When You Love Stories Too Much to Write Them

“Someone come make me write my book!”

“Being a writer is 10% writing and 90% feeling guilty for not writing.”

I often see/hear sentiments like the above, and I’ve expressed similar thoughts. I have a theory about why we (or at least some of us) might love and dread writing: our love for GOOD stories.

A good story draws us in, compels us, and immerses us. We root for characters. We breathe, sigh, hide, and cry with them. Many of us writers love to create stories because we fell in love with them before we could do much else—whether it was through books, mouths, audio recordings, screens, artwork, or any other storytelling medium.

So when we write, we want to make that happen. We’re not trying to make the perfect story; most of us know (probably from stories) that perfection isn’t possible. But the process of crafting forces us to confront our failures over and over. It makes us see: This thing I’m making is not the story I know and love.

It’s hard to work through that. I love the story that’s playing out in my head, and all I want is to convey it to others. This, though, this horrid draft in front of me? I don’t love it. The disappointment is crushing. (This, by the way, is how you know you’re improving. You’re good enough to see the deficits.)

When you’re looking at a first draft, at scribbled ideas and outdated outlines, it looks more like ruins than a foundation. There’s no promise of what it can become. But the promise it does hold is this: If you keep going, it might not be what you envisioned. It might not even be better. But it will be different, and it will be yours.

For me, my love of stories drives some of my anxiety, but it also brings me back to writing again and again (even when I think I’m done). It tells me that I DO want them to be told, shared, and loved, just like the stories that inspired me. And isn’t that what love is? Accepting the parts that are harder to love? The messy, wretched process of drafting, revising, criticizing, and doubting on repeat deserves to be pushed through so I can get to what’s easiest to love: the work. The thing of it all. The finished story, and the people who will receive it.

Anton Chekhov on Details, Expectations, and "Show, Don't Tell"

Arguments for "show, don't tell" often cite Anton Chekhov's famous statement:

"Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."

But not only did he not mean "show, don't tell," he didn't actually even say this. The original statement (translated from Russian in Yarmolinsky's "The Unknown Chekhov") was in a letter Chekhov wrote to his brother:

"In descriptions of Nature one must seize on small details, grouping them so that when the reader closes his eyes he gets a picture. For instance, you’ll have a moonlit night if you write that on the mill dam a piece of glass from a broken bottle glittered like a bright little star, and that the black shadow of a dog or a wolf rolled past like a ball."

"Show, don't tell" is at best an oversimplification of Chekhov's words and at worst a misread. A better accompanying directive might be "Use details intentionally." This aligns with the idea of Chekhov's gun, which he DID use often when giving advice to writers. He thought every detail should be used with intention.

"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”

But most stories are stories not because of where you go, but how you get there and what you experience along the way.

So yes, payoff matters. But a story in which EVERYTHING has intent/meaning/payoff just doesn't—well, it doesn't tell the whole story.

Writing is learning.

Writing is learning, even if you never push for publication.
You learn how to write and rewrite.
You learn to transcribe every lilt and nuance of your inner voice.
You learn your strengths and limitations.
You learn how to communicate to someone you may never meet.
You learn all the things you still need to learn.
You learn about yourself.

Proofreaders are Underrated

My controversial publishing take is that proofreading isn’t actually an entry-level position, and publishers should stop making it the “starting point” for getting into publishing jobs.
Proofreading needs a firm grasp of language, strong attention to detail, and knowledge of industry standards and changing trends. Most people—even authors and editors—don’t know the ins and outs of grammar rules and style guides (nor do they need to! That’s why this is a job!)
Novice editors, especially when proofreading or copyediting, often over-edit. I’ve heard many authors say, “They completely missed the point” or “They changed the entire thing.” This is part of what makes training important.
You have to know the publisher’s guidelines, industry standards, and common vernacular, but you also need to honor the author’s voice, vision, and style. These may be good consideration questions, whether you’re editing, giving feedback, or even reviewing someone else’s suggestions for your own writing.

The Importance of the Arts

Imagine this: you go to work, as usual, watching everyone dressed in leaves on a grassy plain. Afterward, you entertain yourself by throwing a ball around. You miss dancing. You have nothing to dance to. Music doesn’t exist. You return home to a box that you found the other day. Houses collapsed long ago with business buildings when architects stopped. You fall asleep thinking about that old movie poster that you threw out and you wonder if your children have ever heard of movies or plays. You realize that they will lead lackluster childhoods–after all, roleplaying, singing, and watching movies are all now impossible. You’ll have to memorize what they look like. The world officially deemed photography to be “art” and threw it out. How will your kids survive the winter? With fashion designers gone, who’s left to create clothing?

That’s the world without art.

The arts create humanity every day. They shape us, whether we’re art majors, STEM majors, custodians, therapists, cashiers, or CEOs. They permeate everything that we think, say, and do. They're part of our cultures, our passions, and our lives. So why do people call it “unnecessary?” The jokes always come up in daily life, sometimes thoughtless (“You value your hobbies more than making a living.”) and sometimes intentionally harmful (“You’ll never get anywhere in life. Your degree is useless and so are you.”).

Three types of people scoff at art: those who fear, those who ignore, and those who worry.

If the arts are really so insignificant, then why are they always the first to encounter censorship? I believe that people know the importance of music, of paintings, and of “Internet memes,” even on an unconscious level. They know how easy it is for a powerful song to make someone feel surges of emotions (like how Adele's songs seem to make people cry over partners that they never had). They know that what starts as a simple melody can become rallying cries of protestors (see also: the national anthem in the French Revolution).

They’re not laughing at art because they think that it’s nothing; they’re laughing because they’re scared.

Others ignore the arts. Some people refuse to be in touch with their emotions. They believe that living life with practicality will make them successful. It will. They’ll survive and earn a living, maybe build a family off of their income and be in love with their careers. But undervaluing the arts hurts them. They want funding for arts education to be cut, but they also want their movies, their shows, and their advertisements. They want to wear professional clothing to work every day, but they don’t want to support the people who design it. It’s possible to live with the acceptance of both STEM majors and art majors. Even doctors find the time to form orchestras.

Angry critics will always argue that the arts are almost entirely emotion-driven. I agree. Isn’t that what makes art so powerful? Emotions form identity and if the arts can’t exist without identity, then every form of art is who we are. Art is being. Whether we are the bright-eyed innocents of small statures and great imaginations or the wise-eyed veterans of the world, we cannot be without it, nor it without us.

Don’t worry on the behalf of fine arts majors and artists. We’re aware of the hardships in this field. We hear it every day and we choose it anyway. Besides, the “starving artists” stereotype often comes from people who aren’t sure what to do with their talents. Times are changing. Art entrepreneurship has now become widespread as more courses and programs delve into the subject. We’re taking care of ourselves. We worry too, but we’ll be okay.

Everything plays a part in the structure of this world, but the arts are there to connect them. When humans die away, when the last wars have been fought and the rains fall without us, every form of art that outlives us will be the true captured essence of who we are now. Dear critics, I’m asking you to let go of your fear that we’re throwing away our lives for nothing. Let it go and let us make art. Let musicians, designers, producers, singers, performers, and painters continue to serve you, and we’ll let art continue to tell your story and ours.