The Curiosity Hook Principal

Or: How to Make Sure Your Audience Never Puts the Script Down

By Andrew Charles Southern

There’s this feeling I chase when I write. You probably know it too—when you’re watching a movie or reading a book and suddenly… something tightens. You lean forward. A question rises in your gut, and you need to know what happens next.

That, my friends, is the juice.

And I’ve come to realize: that feeling is not an accident. It’s a craft. And it can be coded. So here’s the rule I’m now living by as I revise In the Key of Freedom—and every script from here on out:

The Curiosity Hook Principal

“At every stage of the story, I must feel the pull to keep reading—not out of politeness, but out of real, burning curiosity. If that energy dips, something needs to change.”

It sounds simple. But it will sharpen your instincts like a blade. This rule doesn’t care how clever your premise is, or how poetic your prose reads. It asks one thing:

Am I still hooked?

Not intellectually. Emotionally.

Not entertained. Compelled.

Not “this is nice.” “I cannot stop reading.”

If that pull isn’t there, the script stalls. It drifts. And drifting is death.

So What Is Curiosity in Story Terms?

It’s when the audience finds themselves silently asking:

• “What’s going to happen?”

• “How will she respond to this?”

• “Is he lying?”

• “Why did that moment feel off?”

• “Can this possibly end well?”

• “What’s the truth at the center of this person’s soul, and when will we see it revealed?”

Curiosity is tension braided with humanity. It’s not about explosions. It’s about the unknown.

How I Use This While Rewriting

When I re-read a scene now, I stop and ask:

• What is the question being asked right now? (Not out loud—felt.)

• What am I pulled toward? Mystery? Conflict? Longing?

• Is the air charged—or is this just filler?

If I can’t identify the emotional engine pulling the scene forward, I flag it. That’s dead air. And dead air kills scripts.

How to Bake It In From the Start

Don’t just start with a situation. Start with a soul at a crossroads.

• “Why is this girl so closed off?”

• “What’s this guy hiding behind all that charm?”

Then code unspoken questions into each act:

• Act 1: “Will she escape her old life?”

• Act 2: “Is he really changing—or just faking it?”

• Act 3: “Will they become who they were meant to be?”

And here’s the trick—never resolve without reloading.

Answer one question? Good. Now immediately open another. That’s how you keep the gravitational pull alive, all the way through to the final page.

Narrative Gravity

That’s the term I’ve come to love. Not structure. Not plot mechanics.

Narrative gravity.

A story that pulls us forward. Scene by scene. Beat by beat.Line by line.

So smooth they don’t notice the current. So charged they can’t swim against it.

That’s what we’re building. That’s the game.

Line I’ve Taped to My Wall:

“If I’m not dying to know what happens next—I haven’t hit the nerve yet.”

That’s it. That’s the nerve I want every scene to strike.

And if you’re chasing that too—welcome to the club. We’re just getting started.