A little statement before you start reading this:
If you are a writer, you should know that most of what I'm going to write down here is going to be hypotheses and speculation. I'm actively investigating this. I'm using my writing to help me uncover the workings of some of the things we read. I don't think this is going to be an easy endeavor. Nonetheless, I'd like to research with the door to my little garage-lab open; if you want to wander in and shoot me a message, just go back to Home and write to my email.
Keeping your writing consistent means basing your narration on deep rooted ideas that you will not forget during the writing process. If there's angst, lean into that. If the book is about a wistful love, try to make most things about that. This is the idea behind consistent writing; it's all about not losing sight of what makes your characters and world interesting.
This is one of the things I'm most interested in. I believe that narrative consistency is the reason why some of the novels we know are so popular. From Primal Hunter to Defiance of the Fall. Maybe, even to The Wandering Inn. But in PirateAba's case, I'd argue that the success is shared with the strength of their narrative devices.
Let's preface this research by saying that narratives will never stay fully consistent and that I'm a firm believer that Writers write without knowing what's really on their mind. So, whenever we talk about consistency and narrative, it's never going to be a round 100% match. At best, probably somewhat around 60-70%.
But why am I quoting these figures? 60% of what?
When you write, you create different threads. There are colorful lines that you trace and each line represents a plot. Sub-plots should often converge to give the reader more profound insights on what's happening in the book. Flashbacks, for example, could be considered sub-plots. Flashbacks, among the many, are probably the straightest sub-plots you could use because they are linearly inserted ad libitum, whenever you need them.
The stronger version of flashbacks is to insert sub-plots along the story without over-foreshadowing. That creates an emotional bond between the reader and the written. When the Antinium that Erin taught how to play chess and fed some decent food die to protect her from Skinner, we see what plot consistency is.
Chapter 1.26
Erin turned. The street had gone deathly quiet. Every shopper and shopkeeper in the marketplace was looking in the same direction. They slowly backed away as a procession of dark insects slowly walked through the market.
They weren’t soldier Antinium. They were just Workers, but there were nearly a hundred of them as they slowly walked towards Erin. The group stopped a few feet from her as Selys stepped behind the counter and Krshia sneezed.
Erin looked around. Black-bodied Worker Antinium filled the street. They stood in front of her. Suddenly, they all bowed their heads and the Worker in front spoke.
“These ones offer condolences to the Innkeeper Solstice.”
[...]
“It is part of custom. These ones are taught to express regret/sadness/loss for death.”
“But I didn’t die. What about Klbkch? What about your—friend. The other Worker? He died protecting me.”
The Worker paused, and then shook his head.
“The Prognugator carried out his duties. The Worker died carrying out his duties. No mourning is necessary for broken shells and dead individuals. These ones merely express regret of individual Klbkch’s failure to protect.”
Erin stared at him.
“So you’re saying you’re sorry I got hurt?”
“These ones express regret for the failure of the Prognugator to protect the Innkeeper Solstice.”
“It wasn’t failure. Don’t—don’t say that.”
The Worker bowed his head again.
“This one offers apologies for its mistake.”
“Can’t you feel sorry? For Klbkch? And your friend?”
“This one apologizes. But this one cannot. These ones offer regret to the Innkeeper Solstice.”
Erin waited. But the Worker just kept its head bowed.
“Is that it?”
“Yes. These ones will disperse to assigned duties. Forgive these ones for disturbing the Innkeeper Solstice and others.”
As one, the Workers turned. Erin hesitated.
“Wait.”
They stopped, and turned back to her. She paused, and closed her eyes. Erin took a deep breath, and then looked at the Worker.
“…Come to my inn. I’ll feed you, and you can play chess with me.”
“What? Erin!”
Chapter 1.43
“Stay behind me, please.”
Knight pushed Erin back as more undead crashed into the line of Antinium, this time from the back. The Antinium wavered as they struggled to hold the dead back. Erin saw one of the Workers slip and fall as a ghoul tackled him. The undead began tearing at him.
He had a name. He’d told it to Erin. Magnus. Magnus as in Magnus Carlsen, a name taken from the World Chess Champion. He fell down and Erin saw his blood. It was green.
“No!”
When you start writing consistently, you are tracing a line in the sand, and, as soon as you finish the first one, you just trace another. It's a mix of unintelligible scribbles until you form a beautiful picture. You lean into emotions and carry them around, hidden in your back-pocket. Then, when the reader has almost forgotten about the kindness, right before the white, curling waves can wash away what you wrote in the sand, the rage, the vengeance, or whatever you are carrying, you pop them out, linking them to another magical, eternal moment.
Consistency in narrative is essentially harnessing the power of what you sprinkle around, not letting the humors fade before they can coalesce and give life to another unforgettable literary scene.