As I write this, pace is on the top of my mind because at this moment, my pace is too much for my computer to keep up with. (Anyone's pace is too much for my computer to keep up with; a simple restart, no updates, should never take 40 minutes when the computer is diligently maintained...) My tech issues aside, let's address the "invisible" issue that so many creators, amateurs and pros alike, can get so wrong.
A fantastic character can make a story. A gripping plot can win dedicated fans. Rich worlds can enrapture an entire subculture for decades.
Pacing can cut all of these down at the knees.
How can one element be a maker--or breaker--you might ask? The reason is as simple as this: Pace is how the audience experiences the story.
To set a successful pace, the author must consciously engage very directly with their readers, and any engagement with the reader necessitates compromise. Compromise, I say, because every artist has the innate desire to focus on only the elements that interest them the most, and to focus excessively on that favored element. Their audience does not need, nor want, such a narrow focus. And thus, we write varied characters living in a complex world accomplishing goals that can only be reached via a series of exciting and mundane events.
"But shouldn't every scene be the author's favorite scene? Shouldn't every scene hold the reader's attention?" you ask.
Yes! That is absolutely correct. That's why the author must compromise their innate desire and allow themselves to see the art in even the most mundane moments. Upon doing this, their pace will slow and they'll allow their readers to live in the moment, and thus experience the story more deeply than if the pace was so fast as to create shallowness.
Let's take an example of a fast pace, then slow it down:
Example 1:
The woman entered the room, scanned over the many books on the shelves in the room, then unceremoniously plopped into the chair behind the desk. When no one came for several minutes, she stood and began to pace. Finally, when the door opened, she faced the governess with a scoff.
Example 2:
The room's interior was the warm, woody kind with books nestled into every last crevice. The woman studied these, her eyes grazing over the faux gold embellishments on their spines. She was not much for reading, however, so she soon grew bored of her cursory exploration. With a huff, she plopped down into the chair behind the desk, a desk she knew she should not be sitting at, that was of course why she wanted to sit in it. When no one came to scold her, though, she grew antsy. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she stood, and in the next moment, her feet had taken up a quick pace. Her mind, bored of all else, followed the leafy patterns in the carpet until the sound of the door yanked her back to the present. At the sight of the tiny governess, she couldn't help but to scoff.
Many writers, in their advice, will tell you to cut whatever isn't necessary. And that is absolutely true. But pacing is necessary, and in order for your reader to live within the time space of the world and story you are crafting, it's necessary to represent that with real-world time spent. In the case of the above examples, they both have the same basic content. The first might be passable, but imagine if the entire piece was written at that pace. Could you, the reader, live within it? Could you care about the characters? We need to see them observing and interacting with their world. We need to feel their perception of time. We need to spend time with the mundane and make it meaningful.
Many of these things are true--in the opposite kind of way--for fast-paced scenes. Characters may feel that time is flying past faster than what they can live fully within, and therefore they do not have the time or perception ability to notice everything that is happening around them.
Let's see what this looks like in action:
Example 1:
The barrel rose with the woman's lifted hand, then flew into the nearest of her assailants. Lifting that barrel, which was heavy and quite far from her, strained her, but it had shaken for only a moment before completing its movement arc at her direction. She would not be drained of her power so easily. Before she could assess this further, two men approached her from behind, but she sensed them and whipped around to send the raw force of her telekinesis into their ragdoll-like bodies. So intimidating until their feet left the ground, she thought. She was about to send them skidding across the floor again when hands grabbed her arm and yanked her away. One of the men she'd hit with the barrel. With a snarl, she squeezed her fist shut, squeezing his wrist with her power so that he cried out in pain and dropped the gun he'd been about to knock her with.
Example 2:
The woman groaned as she lifted her hand to raise the barrel across the room. In a burst of power, she launched it at the men running toward her, then turned to use the same force, raw, on her assailants coming upon her from behind. As she building up another burst to send them skidding further across the floor, a pair of hands grabbed her arm and yanked her focus away. One of the men she'd hit with the barrel. He cried out in pain as her fist closed to crush his hand. His gun clattered to the floor.
In this case, the longer excerpt of prose does the scene a disservice in terms of pacing. At moments, it feels as if not only the reader, but the character, is experiencing the moment in slow motion. Which would not be accurate in a fast-paced, high-stakes moment. A shorter description, with shorter clauses and sentences, will more accurately depict the experience of the moment.
These examples are merely illustrations of prose styles, but pacing can apply to an entire plot structure. The majority of successful works follow the three act structure as a rough guideline for pacing. The inciting action at the very beginning of the book (prologue or first chapter) to kick off the first act, which will end at the second inciting action (usually 20k words later); the second act, which is a long, methodical build of tension and information, setting the stage for the climax (roughly 40k words usually); the third act, in which the climax builds, releases, and subsides to falling action (the last 20-30k words). (Word lengths are according to typical YA novel lengths.) Individual plot points will be assessed different weights, in terms of page space dedicated to each, and when everything is in balance, that is when the piece is paced well. If ever your readers are unable to identify why your story isn't quite working, it might be because of pace.
The jist of it: There are moments where lyricism and length serve the story well, and there are moments where more staccato interpretations of a scene are most effective. What your characters are doing and perceiving makes a difference; what your readers are experiencing makes or breaks your story. Think of each paragraph as having balance, each scene as having balance, each chapter as having balance, and eventually, your entire book as having balance. Only then are you compromising with your reader to put forth the best version of your story.