This year brought me opportunities to unpack the magic of some of the best written stories in history. And one of the things I learned while at it is that to ask about how a story works is to investigate how worlds are built. The world, whether you believe in the Big Bang theory, the seven-day creation story, or cultural myths, is built on stories, a further combination of smaller elements. Even the fabric of our existence is a story, made from inadvertent or intentional actions.
George Saunders has a newsletter, and book where he tears apart stories (A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life). Not to show us the flaws in the mechanics, but to teach something about how the best writers achieve mastery, how the best worlds are constructed, how the best characters live out their dreams. These things happen rarely ever by accident. Every supposedly random word or description is chosen specifically to advance something in the story. Which is to say that more often than not, words in written work must carry their own weight and advance the story’s purpose. Language economy. It’s not exclusively about using fewer words or reducing filler words to achieve clarity. It’s also about making words work ‘harder for you’. This might mean selecting and using the right words to perform multiple functions.
Outside of the short story (and literature broadly), the idea is commonly found in content creation and marketing. In this case, it’s more audience focused: You don’t want to waste the viewer or reader’s time, they have several things competing for their attention, so you go straight to the point. Like with short stories, every word counts in your copy. No filler words, no introductory paragraphs with long winding sentences, no useless adjectives, and a list of endless (but useful) rules.
It’s almost the same way good movies will rarely have unnecessary scenes, characters or dialogues that add nothing to the plot.
“I hate writing, I love having written.”
- Dorothy Parker
I like writing as much as I do not like writing, a sentiment most writers can relate to. Life is much better when my goals have been achieved, and less so when I am working my way towards them, going through the bitter-sweet process of learning. However, the more I write (this novel is teaching me things!) and the more I read about writing and world building, the more I can draw parallels in life: how we think of time, what we fill our time with and much more. What better time than now to reflect on these?
It’s that time of the year when everyone is retrospecting and in a goal setting mood. 2022 is just around the corner, and there’s still so much to do. Books to read, skills to learn, places to travel to, money to earn… the list is endless. I just love this idea of planning, and wrote early this year or late last year about creating vision boards and project trackers to help manage your goals for the year. In doing this, and keeping track, lots of things matter, like being intentional, being kind to yourself when you can’t achieve all you want, or recognizing that life will life.
One, though, that we leave unsaid is this theory of merging goals, so that everything aligns for a common good. That is, how do you ensure that all your goals, like words, count towards your end-of-year story? If you’re the type to plan for long terms, it’s also asking how next year’s goals will bring you close to your long term goals. What are the small things you need to do? And what do you need to strip off — unlearn, maybe — to have a better year? I’m attempting to articulate some of the frameworks I plan to use as I settle into planning for the new year.
But creative writing (like life!) can be very roundabout. Not as straightforward as other kinds of writing. I’m learning this. There’s metaphors to help readers see better and poetic sentences, sometimes left in for the beauty that they bring, contributing nothing significant to the work. The roundaboutness can either mar or make your experience of reading a writer’s work. That’s why editors work with writers to help sift through the wheat. Just the same way that the pockets of nothings you add (or life adds) to your year can be beneficial or otherwise. It’s just as important to not think of them as wasted experiences.
Addendum
I recently read Passing by Nella Larsen, the book that was adapted into The Passing, showing on Netflix. The novel is about an African-American woman (Clare) who passes as white to escape the hardship of being a Black woman in the 1920s. She’s married to an unsuspecting white man and has a daughter, both of whom believe her to be white. When she runs into her childhood friend, who knows that she is black, although doesn’t recognize her at first, Clare pursues the friendship with fierceness, knowing that it’s risky and she can get caught, but throwing caution to the wind. I only imagine the loneliness that comes with having to live a lie. Finding someone who is in on your lie and willing to tolerate it — even so slightly — is luxury. Spoiler alert: there’s a major event in the end that validates this careless behaviour. If you’re going to live a lie, it only makes sense to be on the low. Not Clare. Clare wants to eat her cake and have it. Every scene, every word, every dialogue led up to the tragic moment at the end. This corroborates my idea that every little thing should count.
Since I last wrote, I’ve been writing. 20,000 words of my novel (which I’m now rewriting) 5000 words of a short story and other kinds of writing: documenting things, making lists, etc.
I’ve also been reading. It just helps me better a better writer and thinker, when I’m reading illuminating things about how the world and how it works.
Here’s a list of some of the things I’ve enjoyed or am enjoying:
Next week, I’ll share a list of my 2022 plans for the newsletter, and they’re exciting — if I do say so myself! Thanks for sticking with me through a rather inconsistent year. You’re the best ❤️
See you on the other side.
[Disclaimer: all errors are entirely my editor’s and not mine]