots and complications that add both weight and meaning.

Example from Cinderella’s Jilted Billionaire
Annette’s sister is marrying Carlo’s brother. Family obligations force Annette and Carlo into close contact again. The tension escalates twice: first when Annette returns to New York to help her sister, and later when an accident forces them to share childcare and living space.

The few branches of this story all grow from one trunk: family obligation.

Example from Ruthless Enforcer
Atlas’s Greek mafia expansion into new territory collides with a rival bratva faction and Lucia’s determination to run her club independently. Each verbal confrontation and physical skirmish raises the stakes for Atlas and Lucia, intertwining professional survival with emotional risk. By the time the final showdown arrives, the external and internal conflicts collide in a way that demands both emotional and physical resolution.

The abundant branches of conflict in this book connect logically to the main trunk, mafia life versus independence, but themselves can have offshoots and vibrant foliage.

Takeaway:
Short novels benefit from a single driving plotline. Long novels need secondary problems that connect logically to the main one but allow for new tension and growth.

Note: each subplot should contribute to the overarching stakes rather than simply fill pages.

3. Character Growth: When it Happens Matters

Readers don’t just want things to happen; they want characters to change. The emotional payoff of a story, whether short or long, depends on believable transformation. The difference for the short and long novel lies in pacing.

In a short novel, the bulk of the character’s growth can happen in the final third of the book because the story itself moves quickly and the reader often expects a concentrated burst of revelations. If it happens to early, the tension in the story can fizzle and pop, leaving the reader unsatisfied.

In a long novel, growth happens in stages and should be recognizable to the reader in both actions and internal narrative. If the hero or heroine remains unchanged through most of the book, readers will probably feel like the story is circling back over and over rather than advancing. This is often the source of complaints about the story dragging.

Character growth impacts how the characters respond to the emotional story arc (driven by internal conflict) and plot (driven by external conflict).

Example from Cinderella’s Jilted Billionaire
Annette has already done some emotional work before the book begins. Her growth lies in standing firm in her new confidence. Carlo’s growth is recognizing that his resentment masks love and that it’s not enough to feel it. He has to show and verbalize it too. Both arcs complete within a concise timeframe, keeping pace with the story’s shorter structure.

Example from Ruthless Enforcer
Atlas starts nearly emotionless, then gradually rediscovers feelings: joy, fear, and finally love. Lucia begins fearful of letting anyone in but then trusts Atlas with parts of her she has never let anyone else see. When Atlas betrays her, she reacts very differently to the way she did when her former family let her down. And even though she’s fighting her feelings for Atlas, she continues to embrace friendships she hadn’t before.

Takeaway:
In long novels, growth must progress rather than appear all at once. Readers want to see change hinted at, resisted, and finally embraced. The journey matters as much as the destination.

Common Pitfalls to Avoid

Repeating the same emotional beats without escalation.

Saving all character growth for the last chapter in a long book.

Over-complicating short novels with too many subplots.

Every story has its natural length. Writing more words doesn’t mean writing a better novel and cutting out multiple repetitions of the same scene could be the difference between a wall-banger and a great book. Keeping within a shorter wordcount doesn’t always mean the story is tight; sometimes it means part of the story is missing and it should be longer.

Learning which way to go with a story is one of a writer’s most valuable skills.

Final Thoughts

I’m going to leave you with one last analogy.

For most of us, the size of suitcase we take is determined by how long we will be gone on a trip when we travel. (My hubby - the weirdo - perfected the art of minimalistic travel years ago and took the same small suitcase on his six week trip to China as his three day trip to Los Angeles!) What goes into that suitcase are primarily the same things: clothes, toiletries, and books (who travels without books?). The difference is how many and what type of those things we take.

For a long trip, I’m taking multiple pairs of shoes and clothes for different occasions. For a short one? I might stick with the shoes I wear onto the plane and pack nothing but a couple of tops to go with the a single pair of pants, plus maybe a dress that works for both day and evening.

If I try to cram everything I would take on a long trip into a carryon bag, it’s not going to fit no matter how hard I try to cram it in. And conversely if I put the few items I need for a short trip into a larger check-in bag, I’ll end up paying a luggage fee I don’t need to and might well open my suitcase to damaged items taht got tossed around too much in transit.

The difference between a 50,000 and a 100,000 word novel isn’t just the number of pages (or the size of the suitcase), but the diversity and layering of the story elements inside. It’s about structure, pacing, and the evolution of conflict and character.

Whether your book is a swift, satisfying sprint or an immersive marathon, your readers want the same thing in the end: a story that feels complete, true to its characters, and worth every page.

Until next time happy writing & reading!

Lucy

USA Today bestselling and award-winning author Lucy Monroe has over 90 published novels and more than 12.5 million copies sold worldwide. Her stories—rich with emotion, heat, and high stakes—span contemporary, historical, and paranormal romance.

Now publishing independently, Lucy writes the bold, deeply romantic stories she’s most passionate about. Her latest series, Syndicate Rules, explores the dark and decadent world of mafia romance with morally gray heroes, fierce heroines, and all the spice fans crave.

A voracious reader and longtime romance fangirl, Lucy loves connecting with fellow book lovers online.

For info on all of Lucy’s books, visit her website.

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