Timothy Johnson

Author: Timothy

  • What I Learned From Widow’s Bay, Season One

    This post is the first in a new series I’m calling “What I Learned…” For years, I’ve been wrestling with reviews, their utility, why we even write them, who actually cares? That’s why I started approaching reviews not from a place of, “is this good or bad?” but from a place of, “what does this do, and who would find value in what it does?”

    I realized what I was doing was putting a piece of storytelling under a microscope and trying to find elements of it that we could take forward with us. I was trying to figure out what I learned.

    Ah! Eureka! An approach to talking about popular storytelling that’s both useful and easily accessible!

    For writers, the utility is obvious. What can we learn about storytelling from this piece of storytelling?

    For readers, though, I think it might be interesting to see how a writer experiences a piece of popular storytelling, so I hope there’s something in it for those types, too.

    I’m starting with what I learned from Widow’s Bay, season one, and don’t worry. No spoilers if you haven’t seen it yet. These will always be spoiler free. 

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  • Surf’s Up! Ride the Progress Wave Instead of Counting Words

    Photo by Gian Luca Pilia from Unsplash

    For as long as I’ve been doing this writing thing, writers have predominantly counted their words as a measure of progress. That never really made sense to me because, frankly, some days I end up negative in the word count department, having emptied some of the shelves of products that just weren’t selling.

    Progress is progress, whether it’s etching words into stone or wiping chalk lines from a blackboard. Whatever your process as a writer, every minute you spend working on your manuscript is a step you need to take to create the finished version containing all of those final words. What’s more, when you’re getting those really good words you know you’re going to keep, the ones that will end up carved on the monument, that’s really good progress. Right? That’s the ideal, isn’t it?

    Trouble is “progress is progress” isn’t very satisfying because, well, how much progress did I make today?

    I’m a staunch supporter of the idea that a writer’s process is a writer’s process. What works for you is what works for you. That’s valid, and nobody can take it away from you. Part of coming to know yourself as a writer is knowing what works for you as a writer and identifying your process.

    Which is why I think counting words is a bit of a distraction.

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  • Feedback—Use What’s Useful, Discard What Isn’t

    Giving feedback is a skill. Everyone is capable of doing it; however, doing it well requires a lot of experience and practice, of course, but also guidance and study.

    One of the things that frustrates me most about the Internet is it empowers everyone to publish feedback for anyone or anything and make it available everywhere. What’s more, the Internet has made too many people too confident in their feedback skills because we can always find an echo chamber. If our ideas meet resistance, we aren’t forced to re-evaluate them. We just find another place to express those ideas.

    But I digress.

    This isn’t about giving feedback. This is about taking it. That’s a skill, too. An essential one. Not everyone needs to know how to give feedback because we can all choose to keep our thoughts to ourselves, but everyone will need to take feedback to grow and improve.

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  • Survival Tips for the Nightmare Age of Disinformation

    Image by Pachon in Motion from Pexels

    Hello! Welcome to my digital void. It’s usually just me and a handful of bots wasting their (our) energy here, but today, we’re so glad you’ve joined us. Have a seat. Kick your shoes off. Water, tea, coffee?

    I’m a human, just like you (right?), and I struggle every day to navigate this digital nightmare landscape where there is too much disinformation and manipulation. I bet you feel similarly because you’re a human (right?).

    Where we’re likely different is seeing that stuff pervade causes me to think about undergraduate first-year composition (FYC).

    NEEEEEERRRRRRD!

    No, wait. Come back. This will be interesting and useful. I promise. Cool? Cool.

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  • Responding to Brandon Sanderson’s Speech on AI

    Dig this image? It’s by Phineas X. Jones. Click or tap it to get it on a shirt at Threadless.

    Several days ago, Brandon Sanderson posted a video and a companion blog in which he explored his thoughts on art and tried to get at the root of why he doesn’t like generative AI in art spaces. I found myself nodding along as he worked his way to the idea that generative AI removes an essential component to art creation (us) and that, in so doing, denies artists the necessary experience to grow in their discipline.

    I cocked my head and raised a brow. That’s it? That’s not far enough, Brandon.

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  • The ‘Holy Crap, It’s 2026!’ Update

    Well hello there. It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well. 

    This is just a quick note to let you know I still exist and am trying to do this fiction writing thing but that it’s been very difficult recently.

    I’ve thought for a long time about writing and posting something like this, but I haven’t quite been able to find a comfortable place to be in with regard to how forward and open I would be, partially because I don’t know how forward and open anyone really wants me to be.

    I’m a sensitive and emotional guy who loves to give hugs and wants everyone (including you) to know that he loves them, but I usually let others dictate how intimate we get because I understand boundaries and social norms. That troubles me, though, when my nature is to just open my veins and gush all over the place but I know that’s weird. I’m very likely neurodivergent and undiagnosed, but alas, I’m doing it again right now, aren’t I?

    The bottom line is 2025 was really difficult for me, personally and professionally. Professional woes became personal ones. Personal difficulties affected professional performance. And down the spiral we go. I imagine you understand, and if you don’t, take the win. Depression sucks.

    “I still exist” is about the best I’ve got for you today. No publications are forthcoming. It’s been a long road of rejections. I have a bunch of works in progress, but my writing has been seized up for an embarrassingly long time. I know I can’t create when my head isn’t screwed on properly and my heart isn’t full, and not creating feeds my depression. Spirals. 

    I remain exceedingly passionate about what I do, and when I revisit my wins, I am proud. I still think I have something valuable to offer the world, even if the world continues to insist I do not. I know. Woe is me. 

    Given the turn of the calendar year, I am making a more concerted effort to get more stuff out there, but the indifference of the world weighs heavily. I’m going to post something soon about generative AI, and because I endeavor to post useful stuff, I am working on what will probably be a series of blogs to help you cope with this nightmare age of disinformation. It feels like that will just get ignored because it won’t be a 30-second video on TikTok or whatever, but that just ain’t me. I’m a writer, and I look like one. Nobody wants me on camera.

    Anyway, Churchill urged the Greatest Generation to keep going through hell* so they could defeat fascism incarnate as well as the very idea of it, even if it would ironically resurface less than a century later across an ocean in the “land of the free,” so I’ll keep going, too, because stories do that, don’t they? Inspire and illuminate us when we need it? That is my deepest hope and greatest ambition.

    Much love. More soon.

    *Yes, I know Churchill didn’t actually say that, but I still like the sentiment, and this is my place, so I do what I want.

  • Why Storytelling Works

    A book lies open on a wooden table, and black and white images of a pirate with treasure and a pirate ship pop up off the pages along with floating letters.
    Image by Tumisu from Pixabay

    Most craft essays focus on how storytelling works, but we don’t talk enough about why it works. I think the question is relevant whether you want to write stories or you just like to experience them, and it gets at the heart of not only the deeply moving effect storytelling can have but also its utility—why it’s so profoundly important storytellers keep doing what we do.

    Once again, I’m inspired by my teaching experience. I previously wrote about how I see stories as arguments, and while I think it can be helpful to think of stories rhetorically, teaching or educating is another part of argumentation; if you want someone to agree with you, you have to ensure they understand and know what you do. There are many ways to do that, of course, but let’s talk about two categories of learning. 

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  • Storytelling Elements Are Connected (in Triangles)

    Yellow, glowing triangles in the dark
    Photo by Jumping Jax on Unsplash

    Last time, I wrote about Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals and how they can play a role in storytelling, and it got me thinking about triangles. We often express Aristotle’s appeals in triangular shape to demonstrate effective rhetoric can’t exist without all three and to express the idea that they’re connected. Triads appear in all kinds of artistic theory, from the color wheel to the building blocks of musical chords. So what about literature? I’ve been wondering about other storytelling elements that we can visualize as triangles and how this frame of thought can help us better understand the stories we’re experiencing or telling.

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  • Four (Argumentative) Questions to Ask for Better Storytelling

    A statue of Aristotle holding scrolls

    All stories are arguments.

    I know what you’re thinking. That’s a bold claim, and what’s a fiction writer doing talking about argumentation anyway? Well, I’ll have you know I taught it at the university level, thank you very much, but that’s beside the point (actually, no, it isn’t; it speaks to ethos, which is a fancy word I’ll get to momentarily). If you disagree stories are arguments, that’s okay. How about we let that particular statement stand for the time being? If nothing else, we can use argumentation as a framework to look at storytelling through a new lens.

    Aristotle, the great Greek philosopher (maybe you’ve heard of him), conceived of the rhetorical appeals (ugh, I know, booooooooring, but stick with me as I crash you through a rhetoric lesson). Those appeals are logos, ethos, and pathos. Aristotle envisioned three different modes any speaker or writer uses to appeal to an audience. He also conceived of a fourth, kairos, or the moment in which the speech or writing takes place, which can affect the speaker or writer as well as the audience. We also often refer to this concept as context, and especially in writing, we consider the context in which the writer is or was writing as well as the context in which the audience receives that writing, which can sometimes be extremely different. Aristotle also considered logos, ethos, and pathos as wisdom, virtue, and goodwill, respectively.

    Got all that? Good. Now how does it apply to storytelling?

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  • Everything Is Terrible, so Here’s A Nice Poem I Wrote

    A dog lays in the grass with a backdrop of foliage on a sunny day.
    Photo by johnerfurt on Unsplash

    In times such as these, it’s easy to forget you need to take care of yourself, so here is a poem I wrote that I think is kind of nice. It’s about being stuck between a storm and sunshine with a dog. I hope it brings you a few moments of joy and perhaps something to think about today.

    The Whole Damn World

    Each moment we’re out here, 
    sheltered in the shade of tree canopies,
    insistent sun baking pavement rainfall,
    life’s ambient anthem playing in audible particle collisions 
    to make wing flaps, insect swells, breath drawn into arterial corridors,
    exhaled in pulses,
    stolen in atmospheric currents,
    gripped by leaves, 
    channeled by branch, 
    and sucked by root,
    I wish he would just pee already
    so we can go back inside
    where it’s cool 
    and quiet,
    and the air is filtered,
    and the sounds of neighborly chats 
    and combustion engines
    and lovers loving
    and playful children’s thunderous footsteps
    are muted
    and heavy curtains made from synthetic materials
    and dusted with shed skin cells
    reject the sun because we like to sleep through mornings and
    extract some peace
    when we think there is none to be had.

    Maybe all he wants in the whole damn world
    is to stand beneath this oak tree
    paws planted in musty mulch
    sniffing the honeysuckle wind
    hearing each raindrop as it tremendously pats one of a million leaves
    breathing the steam and mist of a daylight storm
    watching cars that don’t belong pass by
    ensuring they pass by
    because, he thinks,
    if not for this leash, 
    he would chase them off,
    and wouldn’t that be a glorious morning for everyone involved,
    if not for the leash?

    And maybe he’s not as greedy as I am 
    to want the whole damn world 
    but just a piece of it,
    and maybe it’s the greatest gift 
    I can give him
    to let him have it.

    And me too.