The phrase “driving by the seat of your pants” dates back to the era of steam locomotives. In those days, engineers could sense how the train was handling by feeling the rumble through their seats. Decades later, early aviators adopted the phrase “flying by the seat of their pants” to describe piloting by instinct, rather than relying on instruments.

Writers later embraced this idea of flying by feeling to describe an intuitive approach to storytelling by writing without an outline. At writers conferences, outlining and discovery writing are often framed as rivals, much like Ford vs. Chevy or Mac vs. PC. However, in my experience, most writers fall between these two extremes. While there are certainly outliers, I’ve seen successful authors across that spectrum.

Don’t believe anyone who insists that their way is the only way. What truly matters is finding the method that works best for you. I believe every writer should experiment with both approaches by writing at least one short story from an outline and one using the discovery method. Trying the other approach can sharpen your skills and make you a stronger writer.

While there are countless books on outlining, there are very few on discovery writing. So how do you learn to “write by the seat of your pants”?

One of the few books dedicated to discovery writing is Story Trumps Structure (affiliate link) by Steven James. He’s an award-winning novelist with over 50 books to his name and is one of those rare authors offering deep insights into this discovery-writing process.

Why are you a “pantser?”

Steven: I loved your explanation of pantsing, but I don’t call myself a pantser; and I don’t even like the term “seat-of-the-pants writer.” I don’t write by the seat of my pants, and I don’t outline either. The more you understand story, the less you have to do either.

I am an organic or discovery writer. Sometimes, people think we sit down and have no idea what to write. That’s not true, and it’s because we understand story. When you understand story, you’ll understand the types of questions you can ask that will lead you deeper into the narrative instead of trying to cram it into a formula, template, or outline. I am a staunch supporter of organic writing.

Thomas: It sounds like the key to organic storytelling is internalizing what makes a good structure and training your intuition. In the book Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, he talks about when to trust your intuition. In general, the more you know about a subject, the better your intuition can guide you. The less you know about a subject, the more likely your intuition will steer you wrong.

How does intuition apply to organic writing?

Steven: Most of us have a natural inclination to understand what makes a story work. When my kids were little, I told them a continuing bedtime story. It started when my oldest daughter was three and lasted until she was about sixteen. I told this story nearly 350 nights a year, which means it turned into a 4,000-episode saga over time.

Each night, I would begin by reminding them what had happened the night before. Then, I’d take them back into this fantastical world of wizards, witches, dragons, unicorns, and endless adventures. At the end of each night’s story, I would build up to an exciting moment and then stop, saying, “I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

Of course, my daughters would protest.

“No, Daddy, tell us more tonight!”

“Nope. Tomorrow.”

And so the story continued night after night.

But around 2,000 episodes in, I wanted to take the story in a different direction. So, one night, I built up to a climactic moment and then declared, “And they all lived happily ever after.”

My daughter immediately objected.

“No, they didn’t!”

“Yes, they did,” I insisted. “Trust me, they lived happily ever after.”

But my youngest, who was only five, shook her head.

“No, they didn’t, Daddy. Something went wrong.”

Even at five years old, she instinctively understood that for a story to continue, something had to go wrong. No one had taught her that. She knew that struggle is inherent in story.

This is why I dislike the way people talk about story structure in terms of “beginning, middle, and end” or “first act, second act, third act.” That makes it sound like a story is just a sequence of events, but it’s not. A story is not a report. It’s not just a list of things that happen.

Whenever I hear someone solemnly say, “A story has a beginning, a middle, and an end,” I can’t help but think, So does a bratwurst. How is that supposed to help me write my novel? That explanation doesn’t offer any guidance for crafting a gripping story.

So, rather than getting fixated on how many acts a story has, let’s take a step back. Shakespeare wrote in five acts. If three acts were required to tell a story, then Shakespeare didn’t write stories, which is a ridiculous thing to say. The number of acts in a story matters much less than what readers want when they pick up a book or watch a movie.

Readers want a story they can’t put down.

No reader is sitting there thinking, Ah, there’s subplot B, introduced precisely at 22% of the way into the book. Good job, author. Nobody cares about that. Readers don’t want to analyze structure; they want to feel the story. They want to be enthralled from the first page to the last.

How do we enthrall our readers throughout the whole book?

Steven: I ask myself four key questions that can solve any plot problem:

1. What would this character naturally do?

Always have your characters act in a way that aligns with who they are. For example, if you’re writing a crime scene and your detective arrives, you might wonder what he should do next. Ask yourself what a detective would naturally do. He’d put on gloves to avoid contaminating evidence, check entrance and exit routes, examine the victim’s phone for recent messages, analyze wound patterns, and look for security cameras. None of these actions would feel forced or unbelievable.

It’s important to ask what the character would do, not what you would do in their situation. Whether it’s a teenage girl, a serial killer, an FBI agent, or a four-year-old, let them act without restraint. Many writers unintentionally force their characters along a predetermined path instead of allowing them to move naturally. Instead of pulling them on a leash, cut the leash and see where they go. That’s where the honest moments in storytelling happen.

2. How can I make things worse?

Stories thrive on escalation. You’re not just deciding what happens next—you’re looking for ways to tighten the tension.

For example, while writing The Rook (affiliate link), I asked myself what the most terrifying thing that could happen to me would be. I thought of being chained to the bottom of a pool as it slowly fills with water. That’s horrifying. I ran upstairs and told my wife, “I’m going to abduct a woman, chain her to a pool, and stream it live on the Internet.” Her first question was, “Is this for your book?” That’s a bad sign when your spouse has to ask.

Each year, I pushed myself further. What’s worse than being chained in a pool? Maybe being buried alive. What’s worse than that? Being buried alive next to a corpse. At that point, my wife didn’t want to hear about it.

Tension builds in three ways:

• Internal: Questions within the character, like whether they can find forgiveness, whether life has meaning, or whether they will ever find peace.
• External: Problems that must be solved, like whether a character will escape, survive, or succeed.
• Interpersonal: Relationship conflicts, such as whether a relationship will be restored, initiated, or sustained.

3. How can I add a pivot?

A pivot happens when the unexpected meets the inevitable. Every scene should have one.

I once taught a class and gave an example. A teenage girl’s boyfriend breaks up with her. What would she naturally do? Students suggested crying, eating ice cream, retail therapy, or even hitting the gym for a “revenge body.” Someone said she’d call a friend.

One student then crafted this scene:

The girl calls her friend and says, “Tony just broke up with me.”

Her friend replies, “Don’t even joke. He’s been dead for a year.”

At that moment, the story pivots. Is Tony a ghost? Is the friend messing with her? Is she losing her mind? That kind of surprise doesn’t come from rigid outlines; it comes from discovery. Writers who strictly follow formulas often create predictable stories. Writing organically allows for surprises, and if you’re surprised, your readers will be too.

4. What promises have I made that I haven’t yet kept?

Every time you emphasize something in a story, you make an unspoken promise to the reader. If you introduce an intriguing character early on but never bring them back, readers will wonder where they went. If you hint at a mystery, they’ll expect an answer. When you’re stuck, go back 10 to 50 pages and look for unresolved elements. Often, the next step is already hidden in what you’ve written.

These four questions have guided me through 20 novels. I’ve never had a scene where at least one of them didn’t lead me forward:

• What would this character naturally do?
• How can I make things worse?
• How can I add a pivot?
• What promises have I made that I haven’t kept?

How can I know what my character will naturally do if I haven’t yet fleshed out that character?

Steven: As you write, you get to know your character. Some writers start by creating detailed background information on their character, like where their character went to college, their first pet, and their first date. However, most of that information isn’t essential to the story. I don’t encourage that approach.

I don’t know where my best friend went to elementary school, who his first date was, or his parents’ religion. But I know what matters to him and what makes him tick.

As you develop your character, you’ll start to see that all their choices are driven by their desires. Every story is built around unmet desire. Some people talk about character-driven versus plot-driven stories, but in my view, no story is driven solely by plot or character.

Every story is driven by tension.

Tension moves the story forward. It can exist as internal, external, or interpersonal tension; but without tension, a story stalls.

Describing a character’s background doesn’t create tension; it slows the story down. The same goes for action. In Hollywood they say, “People fall asleep on the edge of their seats.” A relentless chase scene, no matter how exciting, can become boring if there’s no real tension behind it.

Tension is created when desire meets obstacle. If a character wants something but nothing stands in their way, there’s no tension. They just get what they want, and the story falls flat. On the other hand, if there’s an obstacle but no real desire, if the character just shrugs and accepts it, the story goes nowhere. The push and pull of desire and obstacle create the tension that drives the story forward.

As you write, you may realize that something your character said or did 200 pages ago no longer fits. That’s okay. Go back and change it. It’s not set in stone.

Where does revision fit in discovery writing?

Thomas: Revision is key to the organic writing method because, in a sense, the rough draft acts as an outline. Writers who outline treat their outline like a rough draft, while discovery writers treat their rough draft like an outline.

That first revision is usually heavy, especially for your first five books.

Steven: I have never outlined a book. I’ve tried to outline a single scene, but that never works out either. I’ve never started a novel knowing how it will end, and I’ve never ended a novel the way I expected when I started writing it.

I try to keep a finger on the pulse of the story. Whether or not it requires more revisions depends on how open and receptive you are to where the story wants to go.

But if you want to include lots of surprises, chances are you’ll go back and realize that a scene would work better if you changed something earlier. Instead of following a formula, you’re staying attuned to the tension in the story and letting that guide your fine-tuning and adjustments.

Thomas: You mentioned that desire drives the plot and decisions. One of the oldest proverbs ever recorded in the Bible reflects that idea.

Solomon collected the sayings found in the book of Proverbs; but before that, his father, David, referenced an old proverb when he was a young man. In 1 Samuel 24:13, David says, “As the old saying goes, ‘From evildoers come evil deeds.'” This means that a person’s actions reflect the desires of their heart.

That’s why you get to know a character through their decisions. As the characters make choices, they reveal their true nature to the reader and the writer, especially in discovery writing.

What fuels the story?

Steven: I strongly believe that a character’s pursuit of their desire is what fuels the story.

I used to work at a camp with a river, and two kinds of people floated down it. Some came down in inner tubes, letting the current carry them wherever it wanted. They bounced along without direction, going where the river took them. Others came down in kayaks. They were influenced by the current but could decide whether to paddle left or right, enter an eddy to take a break, or push forward.

Readers don’t want to follow inner-tubers. We don’t want to read about characters who are thrown into a story and drift aimlessly with no direction, no intention, and no real pursuit. We want to read about kayaking characters who face obstacles and make meaningful choices about navigating the journey.

That’s why I always ask what my character desires. How does that desire shape their choices and actions? Writers who focus on the plot often ask, “What should happen next?” But organic, pursuit-based writers ask, “What does the character desire?” Once you understand that, the next event will naturally follow.

Do discovery writers plan their endings?

Another common approach is to structure a story around a planned ending. Writers ask, “What does the ending require?” This means shaping the story to fit a predetermined conclusion. I like to ask, “What does this moment require?”

When a book is plotted too rigidly, readers often sense that a character’s actions don’t quite make sense until the end, when it becomes clear the writer was just trying to get them to a specific place. I don’t want that. I want readers to stay fully present in the story and understand why a character makes a choice.

Instead of forcing a character toward an ending I envisioned at the start, I stay focused on the moment and let the character’s desires and choices guide the story naturally.

How does “the pivot” relate to chiastic story structure?

Thomas: Your pivot question is similar to what I discussed in a recent episode of Novel Marketing about chiastic structure. It’s a common literary structure found in Scripture and in Eastern-style writing. Anime often follows this structure.

Chiastic storytelling is essentially a two-act structure with a pivotal moment in the middle. I call this moment the cataclysm, though it’s also known as the peripety. It’s the turning point that changes everything. This pattern works on multiple scales, from a series of books down to a single sentence. A famous example is: “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”

Here, the word you acts as the peripety, flipping the meaning and shifting the reader’s perspective. You can often intuit your way to this kind of pivot by asking: “What would flip this scene? This sentence? This story?”

Could too many pivots make the reader feel like they’re being jerked around?

Steven: A story operates with two key dynamics: contingency and inevitability.

Contingency means that everything that happens is caused by what came before. Because of contingency, we expect certain events to follow logically. That expectation creates inevitability. We anticipate outcomes based on previous events. You could call this the logical movement of a story.

But we don’t just want logic; we also want surprise. Without surprises, a story becomes predictable and boring.

There are only four ways these two dynamics can interact:

1. Predictable and boring: A story can be entirely inevitable with no surprises. This makes it predictable and dull because readers always know what will happen next. Nothing is unexpected.
2. Nonsensical: A story can be full of surprises but lack inevitability. Random, outlandish events happen without logic. It’s nonsensical. Imagine a clown suddenly appearing in the middle of an Amish romance; it is unexpected, but it makes no sense.
3. Unpredictable and boring: A story can have neither inevitability nor surprise. This is the worst-case scenario, where everything is unpredictable but also boring.
4. Pivot: A story can have both inevitability and surprise. This is the ideal balance, where events unfold in unexpected and inevitable ways.

Every scene should aim for that last option. That’s why I don’t think you can have too many pivots. In fact, most writers don’t use enough.

How does a pivot differ from a plot twist?

Steven: A pivot is different from a twist. A twist is a type of pivot, but pivots aren’t just major plot twists at the end of a book. Every scene should have a pivot. Readers naturally anticipate certain outcomes; and while we don’t want to completely upend their expectations, we do want to surprise them.

Even Aristotle recognized this. In his book Poetics, he said “The reversal of the situation [that’s the pivot] is the moment at which the action veers round to its opposite [that’s the unexpected] and is subject always to a rule of probability or necessity” [that’s inevitability].

Great storytellers have known this; and yet, writers rarely learn how to use or construct a pivot. Writers are instructed on outlining and plotting, but the engine of a compelling story (the pivot) is barely discussed.

This is also why I find plotting an entire book so difficult. If you try to outline 30 scenes in advance, you would have to map out 30 consecutive pivots, each one surprising yet inevitable. I can maybe do two or three in advance, but I have never met anyone who can do 30.

That’s why I prefer to write a story where I can be present in it. I can look for pivots, see the direction things might go, always include a moment of surprise, and then move on to driving the story forward through that unmet tension we talked about.

What are the characteristics of a good pivot?

Thomas: How do you know you’ve got a good pivot to place in that scene or story?

• Unexpected
• Inevitable
• Escalating
• Revelatory

Escalating

Steven: First, a pivot should be both unexpected and inevitable. The third characteristic of a good pivot is that it should escalate the tension.

That need to escalate the tension is why dream sequences usually don’t work.

Imagine you start a book with a character on an airplane. Suddenly, someone jumps up, pulls back their jacket, and reveals bombs and grenades. The hero rushes down the aisle; fights the terrorist; and a grenade rolls away, exploding the back of the plane. People are hanging on for dear life. The hero is just about to defuse a ticking bomb, and then he wakes up.

Even if the twist is unexpected and, in some sense, inevitable, it completely deescalates the tension. The reader feels cheated.  

Revelatory

The fourth key aspect of a pivot is that it should be revelatory. It should reveal truths about previous scenes that weren’t apparent before. A great example is The Sixth Sense. When the audience discovers Bruce Willis’s character is a ghost, they instinctively remember earlier scenes, realizing those moments had a deeper meaning than they initially thought.

When teaching pivots, I talk about branches of believability. Within any scene, there should be multiple plausible directions the story could take. That way, when the story moves in one of those directions, the reader doesn’t expect it; but it still makes sense.

Instead of just stacking one event on top of another, I focus on inserting elements that allow for different revelations, depending on where the story ultimately goes.

Thomas: Every pivot invites the reader to reread your book.

It adds context to the earlier chapters and scenes. Once you realize that Bruce Willis is a ghost, it invites you to watch the movie again, knowing that he’s a ghost from the beginning.

Those rereadings turn regular readers into superfans, which is key for marketing your book and creating enduring sales.

A bad pivot is one that, once the reader sees it coming, ruins their enjoyment of the book. Many cheap twists fall into this category. For example, if a twist makes the reader think, Oh, I knew that was coming, it loses its impact.

If the reveal is that a character was lying the whole time, and the reader figures it out early, then discovering the truth later doesn’t feel satisfying or interesting. Instead of adding depth to the story, it makes that part of the narrative feel flat and predictable.

Steven: I talk about the many subtle ways to introduce a pivot in my book Delve, Pivot, Propel (affiliate link). It addresses how to tell stories organically and to include pivots in your writing. People have legitimate questions about it because no one’s ever taught them that their story needs a pivot.

How do discovery writers insert foreshadowing?

Thomas: How do you plan your foreshadowing when you’re not working from an outline? Outliners can plan their foreshadowing and drop it right into the outline.

Steven: There is a subtle difference between promise-making and foreshadowing. Promise-making is when we draw attention to something intended for readers to notice. Foreshadowing is the exact opposite. Foreshadowing is when we have something occur, and we don’t want people to notice at that moment. We use foreshadowing to remove coincidence.

Think about a story climax where the main character says, “Good thing I studied karate back when I was in high school. Bring it on.” It’s unbelievable because it’s a coincidence that he suddenly remembers he knows karate. You foreshadow to remove that coincidence by showing an earlier scene where he was sparring with someone.

Contextually, as long as it makes sense in that earlier scene, the reader will understand and remember that he knows karate. When we get to the climax, the reader is going to say, “Oh yeah! He knows karate!”

You don’t want to draw attention to the foreshadowing. It should be organic to the story. That’s how you remove the coincidences.

Thomas: Do you add foreshadowing in the second draft? Do you identify scenes that are too coincidental and fix them by inserting foreshadowing?

Steven: This might surprise you, but I don’t write in drafts. I don’t do a first draft and then a second draft. Instead, I revise as I go, which goes against the common advice to just finish the first draft and then edit.

The reason I work this way is contingency. In a detective story, if the detective finds a clue at the crime scene, they will naturally follow up on it. But if I wrote all the way to the end of the book and later realized the clue was wrong, I would have wasted months writing 400 pages that don’t make sense. Instead, I constantly revisit the story, asking, “Based on what I know now, does this still make sense?” If it doesn’t, I tweak something or adjust the direction of the story.

Even though I don’t know the ending when I start, I understand the trajectory of my characters, the importance of escalation, and other narrative forces. When I make promises in the story, I want readers to anticipate that those promises will be fulfilled.

Stated Promises

For example, if a character says, “I’ll meet you tomorrow at noon at the police station for the briefing,” readers will expect that briefing to happen. Maybe it will go as planned, or maybe something dramatic will delay it; but either way, they are looking for it. Telling readers what the characters intend to do is a basic form of suspense. This is a stated promise.

Implied Promises

There are also implied promises. Imagine a character saying, “Wow, that’s an amazing spear gun”; and someone replies, “Yeah, this is the German-engineered X6000. It can shoot through a cement block wall.” Readers instinctively expect the spear gun to be used at some point. If it never fires, they will wonder why so much attention was drawn to it.

We create these expectations through specificity and magnitude.

• Specificity: how much detail we give
• Magnitude: how important an element appears to be

Fiction makes promises in three ways:

1. Stated promises, where something is explicitly planned or mentioned.
2. Implied promises, where an object or detail is highlighted in a way that suggests it will be important.
3. Foreshadowing subtly hints at future events without making a direct promise.

These three techniques shape how readers engage with the story. If you want them to anticipate something specific, use stated or implied promises. If you want to surprise them, lean on foreshadowing. Knowing when to use each one is key to creating a compelling narrative.

To subvert or satisfy? That is the question.

Thomas: Keeping Chekhov’s gun on the mantle and then delivering on that promise is a fundamental part of storytelling. This approach stands in contrast to postmodernism, which emphasizes subverting expectations and deconstructing stories.

The problem is that this kind of subversion is often frustrating for readers. When postmodernism first emerged in the 1950s through the 1970s, it was done with humor—tongue-in-cheek, playful, and self-aware. But over time, the humor has been stripped away. Now, postmodern storytelling often feels intense, heavy-handed, and exhausting. Instead of playfully questioning conventions, it seeks to deconstruct society, religion, and narrative structure, which can mentally drain readers.

Readers don’t want constant subversion; they want a satisfying story. When they pick up a book, they expect it to be engaging, immersive, and ultimately enjoyable. As writers, our job is to meet that expectation, not to undermine it.

Steven: You want to exceed readers’ expectations, not subvert them. When someone picks up a book or watches a movie, they already have certain expectations based on the author, the actors, the packaging, the back cover copy, the blurbs, or other clues. They are thinking, This is a horror story, or This is a rom-com, or This is literary fiction.

As authors, our job is to give readers what they want or something even better. People want to be entertained. I write thrillers and suspense because readers want white-knuckle tension. They also enjoy moments of humor woven throughout the story. That’s what they come for. If you write romance, readers are looking for that emotional connection and want to see it develop.

Part of our job as writers is not just understanding story structure but also understanding genre. When readers pick up your book, what are they hoping for? It’s your job to deliver on that expectation and, ideally, surpass it.

As a discovery writer, how do you know where to start the story?

Steven: I begin with a premise and see where it leads. If I’m writing a standalone book, the process is different from writing a book in a series. In a series, I may have made promises in a previous book that I need to fulfill for readers. But no matter what, I start with a premise.

That doesn’t mean the book will ultimately begin where I first think it will. There’s an old saying that the last thing you write is the first thing the reader sees. That’s why the final thing I edit is the first paragraph.

A lot of writers spend endless hours rewriting their first ten pages, which I understand; but the reality is that you don’t even know if you’ll keep those pages. I’ve often reached the end of a book and realized I was wrong about where the story should start. Sometimes, the beginning needs to change, or a scene I originally wrote for the opening works better later in the book.

I try to hold the process loosely. The structure is fluid. As I move deeper into the story, I might find that the starting point needs to shift or that the ending should be adjusted based on where the story naturally leads.

As a discovery writer, how do you know where to end a story?

Thomas: When have you delivered on enough of those promises that you can finish the book?

Steven: Every significant promise made to the reader must be fulfilled. The climax comes at the point where nothing more believable could go wrong. If a reader can still imagine a worse situation, then the story hasn’t reached its peak yet.

Readers should reach the moment where all seems lost. They should think, There’s no way out of this. Maybe the aliens are unstoppable; or the lovers seem destined to be apart, and there’s no logical way for them to reunite. That sense of impossibility is crucial. Then, the resolution must come in an unexpected and inevitable way.

The ending should bring closure to all major internal, external, or interpersonal struggles in a way that satisfies readers.

Once the story reaches a point where nothing more can be improved, it’s ready. If I can still improve it, I will. But when I reach a point where there is nothing left that I know how to change, the book is done. Someone else may have great insights on improving it, but the essential promises and resolutions are complete.

Lately, my goal has been to make the last paragraph the final pivot. It’s tricky, but I pulled it off in Broker of Lies (affiliate link). After almost 500 pages, the last sentence delivers a surprise that makes readers say, “What? No way!” It’s difficult to do, but I aim for a final pivot right at the end to keep readers engaged even as they close the book.

Thomas: It’s also a great way to gauge whether you’ve properly escalated the stakes. Once characters have endured the worst possible situation, anything that follows won’t carry the same weight.

There’s a difference between finishing the story and knowing when the book is truly done. Your approach is actually very similar to Jerry Jenkins’. He talks about the distinction between making changes and making improvements. Once he reaches the point where he’s just changing things without improving the book, that’s when he knows it’s time to send it to his editor.

Steven: If I read through the book and notice a weakness I’m unwilling to change, I’m not sending in my best work. I have to ask whether I’m willing to address the weakness. When it gets to the point where I can’t really improve it myself, then it’s probably ready to send to the editor.

What final tips do you have for a writer who wants to leave the safety of an outline and try discovery writing?

Steven: Ask yourself what your character desires in the scene. There will be obstacles in their way, and they will have to make meaningful choices. But the pursuit is vital to a story. Stories are not just journeys where a character follows a path toward something; they are about active pursuit. If you don’t know what your character wants, you don’t truly know what your story is about. Take the time to figure it out.

One exercise I’ve found helpful is writing a letter from the character to me. Have your character start by saying, “You never really understood me. What I really want is …” and then I fill in the blank. You might wonder how this works if you’re the one creating the character, but ideas have a way of surfacing. Sometimes, you think a character wants love; but through this process, you realize they actually want freedom. That kind of discovery can reshape your entire approach to the story.

Listen to your characters, keep your finger on the pulse of the narrative, and don’t let fear push you back into rigid outlining.

Craft Books by Steven James

• Story Trumps Structure (affiliate link)
• Delve, Pivot, Propel (affiliate link)

Featured Patrons

J. A. Webb, author of Fragments (affiliate link)

A Thrilling Epic Christian Fantasy Adventure: Ayn Rand and George Orwell meet Frank Peretti.

It is the year 2158, and Hegemony has fallen. But the Order, the unseen power behind all human government, remains. When Father Curtis learns the Order is built on a foundation of lies, he is branded a heretic and must flee for his life.

Now, his fate and the fate of humanity hang in the balance as he battles to find the truth about himself, the Order, and Creation in a world where seeking truth is a capital offense.

Learn more about Fragments, the first book in the The Seekers Series, at JAWebbAuthor.com.