This is not how you do it. (Sam Neill, In the Mouth of Madness; RIP, King)
When talking to people about writing and what it takes to create a good story, I often say writers have to live with their stories for a while. The most critical component in writing a good story isn’t the number of words you put on the page. It’s the time you spend thinking about the story.
Each story I work on hums in my mind every waking moment, even if I’m not at the computer. I’m picking bananas at the grocery store, and it’s the static hiss in the ceiling speakers. I’m having a conversation with my wife in a restaurant, and it’s whispering to me from a table in the corner. I’m walking my dog, and the leash is off in my mind.
Whatever story I’m working on, whether it’s a short or a novel, it’s with me every moment of every day for weeks, months, even years.
Someone recently asked, if I’m writing a horror story, how I live with horror for that long. I get that question. It seems totally bonkers to live with horror always in your mind. Why would anyone do that to themself? They must be weird. There must be something very wrong with them. They must be sick.
I used to have insecurities about that. I worried what people thought. I worried there was something wrong with me, too.
The truth is, while I live with my horror stories for long periods of time, I don’t live with the horror. Not always.
Months ago, I bought a few prints of artwork from a local artist at a pop-up market. I needed some new decorations for my new-ish office that I still hadn’t quite settled into, and I was excited to support a guy who seemed genuinely excited about his work and seemed like the type of guy I could hang out and have a beer or coffee with for a while.
I wasn’t even thinking about generative AI because it was a local artist I was meeting in person at a local event, and he seemed genuine and earnest.
I brought those pieces home, intent on framing them and hanging them on my wall for inspiration, but even as I set them down in my office, something about them bugged me.
Am I doing this right? Photo by Haonan Wei from Unsplash
Somebody on social media tried to tell me how writing works, and I thought it was weird. I feel like I have a pretty good idea at this point how it works. But it got me thinking: how does it work? More to the point, this was in the context of fiction writing being a non-deterministic, unquantifiable process. Writers around the world and throughout time have wanted fiction writing to be predictable and measurable, but we all have learned, for various reasons, it just isn’t.
If you write 1,000 words a day, you technically will have a novel in 50-ish (depending what reckoning you use for a novel’s length) days, but will that be a finished novel? Almost certainly no (there are plenty of notable exceptions, of course), and that rests on the idea that you can maintain that pace consistently.
But let’s say you do hit that mark every day. How many of those words are the right words? And how do you know? More to the point, do you feel good about those words, ready to engrave them in stone for all time?
Writing is strange in the sense that its very name indicates a simplicity in the act: typing one word after another. It sounds so easy!
But when I talk about “writing,” I’m talking about the writing process, or what it takes to create a finished piece of writing and how that works.
First things first, it’s essential to note writing works differently for everyone because everyone is different. Obviously. That’s part of the difficulty of learning to write: we all have to learn what works for us in achieving our own goals. Also, goals vary, and any process that helps you achieve your goals is 100-percent irrevocably valid.
That said, there are some constants in the writing process because, despite all of us being unique snowflakes, we’re all snowflakes, so we have that in common, which is cool.
These are parts of the writing process we all have in common, the unavoidable truths we all have to face to produce a finished piece of writing. My deepest concern is that, in this time when anyone can just rattle out a story and publish it in minutes, young, beginner writers deny themselves vital parts of the writing process. What’s more, I’m concerned there’s a broad, too-literal understanding of what writing is and what the writing process entails. There is one view of writing that is as simple as putting one word after another until you get to the end of the story and then moving on. If that aligns with your goals and provides everything you want out of writing, okay, but for me, as a reader, I look for the writers who spend more time and energy on their writing than that. As a writer, I’m chasing a story that outlives me, and I know that, by simply putting one word after another, I will never produce it.
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.
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.
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.
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?
Recently, my wife and I finished watching the second season of Shrinking, and while the credits rolled, I leaned in, wrapped my arms around her, and just stayed there for a while because I cherish her so damn much.
For me, it was a moment of pure storytelling magic. While stories can have myriad effects on us, depending on the story and the audience, Shrinking is a show about cherishing loved ones and growing by facing personal challenges together. It’s therapeutic and only natural that my response to it is an outpouring of love. Other responses also are perfectly natural or reasonable, though, if it makes you feel violent, you might want to talk to someone about that. I found myself profoundly moved.
When I taught literature to undergrads, I distinguished between fact and truth with my students. One appealing aspect of nonfiction storytelling is it’s built on facts. We tend to call them “true stories,” but I wish we’d call them “factual stories” because there’s a larger truth to factual stories that goes beyond the facts. We watch a documentary about Bernie Madoff and think, “yeah, he had a really good life for a while, but when the hammer came down, they even took his underwear. Maybe stealing from people isn’t worth it.” We read a biography about a great political figure and walk away with a perspective of hope. We watch a 30-second clip on the Internet of a guy rescuing a doe from a frozen lake, and our faith in humanity is restored.
Fictional stories access these same larger truths even though they may be based on fabrications and fantasy. Fiction, despite being totally made up, contains truth or truths.
It’s become fashionable for writers to end the year with a look back at their favorite books, movies, shows, etc. I like that, but I’m going to spare you a big list and just give you my favorites from each category.
Book
Sleepwalk by Dan Chaon—Chaon’s latest novel reads a bit like The Big Lebowski if it were written by Hunter S. Thompson. It’s a wild road-tripping novel, but it has a zen-like demeanor that makes it a comfortable read even when circumstances are dire. I think there’s something of a masterclass here in balancing tension and levity with the way conflicts come to bear on a character who’s calm, cool, and hilarious in even the most tense of moments. I’ve seen other writers try such characters and fail because the levity ruins the tension and they forget to make their characters human. Billy, the main character and narrator in Sleepwalk, is complex and satisfyingly self-aware, and while I was analyzing him, he was reflecting on his own past and behavior in interesting ways that never undermined my own thoughts about him. Other characters in the novel are similarly intriguing, and Chaon doesn’t neglect the plot (which is driven by a bizarre conspiracy with twists and mysteries around every corner) or the world building (which describes a society on the verge of collapse, and it bleeds through the storytelling in really satisfying ways). Highly recommended, as I do all of Dan Chaon’s work.
Film
Inside Out 2—Maybe it’s weird for my favorite movie of the year to be a Pixar animated film, especially given I don’t have children and tend to write about horrible stuff, but Pixar’s storytelling is top notch, and game recognizes game. While I saw some really good films this year, the ones that move me emotionally stick with me, and what better film to do that than a story that’s literally about emotions? I don’t think the sequel is as good as the original because it retreads some territory and doesn’t use the opportunity to tell a meaningful story with the characters who do that. That said, the broader film tells a wonderfully moving story about growing up and maturing through the turbulent time that is puberty and young adulthood, and it does so in a way that resonates with anyone who knows what it is to be human, regardless of what age they are. For me, these movies are something like therapy sessions. I can take thrilling action sequences, jump scares, gore, and anything else you want to throw at me, but if you’re not telling me a meaningful and moving story, I’m just not going to care or remember it. Inside Out 2 didn’t put me on the edge of my seat or make me peer through parted fingers, but it did turn me into a puddle of tears, and I’m still thinking about it. That’s what matters most, as far as I’m concerned. That’s what makes the stories that stick with you.
TV Series
Dark Matter—One of my favorite novels is now one of my favorite TV shows. Blake Crouch, who wrote the novel, was heavily involved in the production of this series, and it’s apparent. It isn’t as word-for-word, scene-for-scene faithful as you might think. Crouch changed and added to the storytelling for the TV series in ways that I think were generally positive while maintaining the qualities that make the novel great. Chief among them is the intimate love story and the theme of legacy at the plot’s core, but the series is, in many ways, actually more complex than the novel, utilizing the third-person perspective to more deeply explore character narratives beyond the primary protagonist. I loved this adaptation for giving us a moving story built on interesting characters and relationships but supercharging the narrative with a continually moving, perfectly balanced plot. If you’re interested in studying popular storytelling, reading this novel and watching the series adaptation will provide deep insight, even if you aren’t particularly keen on the genre details. If you aren’t studying storytelling, per se, I think it’ll move you in ways that will surprise you. This one moved me and stuck with me, too. (Also, no, it had no influence on my title of this Substacky thing.)
Video Game
Cyberpunk 2077—I don’t like the cyberpunk genre, but I didn’t particularly like fantasy before I played The Witcher 3 either. Polish video game developer CD Project Red is doing amazing things in the industry, and the company stands out because, while it chases technological and gameplay innovation, its games rest on a foundation of storytelling. While this game launched in 2020, I waited until this year to check it out because it reportedly had a rough go of it with bugs, glitches, and underdeveloped features. The developer stuck with it, however, and now it’s legitimately one of the best interactive storytelling experiences I’ve ever had. The story of V, a mercenary in Night City who seeks to save their own life and do the right thing for those they love, is going to stick with me for a long time. To boot, it features what might just be Keanu Reeves’ best, most-nuanced performances as rock-star-turned-terrorist Johnny Silverhand. Easy to get lost in, Cyberpunk 2077 is a perfect example of video games’ uniquely immersive storytelling potential, and I think any storytelling lover is missing out by disregarding them.
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For maybe as long as I’ve been published (a decade this fall!), I’ve used the line, “Timothy Johnson fears nothing more than the future, so he writes about it and hopes he’s wrong.”
I think that’s important contextualization for who I am as a futurist and precog (admittedly, I don’t think I’m a very good one), but I think it’s good to frame all of this with the sentiment that I hope I’m wrong about generative AI, or large-language models (LLMs), which is a less-sexy name but probably a more accurate and responsible one we should be using (and I will use for the rest of this post).
I struggled with this post because not only is it a very complex issue (one I’m betting the non-artist techbros will challenge), but I think I had illusions it would be my definitive take on LLMs and its position in art. I’d write about it once, and that would be that. But, I know these can’t be my last words on the subject because, well doggonit, I’m a human being, but more to the point, LLMs are still so new and changing so rapidly that my takes on it are evolving, too.
Suffice to say this post may exhaust you (it exhausted me to write it), but it won’t be exhaustive.
