I’ve been recently discussing how to work out plotting issues with a writer friend—the type of plot knots where you have a good idea of the beginning and end, but too many possibilities for how to get from A to Z—and realized I’ve come up with a few principles that work pretty well for me. These aren’t one-size-fits-all; they’re just ideas that may spark something with other writers.

Rule #1: Do the most interesting thing.

In Zombie Novel, I originally had an ending sequence that worked, but felt a little too smooth: Protagonists A and B kill Antagonist X’s henchmen and get away mostly unharmed. I need the villain X to live and be present in the sequel, so although A and B have good reason to kill him, they can’t. But then I realized: A can do something to X that will keep him alive long enough to perform his role in the sequel, but also put a ticking clock over his head. Does it complicate things? Yes, a bit—now my plotting with X has to be tighter because he’s working under a literal deadline. But A’s arc also ends much more dramatically, and sets up interesting questions and ramifications in the sequel.

Sometimes we choose the simpler, smoother route with plotting because working out the details of a new complication is overwhelming. And I think in first drafts, that’s fine: the point is to get the damn thing down and tinker with it later. But when we spot the possibility to make things a lot more interesting by throwing in a complication, we owe it to the story to see how it plays out. Does the complication make the story more compelling by not letting characters take the easy route, or is it just complexity for complexity’s sake?

Rule #2: Recycle characters and concepts as much as possible.

While writing the first draft of Zombie Novel, I had a scene where all my protagonists survive a desperate chase and reach their car—and I knew someone had to be waiting at that car to throw a wrench into their escape. The problem: who was the most interesting choice? Every existing villain was, at that point, tied up in other plots. I could invent a new villain, but that didn’t feel shocking and intriguing enough. Villains are more effective when they’re someone we already know. What if it was a character who’d been introduced earlier, someone who had seemed fairly minor? Whose presence would initially be startling but then, in hindsight (and with a few revision tweaks), make total sense? There was someone who fit the bill surprisingly well, and once I chose to reuse that character and develop her role more substantially, other plot elements began clicking into place.

A huge part of the fun of writing for me is the invention: characters, conflicts, worlds, all of it. Sometimes, though, rather than work with what we’ve got, we creative, generative types have a tendency to invent new things to solve problems that could, with some elbow grease, be solved by existing characters and other elements.

Sometimes plotting feels like I’m holding an almost-finished Rubik’s cube, and as I near completion I lose the patience and discipline to flick those last few squares into place. Because once I start shifting one part, the whole thing could get messed up. It’s easier to just invent new things to solve problems rather than try to finagle the existing elements into a satisfying solution. Of course, inventing stuff to solve immediate problems just increases complexity later on, and results in an unsatisfying conclusion for readers…

Rule #3: The MC is the star.

In my friend’s book, the problem involves a pivotal role that could be performed by several characters, and one possibility is the MC. IMO, whenever it’s possible to more deeply involve the MC in the central conflict, it is probably a good idea to do so (barring complexity for complexity’s sake). Does the MC already have a damn good reason to be involved in the conflict? Would it be more interesting if they didn’t have a choice? Would making the MC the key to a certain conflict increase the pressure, the sense of urgency, and raise the stakes? Even outside the thriller genre, urgency and stakes drive reader interest.

This principle sounds self-evident, but you’d be surprised how often writers let it slip—even the big guns, like, say, George R.R. Martin. Remember when the A Song of Ice and Fire books were about Jon and Dany, the Starks and the Targaryens and the Lannisters? Martin let his love of invention get the best of him and filled his saga with countless minor characters, and now those characters and their plots and subplots within subplots are getting more screentime than the MCs. The central conflict is all but forgotten.

Our MC is—theoretically; ideally; possibly—the character most readers will most identify with. There’s a reason we chose them as the MC. There’s a reason the narrative revolves around them. It doesn’t always need to be a literal, plot-driven reason; maybe the MC represents the themes of the novel rather than functions as the actual lynchpin of the plot. Still, it is almost always the better narrative choice to force the MC to be an active participant in events rather than an observer, or a warm body which things happen to. Give them momentum; don’t let them move forward via inertia.