“They blew up a Costco.”

That’s not a sentence you expect to read over your morning coffee.

Or ever really…

But there I was, half-awake, scrolling my phone, watching a Costco detonate like someone really hated capitalism.

I scrolled some more.

Then a gas station went up.

Just… boom.

That day, a cartel boss had just been killed in Mexico, and apparently, the response was: burn everything down and make sure people film it.

I should’ve put my phone down.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I did what any rational, well-adjusted adult does when confronted with global chaos and too much free time.

I opened Netflix and turned on Narcos.

Just one episode, I told myself.

Just one.

Then eight hours later, I’m in the same position, smelling sour, lying to myself, saying I’ll get my shit together.

That’s the power of a good story.

And somewhere around 5 PM in that strange, dehydrated, slightly ashamed post-binge clarity, it hit me:

The reason I couldn’t stop watching that show is the exact same reason people can’t put down a great book.

And it’s not because of some writing secret.

It’s not because of beautiful sentences or fancy themes.

It’s because good storytelling rewards your brain in very predictable ways.

And if you’re willing to pay attention to your own bad habits—like watching eight straight hours of cartel drama instead of being productive, you can reverse-engineer the whole damn thing.

The premise does 80% of the work

Here’s the truth most ivory tower film critics will hate me for:

Nobody commits to a show because of its execution.

We commit because we like the idea.

It sounds interesting…

That’s it. That’s the first hurdle to clear.

You’re telling me I can watch a show about a drug kingpin building an empire and becoming the most powerful criminal in the world before slowly self-destructing.

Yeah, I’m in.

Twice.

Because the premise sounds compelling.

It’s the  same reason people would rather watch Game of Thrones instead of “A Quiet Show About a Doorbell Repairman repairing doorbells.”

Because one of these promises a story. 

Which means if your book doesn’t sound interesting—if it doesn’t spark curiosity before page one—it’s probably dead on arrival.

And no amount of beautiful writing is going to save a boring idea.

 

You have about five minutes to matter

Every show gets a tiny window to prove it’s worth your time.

Maybe it’s a shocking opening.
Maybe it’s a character you instantly love or hate.
Maybe it’s a question that won’t leave your brain alone.

But if nothing happens?

You’re gone. I’m gone. Everyone’s gone.

Which is why most shows start fast.

But here’s the bad news: books are even more brutal.

Because reading takes effort. Watching TV takes sitting on your ass.

So you don’t get five minutes.

You get a page. Maybe two.

And if you don’t hook the reader immediately, they’re not sticking around for the part where it “gets good.”

Because to them, it already isn’t.

Momentum is everything (and most people screw this up)

The first episode is easy.

It’s the shiny object.

It’s the promise.

But the real question all us watchers want to know is… can you sustain it?

Does each episode make you more curious than the last?
Does the tension build?
Do things get worse in interesting ways?

If yes, we binge.

If no— we stop watching and start trying to find a new show.

This means we really need to care about the structure and pacing of our stories because books die in the middle all the time.

We read a great opening, then somewhere around page 120, it turns into a literary version of elevator music.

No urgency. No escalation. Just… pleasant words.

Which means as a writer, momentum isn’t optional. It’s the whole damn game.

Every chapter should make it harder to stop than the one before it.

 

Characters are the glue

Plot gets you in the door. Characters make you stay.

Take Jon Snow—he’s brooding, honorable, constantly screwed over, and somehow still compelling.

Or even someone like Tim Robinson, who plays characters that are completely unhinged but painfully relatable in that “oh God, I’ve acted like that before” kind of way.

In Narcos, you’re basically running around Medellín with Pablo Escobar—a violent, narcissistic criminal—and yet… you’re fascinated.

Why?

Because he feels real.

When we binge, we’re not just watching events.
We’re living inside someone else’s life.

And if we don’t care about the people we’re stuck with, just like bad company, we leave.

The same goes for your book.

Give us characters we can feel something about—love, hate, curiosity, even mild concern—and we’ll follow them anywhere.

Give us nothing?

We’re out faster than we can say, “wanna watch a movie?”

 

The only thing that really matters: “what happens next?”

This is the uncomfortable truth most writers don’t want to hear.

People read your book not just because of your prose.
Not just because of your themes.
And not just because of your symbolism.

We read because we want to know what happens next.

And all the other literary elements aid that goal.

That’s the entire game.

Every episode of a binge-worthy show ends with a question.
Every scene pushes you slightly forward.
Every answer creates two new problems.

It’s engineered curiosity, and great books do that at all times.

We don’t keep turning pages because the sentences are pretty.
We keep turning pages because stopping feels worse than continuing.

That’s why we love good books.

Full Circle

So the next time you sit down to write and start overthinking it—

The structure.
The voice.
The deeper meaning of it all—

Don’t.

Just ask yourself one uncomfortable question:

Why the hell couldn’t I stop watching that show?

Answer that honestly.

Then write that.

Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think. Do you agree.

Follow me on substack here: (1) Tonysbologna | Anthony Robert | Substack

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