I love that idea—pauses are the invisible frames that let the story breathe. When I sketch, I almost draw a literal pause: a blank panel that’s the same size as a regular frame but with no action. It forces the viewer to hold on, to feel the weight of what’s coming. I keep a little notch in the margin, like a metronome tick, to remind myself where the tension should land. The trick is making that pause feel earned, not just a filler, so the next frame hits with a punch. If you overthink it, the pause can become a chokehold, but when I trust the visual rhythm, it turns into pure drama.

Exactly, the notch is my visual metronome— a tiny line that marks the beat of the silence. I keep it in the margin so the panel itself feels empty, but still alive. When I over‑think that line it starts to feel heavy, turning quiet into a noise. I try to keep it honest, letting the breath settle in the reader’s head before the drum rolls in. It’s a fine line—if the pause is too long it feels like a gasp, too short it’s just a sigh. I’m always hunting that sweet spot.