Writing to engage the reader vs. writing to impress them

In the same way that I’m not sure who told writers starting out that writing a conventional story is so simple there is really no need to practice the conventions that make them up, it confuses me who told writers starting out that the thing that impresses readers is impressive prose.

Impressive prose in an impressive story that takes a character on a journey to the end of the story that delivers a story that gives the reader an enriching experience for having spent the time in the world is impressive. If the only impressive thing about the story is the prose itself, however, I’ve always wondered what emotional experience the author hopes the reader will leave their story with. Even if the prose is impressive in isolation, being impressed by a story’s prose isn’t the same thing as being moved by it.

While I saw a lot of this “impressive” prose in stories that were aimed at pleasing writing instructors during my degree, I see it in genre work all the time, too. Stories full of characters pontificating at each other, descriptions that have some truly inspired lines but not a character with a problem that lives in the world it paints, and exposition that would have told an excellent story had those events been what the story followed instead of the follow-up the events caused.

It took me a lot of years not to hear what I shouldn’t do as a writer and not open a can of beer so someone could hold it. It took me a lot of years to realize that the amount of effort required to write a story that’s only dialogue but still delivers to the reader the engaging experience that would fill the void of a character trying to change their fate could be used elsewhere to tell better stories. I’d have to do multiple revisions to ensure the structure of a story told through dialogue is not repetitive to the reader.

And that was before I realized that even if I pull the story off perfectly, it still has to compete with all the other perfectly told stories by industry professionals. If I’d known that, I’d put the beer back in the fridge.

Only the very best of the wittiest banter can carry a story where the character isn’t presented with or requires any opportunity to change. If that still makes a writer want to find someone to hold their alcoholic beverage, I’d like for them to consider what good witty banter can do to a story with a character who has to overcome what’s holding them back from what they have to do.

The DNA of Conflict in Speculative Fiction

You’d think from the way I talk about the teaching of creative writing that I believe the solution to writers who have the skill to bend the rules teaching writers who don’t have the skill to bend the rules that they, too, have the skills to bend the rules that the solution would be, teach the rules better. The fact that some writers in that group are good enough to bend the rules (and become teachers too) doesn’t change the fact that the only learning involved in teaching learners that exceptions disprove the need for structure is that most learners learn they don’t even need to learn what isn’t needed in the first place.

But the solution is not to teach the rules better. I joined the writing community in a time where everyone taught the rules better, and I didn’t learn a darn thing until I was ready to hear I needed to learn them. Thanks to twenty years of intuitive instructors teaching concrete learners how to learn like they did, every writer thinks following “the rules” can’t possibly help their story, no matter how much just showing the reader what they need to understand will help the story unfold organically instead of just being linking sections of description, exposition and dialogue.

Is it possible to write great stories that are just description, exposition and dialogue? Of course. Is it easy? Of course not. Is it easier than just setting a character at a moment in their life where if they don’t change, they can’t grow? Of course not. Is it a highly competitive field filled with the very best writers who are very good at writing description, exposition and dialogue in a way that almost does as much work as a character wanting to change something they don’t like about themselves, their world or their path in life then sets out to do so?

Absolutely, yes.

There are so many different aspects in a character’s life that conflict can come from. Character versus themselves, a time limit, a deeply held belief, the environment, other characters and the speculative nature of the story itself are the asparagine, glutamine, histidine, lysine, proline, and threonine of speculative work. Yet I’ve read thousands of stories in my life in my MFA program and out that had a character who never has any doubt that they’ll succeed at the thing they’re doing succeeds at the thing they’re doing. If a character starts with a problem that they don’t have a doubt in their mind they can’t beat or even have a realistic chance of failing, where’s the conflict? If an unpleasant thing happens to an unpleasant protagonist, who feels the schadenfreude? If the character never had a chance to escape or change their fate, what other feeling is the reader supposed to have but a feeling of inevitability?

All those stories can be done well. But they have to be done extremely well to even compete with the already large group of writers who can all tell a story on rails very well. And all to fill the absence created in a story that doesn’t have a character the reader can invest their time in to see if their best efforts are good enough to overcome the challenge they’re facing where failure feels like a real option. If there’s no doubt they will succeed or fail from the start of the story, where does the tension come from?

The rules of writing are dead. It’s time we start respecting the ingredients of a good story enough to learn how to use them effectively each time, every time. I get that there’s a feeling in the writing community that thinks conventional stories are easy and that true art exists in the unconventional. And again, I’m not arguing the concept.

But a learner can learn how to write a conventional story. They have to teach themselves how to write an unconventional one. A child has to teach themselves to self-ambulate before can try to learn how to fly and there’s nothing easy about learning to self-propel your body through space for the first time in all the different ground-based gaits. Not even trying to learn the foundations of the crawl, walk and run before trying to throw oneself onto the ground and missing seems like the absolute worst way of trying to learn how to do anything.

So forget the rules. Learn the ingredients. And conflict is the egg of the story. It provides the easiest form of structure but there are ways to work around their lack. I can teach you how to cook the best French souffle possible and even if it doesn’t work, you’ll still have yummy cheesy eggs. If you want to learn how to bake an eggless souffle, though, you start by studying the techniques while you practice the steps multiple times or be willing to fail until your end result is an eggless souffle.

Changeling is back in print!

If there’s a book I can point to and say, this one, this is where things all started to hit in the story where I wanted them to instead of where they randomly alighted in my prose, it would be Changeling. The story came to me in a single scene that unfolded in a bus crossing a mountain pass in the middle of a snowstorm and ended up with Kevin and Matt and Sam.

Kevin and Matt’s story really swept me up into it. Matt had so many broken pieces in him that he managed to rebuild the shape of but not the strength of its original part and Kevin could not fix him unless Matt is ready to start fixing himself.

He’s a character who needs to stop running to heal but his hounds are always right on his heels. If there’s a story I’ve written that takes a character from where they were to where they are that I can be proud of, this is it.

And I’ve got two Christmas novellas coming back out in the next few weeks, too, Black Shades and Old Traditions. Stay tuned!

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Read an excerpt

Show don’t tell. (Or compete in a very busy field of writers who can all tell really well.)

I’ve heard a lot of protests from inexperienced writers about how non-essential the rules were if you meant to break them in the first place. In over half of them, I was the one protesting. Yet, looking back, the only rule that most inexperienced writers will die on a hill for is not needing to show the reader what the reader needs to see play out for them to understand who the character is at a more complex level than who they understand themselves to be, even if they think they’re being honest with themselves.

To remember just how important it is to show the reader what matters so they’re a witness in the character’s growth as it happens and not a passive observer following what the character learns through dialogue, libraries and their analogues and the intuitive knowledge the character had before the start of the story. We use a shorthand squiggle that all writers know as “show don’t tell”.

In all the years I’ve spent my own money learning how to write by attending writing conferences and the occasional workshop, I’ve never heard a professional writer tell me “show don’t tell, unless you tell it really well, in which case, telling is fine.” I only heard the last section when I was a very inexperienced writer but I heard it loud and clear. I was shocked to find out that my MFA program teaches the excuse I gave myself not to learn how to show as a valid critique to writers still starting out.

Showing the reader what’s happening as it’s happening is the easiest way of telling a story. Telling a story instead of showing it is much more difficult to do and it involves a lot more finesse than just telling the reader what’s happening instead of showing them it.

Okay, says the skeptic. But I’ve spent *years* practicing how *I* tell. The techniques I use to tell my readers what they need to know are fantastic. I want to tell this writer just how many good stories I’ve read in the slush that through hook or by crook, needed to be told through telling. Many, many, many writers have practiced telling stories so well they’re almost as good as a story that is shown by a less experienced writer. I can have my pick of well-told stories about conversations the character has had.

What is far less common are stories shown through characters living through the build-up of tension in a situation that matters, surviving climax the best way they can and live through the consequences of their choices moves me, whether the character’s efforts to change their fate were successful or not. A character talking to other characters about something that only impacts them tangentially would have to be an exquisite story to even come close to the same emotional payout.

It took six years of being told “show this” to hear “it’s important you show this because your character and your reader need to experience this important event together so the reader can understand the world/character/problem at a greater level than just as a past event that happened.”

I just heard “here is a rule” and I broke the rules on purpose. I didn’t know “a character should have a name” is a rule and “show your story, don’t just tell the important parts of it” is how you write. I thought I was being transgressive when I told the events of the big fight through finding a half-dead survivor luckily found before the ravens took their still shiny eyes on the battlefield. Showing a big battle where the character would have to be in it and survive it was too daunting. Showing anything I didn’t automatically know how to show it was.

There is a time in your story where the exhausted general/best man drags himself into the war room/bridal suite and tells the table that the king/groom is dead and it will crack like thunder across the page. But if most of the information conveyed in the story is conveyed through dialogue, what’s told will have no added meaning at all.

And we in the audience of those conference would lean back after we were assured that there are no rules because everything they said before assuring us sounded really hard. The way we avoided not showing the complex scenes that remain with the reader long after the book was put down was fine. The pros just said so.

I sold six stories in the years between hearing that there were no rules and realizing the rules were the scaffolding needed to tell bigger stories than I could imagine without them. I wrote dozens and dozens in the same time frame that tried equally important rule-breaking in which none of them are even worth remembering at this point. If I was told that threading a needle is hard but threading a needle on the wing of plane is harder, I’d rent be renting a plane to practice. Even if I didn’t need a threaded needle. When I heard a character needed to be empathetic, I developed a taste for beer so someone could hold mine.

But…I never could write an unempathetic main character that worked. I tried and tried but it became clear that if a reader is supposed to care about a character enough to want to read on to find out what happens, the level of story necessary to make a reader want to continue reading even after they do the **unjustifiably** unthinkable was outside of my ability no matter how much I wanted an unempathetic main character to work.

Any character can be driven to do the unthinkable. It takes a spectacular amount of talent to write a story in which the character drives themselves to that point, does the unthinkable, and still has the reader’s empathy for having done it. Visual media has a little more leeway when it comes to characters like that because viewers are passive. Readers have to be in the mind of a person who not only conceives of what can’t be justified, but does it. It’s a different level of emotional investment if those actions are done by the protagonist.

Even remembering Nicolas’ Cage’s acting at the end of 8mm chills me to the bone. I can’t remember if he beat the bad guy to death with his bare hands or if he used something like a rock. I will never forget how he kept beating the man long after the rage died out. His character was driven from an everyman to a man who kept killing when the rage was gone because of the consequences of his actions. He might have won, he’ll have to live with who he became to do so for the rest of his life.

In a work of fiction, shooting the man who shot your dog can work. The reader should understand how a character would feel doing so, even if it’s not what they would have done. But shooting the dog-murderer after time has passed and the character had space to move on from it? Empathy gets more questionable. If the character rounds up the family of the man that shot their dog and sets the church he locked them in on fire and while cutting his eyelids off so he’d be forced to see it burn? Nope. Ten steps too far. Poe has walled up that story years ago.

It wasn’t the first rule I understood because I’d tried to break it and couldn’t. At the age of 11, I realized it was too difficult for me to try to write a story about a wild horse because what they always wanted to do was always so obvious and giving them human consciousness didn’t feel real enough for me. I’m not saying it can’t be done. I’m saying 11-year old me couldn’t do it so she moved on to telling ghost stories in which the ghost was the main character — only to learn her 12-year old self couldn’t write stories in which the protagonist couldn’t affect change in the “now” of the story and they weren’t a ghost in their time. Then she wrote about a talking white horse and a magic sword that foretold of the return of the king and was quite pleased she’d been so inventive.

Until she read Mercedes Lackey and Tolkein for the first time.

Show don’t tell is more fundamental than a character staying within the actions of what the reader could understand being done. Showing the reader the events of the story as perceived by a character is how we tell stories. If the author can’t show the character actively moving the character through the story through the choices they make, they can’t make those choices matter in ways that change the character in ways that echo the theme of the piece. Studying craft is how to learn how to better show the reader what they need to understand to be moved by the work.

I realized during my MFA that while we argued over breaking the rules practically every week, I can only remember a few times where the rule broken meant that I thought the character wasn’t empathetic enough for the reader to care what happens to them or if the character remained unchallenged and unchanged throughout the story.

The vast majority of arguing over the rules in my MFA and outside of it was over the simple fact that had author (including me) shown the reader what the characters talked about, thought about, or already knew going into the story, it would be a more engaging story for the change and the author arguing that they chose not to write a more engaging story on purpose.

It doesn’t matter that some writers can actually tell well enough that they don’t need to show what happens. What matters is that in a slush pile, I can tell you that most of the stories are going to be told through characters going places and talking to people. If you want your story to stand out, write a story about a character needing to change their fate because it matters to them. I can choose from the best of the best of all the perfectly polished stories told through characters learning what happened after it’s already happened. But a character who is in the thick of the changing events is a story I want to work with to make it the best story it can be.

Rejecting short stories written for MFA programs

It was bound to happen sooner or later, but I didn’t expect it to happen five days after graduating. I rejected a story for On Spec that I was previously familiar with. After disclosing the conflict in my notes, I made the suggestion the story should be rejected. The premise and low personal stakes were not worth the long word count.

It’s not worth it financially to the magazine or in page length to the reader for the payout the story is selling. When I’m thinking of my reader’s time they’re investing into the magazine, I want to make sure that not only the stories tell an engaging world, character and story but that they’re doing that with an engaging voice with something to say about what it is like to be human in a genre-specific setting. My ideal story is a story that feels longer than it is rather than a story that could have been shorter but isn’t.

My MFA could teach anyone how to improve the prose on finished drafts. And if that’s the only thing the work needs is a better polish, the MFA program was for that writer. If, however, they were trying to sell to commercial markets, they shouldn’t have believed any program that tried to teach them that nice prose is all a story needs or that structural edits are unnecessary.

I think back to the time between joining my first critique group and realizing that my critique group was right and I was wrong took six years of being told that yes, I was breaking the rules but no, I wasn’t doing it effectively to hear what I was actually being told.

I wasn’t being told that if I tried hard enough, the way I told what needed to be shown to the reader would be as good as if I’d learned how to show the reader what I took the shortcut to avoid showing them in the first place. But that’s what I heard when I was critiqued.

It is fundamental to any model of learning that the educator confirms what has been learned against what has been taught to test the student’s knowledge on what was taught so the wrong lesson can’t be learned. Any program based on instruction given in the critique phase has no way of verifying what has been told to the student hasn’t just confirmed more of their preconceived notions.

I know my critiquers must have been frustrated that I wasn’t able to understand how important it was to show the reader what matters to the story instead of always slipping it in via dialogue and info dumps. I was frustrated that all my critiquers didn’t see how much better I told what I didn’t effectively tell the last time.

If one of them had told me that they liked the way I told my readers something fundamental that needed to be shown to the reader so they have could really know who this character is before the plot actually gets started, I would have embraced it as my style. I wouldn’t have needed to hear it twice.

To find out an MFA teaches learners that if a famous writer who is remembered long after their more popular contemporaries are dead wrote a story that lacked a fundamental aspect of craft, any work that attempts the same finesse must have nailed it. The fact that masterpieces exist that break the fundamental theories of craft in no way proves that a learner’s first attempt in their first draft is equally successful.

I learned that list of books myself without ever stepping foot in a creative writing class and boy, did I have it memorized just as effectively. Poetic irony is really hard to come about in real life but graduating from a program in which you would have been the star pupil had you not spent twenty years trying to unlearn what not a single writer ever told me in the first place. But today, the same excuses I learned to not have to learn my craft are being taught in Master level programs to keep learners from ever needing to consider they may have to learn their craft to begin with.

Had I been their star pupil, I never would have taken a single step on the journey that started the day I realized I needed to learn how to use what I thought I already knew inside and out yet always seemed to take shortcuts to avoid anything that didn’t emerge on the page in a fully formed section. I learned more on that day than I learned in ten years sitting at a workshop table. If I had an MFA on my wall telling me second draft revision work wasn’t even needed because if you meant to break the rule, it was fine the way it was broken, I would have blamed my failure to publish 99% of my short work and none of my long work on the gatekeepers between me and my adoring audience “they” are keeping me from.

Without an MFA confirming my biases, it took me almost twenty years where I’d already written over a dozen (unpublished) novels and written dozens (and dozens) of very successful fanfic because I sold six stories in which breaking the rules worked out for it. I’d convinced myself that good stories followed the rules. Great stories broke them.

It took writing over a million more words from that point to learn how to use my craft without thinking so that I could concentrate all of my attention on how to use my craft to create bigger stories that mattered more.

It took me years to realize great stories either emerged fully formed or in a rewrite. But I couldn’t even mention the word “rewrite” in my program without receiving a firmly worded note asking me to please, do my best to be even less craft-focused in class.

When the truth is, most editors give even less feedback that the length of the story is not worth the payout.

Genderqueers and those who love them — also benefits to writing in isolation

Surviving a bad childhood is hard enough. Letting go of it is even harder. Black Shades is a sweet and bittersweet retelling of A Christmas Carol. It’s available for pre-order on Amazon. It’s the second story of my Past and Present Tense series about a genderqueer, the ghost of one, and the man who loves them both. The first book in the series, Red Lettering, is a Halloween story with hints of a vanishing hitchhiker theme, and is available now.

My darling wife of twenty years spent some of her time reformating and making new covers so that my old Angela Fiddler stuff could see the light of day. I really think one of the big reasons why I was able to go from the writer I was to the writer I am is down to the fact that I’ve had two solid chunks of time in my life where the only person who read my stuff was me and (for the second chunk of time) an editor who had already bought the work.

The first chunk of uninterrupted time came down to my age and dumb luck. I was from a small town that physically isolated me from the writing groups that only had the population to support themselves in larger centres. Not getting an internet connection until I was in university kept me from the online community, either. I didn’t even know where I could have joined a critique group until 1998 and I was already back from teaching in Japan.

So I just wrote constantly from the ages of 11 to 24. My sixth-grade year was the year I realized just how bored I was in class, so having two notebooks open — one for the notes I thought I’d need to write down to remember in class and a novel on the go in the other — got me through to earning my B.Ed.

My classwork


read like






and my stories were only slightly less cohesive but the one thing I taught myself to do was how reliably to get a character from the start of the story to the end of it by doing things and stuff. So when I got to the critique group, it took me four years to be able to hear the knowledge behind what I was being told and not just something the critiquer *clearly* didn’t understand I meant to do it that way.

So by the time I understood that there are no shortcuts in writing. That critique groups are great for teaching people to recognize issues and know how to solve them in the theoretical, there’s a huge gap of skills between knowing a character needed to be more empathetic if they wanted the reader to care what happens to them and knowing the steps needed to edit the prose so that the choices the character makes *shows* that they may not be the best character in the world, but at least they’re trying, eh?

My support-panther wife had gotten a job in Lethbridge and though I knew I was probably not going to get any training instructor gigs down here, I went with her because she needed to be a librarian in a public library and not one works who in a school or in a corporate office downtown. I just sold my first erotica novel before we moved so my time in Lethbridge was invaluable to again, just write.

Getting critiqued has always been a traumatic experience for me. I don’t blame the UBC for trying to minimize the experience for their learners, but the solution isn’t avoiding teaching any craft at all. But I heard every point I was told. Having the freedom from critique reminded me of the freedom I’d felt as a child where anything at all could happen in a story.

Even if all I could write back then were characters going to where the anything that could have happened already did and they learned of it just through dialogue. People who tell new writers that not everything needs to be shown either forget just how hard it was to learn how to show what was important as it happened, live, in front of the character who should be a part of the action.

It is true that not everything needs to be shown. I found after I show the reader everything about the world for the first 50k of the novel, when I tell them something through dialogue I know they’re imagining how I would have shown these characters doing the things they’re talking about because they know the characters and how they would have acted.

Using that same technique in the start of a story leaves that exact same moment in a well-shown world incredibly flat. It’s just telling the reader what an unknown to them character had done in the past. So yes. Bridging scenes can just tell the reader exactly what they need to know to move the characters from where they are to where they need to be.

But when we tell newbie writers that sometimes telling is just fine, what they hear is telling is just fine from the start. And MFA instructors now agree with the person trying to learn how to write that if they meant to break the rule on purpose, then the work is just fine even if it detracts from the author’s ability to show the reader why they should invest their time into learning what happens to this character in particular out of the thousands of possible things they could be doing with their free time and spending money.

explaining things vs. aiming the story at finding out why

I read a lot of work from writers who live in fear of the reader not understanding what is happening, so they bog down the beginning of their work to explain everything before the action starts. It doesn’t trust the reader who is willing to read on and find out why things are happening the way things are.

And yet, in my writing today, I’d just given the protagonist an excellent reason to be even less trustful of a person they hardly trusted at all. Still, I felt the need to stop the plot and explain why the character especially does not like the antagonist.

And then I stopped, went back, and deleted that explanation. The character can learn it on the page as a sorry-you-didn’t-get-what-you-wanted-but-you-got-what-you-needed-instead moment that snatches victory from the upper esophageal sphincter of defeat.

I keep thinking how this is why


is so important. If it’s backstory, the characters already know it, and you don’t need to tell the reader why the characters are the way they are while you’re still showing them who the character is now. But also, backstory is what is already known by the character, and it is almost always told through exposition. What the character doesn’t know, however, is what drives the story forward. The character must find out what they don’t know or pay the cost of their ignorance.

If the characters already know everything, then the only tension in the piece will they pull it off. And let’s be honest. They’re probably going to pull it off.

Maybe don’t try to publish book one until you’re done the series.

Brandon Sanderson didn’t. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

But seriously, think about maybe don’ting. When I started Kakotopia I thought, oh, good. A stand alone novel about space pirates. And then the end of the book came and went without space pirates. But I didn’t worry. I’ll just write a prequel, I thought, easy peasy, that sets up the space piracy, and then book three of this very complete trilogy will be all space pirating, all the time.

I’ll just name this protagonist “Jimny Whisperer the Seventh.” What could possibly go wrong?

Jimny Whisperer the not even having a rank yet showed up. But because none of the books are beholden to anyone, I can seed ideas in this first book all the way down to the final all space pirating, all the time book.

But a book already in the publishing process is set. Everything from it can only be greater than those particular parts. I think if some of the best advice you can give a writer is to let the individual work sit for six months to a year while you do something else, imagine how tightly fit together a series would be if given that much time to complicate and mature?

Writing to the unexpected

I was watching this video talking about RIPD. It’s a movie staring Kevin Bacon and Ryan Reynolds that people are just lucky they’ve never heard of. Having seen the movie, the video nails the problem completely. Nothing was unexpected.

So I decided when I was going to start writing the prequel to Kakotopia that I was going to embrace that mentality. I was going to deliberately write each scene to something unexpected and with no other planning. Writing a prequel to an existing story is an interesting set of challenges. Whether or not the reader reads the books in order, what happened in the first book is set in stone in this world. It’s not what happens that pushes the narrative but how something that already happened came about that is going to grip the reader. I’d set two different points in the existing book that only someone who has read the prequel will understand the greater picture, so I have to write to those two events. But other than those two issues, anything at all can happen.

Ever since I started to sell my paranormal work, I’ve always tried to write at least a scene a sitting. It’s something I picked up from On Writing and it really does work to keep the pace up. Whether it’s a seven hundred and fifty-word bridging scene of a three thousands of action, when I get to the end of the scene, the unexpected thing that happens either drives me to keep going or sets up tomorrow at a good place to start.

I don’t plan, I front load the beginning with so much stuff that if even half of it seeds an idea further down the story I’m happy. The other half that doesn’t may need some gardening in the next draft — any seed can be made significant or trivial in the rewrite.

I really like writing to a little bit of restriction inside a whole lot of freedom. I want how the characters who survive the prequel got to the start of the existing book to be more of a ride than the existing story, but also match all the spots of all the false starts that I’ve already written. The fact that I started the first attempt practically at the story’s climax meant I had to step back a long, long way to tell the run-up to the floating city of ramshackle buildings over a swamp that’s about to be destroyed.

But the protagonist has a very long road to get to be the character he was in it with almost no time to waste.

There are no rules — the most dangerous rule.

In the same way that “not politically-correct” is unironically the politically-correct word that racists and bigots call themselves to hide what they’re not politically-correct about, there are no rules is the only ironclad rule a lot of writers follow.

And I can’t judge. I believed there are no rules so much, I believed for years that if a story didn’t break a rule, it couldn’t be great. And because I can’t think I’m right unless I’m absolutely sure I’m right, I set out to prove it. Over three years I wrote dozens of short stories, and sold six of them.

But then I looked at my theory, compared it to real world results, and realized…there may be something to these rules after all. But I used to play chess as a kid. I loved it. A big swoop across the board to snipe a plum piece from the depths of enemy territory where it probably felt safest the most was a great pleasure. But the older I got, the more I realized I was playing against people who would ask if I was using _______ opening when and I’d be like, I made the pawn go forward. And while I did, occasionally still get to sweep across the board like the angel of death, it became a less frequent and farther apart move. I realized if I wanted to still play chess and have a chance to win, I had to actually study how to play.

And I didn’t want to. So while I’ll still play a random game for the lulz, I know how to move the chess pieces, but I can’t say I know how to play the game beyond the basics. This is why I think “There are no rules” is so dangerous. There’s a difference between the writers who break the rules and the writers who know how to break them.

During my MFA, what bothers me the most is how “but I did that on purpose” was a conversation killer. Because, obviously, I never once thought that the writer didn’t know the rule they were breaking. I didn’t think they understood what it was there for and what it was doing, but that was never part of the conversation. These were simple things, like show the important stuff, character should want something, or stories should start on page one. In my advanced 5XX class, Writing 101 wasn’t understood. And every time I tried to explain why showing the reader what the character is more afraid of will have far more impact on the reader that telling them what the character is afraid of. But that the fact that it’s told between telling the reader what the character wants and telling the reader what they hope for, it has no thunder at all.

My greatest growth came after the realization that if I didn’t understand what the rule was doing, I couldn’t break it on purpose, and just understanding what the rule was doing on the intellectual basis wasn’t showing up in my work. If I wanted to understand the rules, I had to follow them.

But I’d just moved to Lethbridge and sold my first semi-pro book. The more I learned, the more I realized just how foundational the foundations of writing is. Which sounds ridiculous, but breaking away from groupthink is something cult deprogrammers have to do. There is no groupthink louder in writing than the myth that rules don’t exist. Which isn’t what the rules are saying, but functionally, if any rule can be broken, then rules can only be suggestions at best.

I’m fairly certain every student in my class thinks I’m a massive traditionalist who thinks the only good story is a good story that doesn’t break the rules, no matter how much effort I put into explaining what I said. I could break any rule I wanted now, if I wanted, but most of my stories follow them because you can still tell amazing stories through conventional means.

Learning how to get the most out of a story through conventional storytelling was a hard enough journey when every new step built on what I’d just understood. I couldn’t imagine trying to figure all of that out through the unconventional path I was on. Before, a story only worked if it came out working. Now, I know I can fix it.