Past Tense vs. Present Tense: It’s Not a Grammar Decision — It’s a Storytelling One
(And yes, picking the wrong one can quietly sabotage 80,000+ words of otherwise solid writing.)
Let’s get something out of the way first: this is not a post about conjugation. If you came here looking for a refresher on verb forms, I love that for you, but that’s not what we’re doing today.
What we are doing is talking about something most craft books gloss over in about two paragraphs before moving on to dialogue tags—the fact that your tense choice fundamentally changes the relationship between your narrator, your story, and your reader.
Not slightly. Fundamentally.
And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. So buckle up.
The Real Difference (It’s Not What You Think)
What most writers get wrong: they treat tense like a costume. Like past tense is the business casual of fiction and present tense is the leather jacket. Swap one for the other, no big deal, right?
Wrong. (Sorry, not sorry.)
Tense isn’t a surface-level choice. It determines what your narrator knows and when they know it—and that single variable changes everything about how your story lands.
Past tense means your narrator has already lived through this. They survived. They’re sitting in a metaphorical armchair (or a literal one—hi, Nick Carraway), looking back and choosing what to tell you. They can reflect. They can foreshadow. They can lie by omission. They have the benefit of hindsight, and that means every single sentence they give you is curated.
Present tense strips all of that away. Your narrator is in the trenches right now. They don’t know what’s coming. They can’t reflect on what it all meant because they haven’t gotten to the “what it all meant” part yet. What you get is raw reaction—unfiltered, immediate, and (here’s the kicker) potentially unreliable in a completely different way.
See the difference? It’s not safe vs. trendy. It’s knowing vs. discovering.
And that changes the entire emotional architecture of your book.
Let’s Talk Examples (Because Theory Without Proof Is Just Vibes)
Past Tense Done Right: Hindsight as a WeaponThe Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Nick Carraway is the poster child for what past tense can do in the hands of a skilled narrator. He’s telling you this story after the fact—after the parties, after the tragedy, after all of it. And because he already knows how it ends, every observation is loaded. When he describes Gatsby’s smile or Daisy’s voice, those descriptions carry the weight of everything that came after.
That’s the power of past tense: your narrator can weight moments. They can linger on details that seemed insignificant at the time but turned out to matter enormously. They can skip over things they’d rather not examine. (Nick does this a LOT, by the way. The man is an unreliable narrator wrapped in a cardigan of self-righteousness, and past tense is what makes that work.)
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Morrison uses past tense to create layers of memory—stories told and retold, each retelling revealing something new. The narrator’s relationship to the past isn’t just “I remember this.” It’s “I’ve been carrying this, and I’m choosing to set it down in front of you now.” Past tense gives Morrison the space to control the pacing of revelation, to let trauma surface gradually rather than all at once.
You can’t do that in present tense. Not the same way. Present tense doesn’t allow for that kind of deliberate, slow unfurling.
Present Tense Done Right: No Safety Net, No ExitThe Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
There’s a reason Collins chose present tense for Katniss, and it wasn’t because YA was “trending that way” in 2008. (Though yes, present tense has become more common in YA—we’ll get to that.)
Katniss doesn’t know if she’s going to survive. That’s not a metaphor. She is literally in a death arena. Present tense puts the reader in the same position—you don’t know if she’s going to make it either, because the narrator can’t reassure you. There’s no “I remember the day I entered the arena” framing that tells you she lived to tell the tale. Every moment could be the last one.
That’s present tense doing its job: removing the guarantee of survival.
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel
Now HERE’S where it gets interesting. Mantel wrote historical fiction—a genre that practically lives in past tense—in present tense. And people lost their minds about it (in the best way).
Why did it work? Because Mantel wanted you to experience Thomas Cromwell’s world as he experienced it: uncertain, politically dangerous, moment-to-moment. She didn’t want you reading about Tudor England from the safe distance of “this all happened 500 years ago.” She wanted you in it. Present tense collapses that historical distance and makes a story set in the 1530s feel immediate and alive.
It also won the Booker Prize. Twice. So, ya know. It worked.
All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr
Doerr’s novel is set during WWII, and he uses present tense to create an almost unbearable sense of tension. You know, intellectually, that the war ended. But the characters don’t know that. Present tense keeps you locked into their uncertainty, their fear, their moment-by-moment survival. Past tense would have added a layer of “looking back” that would have softened the emotional impact.
Sometimes you don’t want soft. Sometimes you want your reader’s stomach in knots. Present tense is your friend there.
Narrator Reliability: The Part Nobody Talks About Enough
Okay, here’s where I get a little nerdy. (More nerdy? Whatever. Bear with me.)
Tense doesn’t just affect pacing and emotional distance. It fundamentally shapes how much your reader trusts your narrator—and in what way they distrust them.
Past Tense Unreliability: The CuratorA past-tense narrator who’s unreliable is unreliable because they’re choosing what to tell you. They’re editing their own story. They know the ending and they’re constructing a version of events that serves their purposes—whether that’s self-preservation, self-deception, or manipulation.
Think about Amy Dunne’s diary entries in Gone Girl. (Past tense, carefully constructed, deliberately misleading.) She’s not reacting. She’s performing. And past tense is what makes that performance possible, because past tense gives the narrator time to craft their version.
Present Tense Unreliability: The ReactorA present-tense narrator who’s unreliable is unreliable because they’re too close to the action to see clearly. They’re not lying (necessarily)—they’re just processing in real time, missing things, misinterpreting, reacting emotionally instead of rationally.
This is a completely different flavor of “don’t trust the narrator,” and it creates a completely different reading experience. The reader isn’t trying to catch the narrator in a lie. They’re watching the narrator fail to understand what’s happening as it happens.
Both are valid. Both are powerful. But they’re not interchangeable. And if you pick the wrong tense for the kind of unreliability your story needs? You’re going to feel like something’s off and not be able to put your finger on what.
(Spoiler: it might be this.)
Genre Expectations: Know the Rules So You Can Break Them On Purpose
Let’s talk patterns. Not rules—patterns. Because patterns exist for a reason, and understanding them gives you the power to follow them OR subvert them intentionally.
Present tense leans hard in: YA, thrillers, some contemporary literary fiction, psychological suspense. The through-line? Urgency. Immediacy. “You are here, and you don’t know what’s coming.”
Past tense dominates in: Fantasy, historical fiction, literary fiction (broadly), mystery, horror, romance. The through-line? Depth. Reflection. World-building. “Let me tell you a story.”
But here’s what I want you to hear: these are tendencies, not requirements.
Hilary Mantel wrote historical fiction in present tense and it was brilliant. Leigh Bardugo writes fantasy in past tense and it’s gripping as hell. The genre “expectation” is a starting point for your decision, not the final answer.
The question isn’t “what does my genre do?” The question is “what does my story need?”
And if your story needs something that breaks the genre pattern? Break it. Just break it because you’ve thought about it and decided it serves the narrative—not because you didn’t realize there was a pattern to begin with.
(There’s a big difference between “I chose present tense for my epic fantasy because the fractured timeline demands immediacy” and “wait, epic fantasy is usually past tense?” One is a craft decision. The other is a gap in your research. Na’mean, jelly bean?)
When Tense-Switching Works vs. When It’s a Red Flag
Okay, this is the section I’ve been building to, because this is where things get spicy.
Some books switch tenses. And sometimes it’s gorgeous. And sometimes it’s a sign that the writer didn’t actually make a tense decision—they just drifted.
When It WorksIntentional tense shifts signal a structural change.The reader should be able to feel why the tense changed, even if they can’t articulate it consciously.
Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn is the gold standard here. Nick’s chapters are in past tense—he’s recounting events, processing, trying to piece things together after the fact. Amy’s diary entries are also past tense, but a performed past tense (curated, deliberate). And then when the perspective shifts reveal what’s really going on, the tense work becomes part of the misdirection. Flynn isn’t switching tenses randomly. Every tense choice is doing narrative work.
A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan plays with tense (and form, and structure) across interconnected stories, and it works because each section is its own contained world with its own temporal logic.
The pattern: tense shifts work when they’re tied to POV, timeline, or structural intention. When the reader can feel (even subconsciously) that the tense changed because something changed in the story’s relationship to time.
When It’s a Red FlagHere’s where I put on my editor hat (it’s bedazzled, thanks for asking).
If your manuscript drifts between past and present tense within the same scene, same POV, same timeline—and you didn’t do it on purpose? That’s not a stylistic choice. That’s a consistency issue. And it’s one of the most common things I see in developmental edits.
It usually happens for one of these reasons:
You started in one tense and unconsciously shifted. This is incredibly common in high-emotion scenes. You’re writing in past tense, the action picks up, and suddenly you’re in present tense because your brain shifted into “this is happening RIGHT NOW” mode. Totally natural. Also totally something you need to catch in revision.
You haven’t committed to a tense. Some writers genuinely haven’t decided, and the manuscript ping-pongs between the two. If this is you—no judgment! But you need to decide. Write that high-emotion scene in both tenses (yes, I’m giving you the same advice from the reel, because it works) and commit.
You’re switching for “emphasis.” Dropping into present tense for dramatic moments and then popping back to past tense for everything else. This can work if it’s a consistent, recognizable structural pattern. If it’s just random emphasis? It reads as inconsistent, not dramatic.
Here’s my litmus test: if your beta reader doesn’t notice the shift, it’s not working. A good tense switch should be felt. If it just slides by unnoticed (or worse, confuses people), it’s not earning its place.
The “Write It Both Ways” Method (Yes, Really)
I know, I know. “Laps, you want me to write the same scene TWICE?”
Yes. I do. But hear me out!
You don’t have to write your entire manuscript twice. Pick one scene—ideally a high-emotion one where your narrator is under pressure. Write it in past tense. Then write it in present tense. Read them both out loud if you can.
One of them is going to feel like your narrator is breathing. The other is going to feel like your narrator is wearing shoes that are half a size too small—technically functional, but something’s off.
That feeling? That’s your answer.
And look, this isn’t me being prescriptive. I’m not going to tell you which tense your story needs because I haven’t read your story (though, ya know, I could—shameless plug for my editorial services 😉). But I AM going to tell you that this exercise works because it gets you out of your head and into the actual experience of your narrator’s voice.
Your narrator knows which tense they need. You just have to let them show you.
The Bottom Line
Tense isn’t a grammar decision. It’s a storytelling architecture decision that affects:
What your narrator knows and when
How much emotional distance exists between narrator and events
What kind of unreliability is possible
How your reader experiences suspense and revelation
Whether your story’s structure supports or fights against its own voice
It deserves more than a coin flip. It deserves the same intentional thought you give to POV, to structure, to voice.
And if you’ve already written 60,000+ words and you’re suddenly realizing you might be in the wrong tense? First of all: breathe. Second: that’s not a catastrophe. It’s information. And information is always better than guessing.
You’ve got this. And I’ve got you. 🫰🏼
Tense is just ONE of the storytelling decisions that can quietly make or break your manuscript. I’ve been building something to help you pressure-test all of them—171 prompts designed to interrogate your story’s choices so you can revise with intention, not just instinct. The Foundations Guide is almost here. Get on the list so you don’t miss it.
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