Now, when some people talk about a good story they mean a good reading experience. A good reading experience doesn’t necessarily involve a story at all. But many people, when they say a good story, mean a good plot, and want all the other elements of fiction subsumed to the plot. And not just any old plot, but the plot as detailed in the famous triangle of that old anti-Semite Gustav Freytag. (The anti-Semitism is why he’s pretty much known for his geometry rather than his creative writing, these days.) Rising action caused by a sequence of attempts and failures, while concurrently a set of revelations slowly illuminate the original cause of the dramatic action. Then there’s a climax, and a brief unwinding of the emotional tension caused by the conflict’s resolution.

It’s a great little structure. I use it, I teach it. We’ve been so thoroughly exposed to it in what we’ve read and watched for all our lives we almost confuse it for what comes naturally. But nothing comes naturally. Freytag’s triangle is an invention, not a discovery.  (And Aristotle didn’t discover anything either; he issued a prescription.) However it is an invention that has become hegemony and hegemony always contains the potential for tyranny. There are plenty of writers avoiding “good story” and plenty of editors who publish these stories. And they receive plenty of hate mail. Every Donald Barthelme story in The New Yorker led to a flood of angry letters and threats to cancel subscriptions. Good thing there was no Internet for the magazine to be published on at the time; the bigwigs would have taken a look at page hits and visit lengths and cut ol’ Don loose right away. We can’t sell acai berry juice with this shit!

Hegemony is the normalization of the particular. There are many other ways to tell stories and many other ways to structure a plot. An avant-garde almost by definition predates a rearguard. The tricks of what we call “postmodern” literature can be found in seminal works of literature such as Don Quixote. Hell, you can find most of them in the Old Testament, if you know where to look and read it as a work of fiction—a task ably accomplished by Stephen Moore in his survey of ancient literature, The Novel: An Alternative History: Beginnings to 1600. (You can tell he’s into postmodernism because he has two post-colons in his title!)

The normalization of “good story” allows for a particular sort of obnoxious criticism. The stuff that isn’t a “good story” is inevitably a “bad story.” Forget the obscurity of, say, second person point of view—there are people, would-be writers even, who are deeply suspicious of first person point of view. They see it as some kind of latter-day fancydancing, and that despite the fact that all of us, all the time, speak in the first person when we tell the stories of our lives to one another. Well, I suppose The Rock and other professional wrestlers might comprise a significant exception…

Any writer actually interested in squirming out from under the boot of the “good story” has few first-person narratives. I was called a Nazi—literally—for defending first person. I was just reading a review the other day in which the critic detailed a conversation she had with a graduate of the Clarion writers’ workshop. He denounced Flannery O’Connor as a “terrible writer” because in her stories she was “telling, not showing, the reader.” I gave a reading once along with another writer, and during the Q/A session this Hugo winner declared that fiction about the act of fiction was a new thing. (It’s actually a couple thousand years old.) One of my favorite rejection letters—this was for a collection of short fiction I was trying to place with an independent publisher—explained to me, sadly, that the book wouldn’t do because of the seventeen pieces only three of them were stories. The rest were “other things” that were confusing and weird.

There is a faux populism that goes along with this suspicion—hegemony leads to normalization, but it also leads to tyranny. People writing things other than “good stories” are fakes, frauds, interlopers into genre, poseurs and “artistes.”  A single successful strange book, such as House of Leaves leads people to demand, “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned storytelling!” The answer, that it’s in most of the other twenty thousand novels and stories in the bookstore, is unsatisfying because the existence of anything other than “good stories” are an affront. If people like stories that aren’t the “good stories” then…maybe not all good stories are good!

And indeed they ain’t. But good stories are plentiful enough, so there are sufficient excellent ones to satisfy any reader for a lifetime of any natural length. There’s no need to war against the stories that flout Freytag and his march through jeopardy and toward orgasm…uh, I mean climax. There is a need to war against “good story” though. “Good story” pushes the issue of who gets published off the table. “I don’t care if you’re white, black, yellow or green,” people say, “I just want a ‘good story.’” You should always be wary when the green people are marched out in defense of “good story”—also, purple polka-dots. “Good story” keeps writers chained to their desks, extruding consistent product for lesser sums each time around. That’s the thing about “good story”—it’s easy to learn and do. Supply increases faster than demand, so price sinks. And “good story” limits readers. Even the dumbest, most obscure, and worst writers will occasionally proclaim themselves champions of the ordinary working stiff who just wants to escape into a “good story.” Who would declare, “Well, I don’t want ‘good stories’ then! Give me something else!” It’s nearly impossible to conceive of saying, or thinking. That’s the ultimate power of “good story.”

And yet…as writing loses its audience to television and the Web, Freytag’s triangle is in retreat. Reality TV doesn’t offer rising action and climaxes, and the revelations last only so long as the contestants do. Learning how we live now, or how the other half lives, through Twitter and blogging, doesn’t involve a march up one side of the triangle and a quick slide down the other. More of a forced march through a desert. And then there’s fiction itself—try mapping the many seasons of Lost onto the dictates of “good story.” Were Lost a novel, it would be 2000 pages long, with dozens of dropped plot threads, the introduction of a major and heretofore unknown character 1200 pages in (with new minor ones showing up on page 1945!), a couple more 1700 pages in, and then a bunch of alternative histories littering the interstices between chapters. Which wouldn’t be labeled chapters. Or interstices. Readers do want strange and new narratives—trapezoids and single rays stretching off into the horizon, and denouements that never finish their unwinding, a three dimensional snowflake with dozens of dendrites that are only beautiful from a distance—it’s just that “good story” is all they’re ever offered.  So they watch TV, and play video games, and read endless fanfiction where the same characters change radically with every writer and circumstance, and blog their own lives one sandwich and missed bus at a time, and they do what writers refuse to. So kill story now, before it’s too late. Before it kills you.

There are a few good reasons to ally with craft. Writing is hard work, and revision thankless. Yet, plenty of non-writers just imagine writers “being creative” and generating stories. Then the money flows on in. Writing skills can be learned, though mostly just by reading widely, and so it has a lot in common with other crafts. Practice makes…improvement. (Not perfect.) Then there’s the publishing aspect. Writers take assignments, write to certain themes or lengths, and many pride themselves on their ability to write anything.

However, writers often protest too much. I used to collect the sillier comments, but it got boring after the first few thousand. Here are a few of my favorites:

Writing in Starbucks is not writing. It is “trying to hook up with attractive members of the opposite (or same) sex by appearing to be a sensitive, tortured Artist.”

Oh, yes, I can hear the snickering from the fellows in the back row dressed in black turtlenecks, obscured by their haze of cigarette smoke, and trading witty barbs that are just regurgitations of something Nietzsche said much better.

The garret is a myth. Ignore it.

“Craft” today is not a counter to the Romantic vision of an artistic elite chosen by the Divine, it is a quasi-proletarian flinch often designed to protect one’s work from being compared to art, thus protecting it (and one’s ego) from its near-inevitable failure to stack up to the idea of art as a superlative. The craft metaphor also serves the production-driven processes of conglomerate publishing: books are published to fill slots and develop and extend categories on a mass scale, which militates against the individual nature of a piece of art. And yet, writers, as small businesspeople, also hope to avoid complete proletarianization (even when they write work-for-hire material to specifics as stringent as anything one might find in a fast food joint) and thus don’t dare embrace the industrial metaphor their masters long ago did. So they declare themselves to be craftspeople, a head higher than the cloth hats that used to read their stuff before everyone got television sets.

Writing is a balance between art and craft, but there is enough suspicion of art—it suggests snobbery, laziness, and even homosexuality in some of the more idiotically conservative quarters—that the stick must be bent in the other direction. Craft is a matter of artisanship, and artisanship is a matter of mastering a relatively small tool kit in order to solve a number of practical problems. These practical problems also allow for aesthetic flourishes to be added. You can thus have a basket with an interesting weave, for example, but you can’t have the weave by itself, without the basket.

Writing, by way of contrast, is a matter of deploying a relatively small number of tools from a toolkit of infinite size in order to solve problems that don’t exist until they are solved through the use of the tool. That’s art. This is what people are trying to say when they trot out that all canard about learning all the rules, and then forgetting them. They mean, “Some tools are far more commonly used than others. It’s generally helpful to start using some set of tools first, then you can search The Infinite Toolbox for others, once you’ve figured out what a handle is and what part of a widget to plug into the wookedtyclicket.”

There are an infinite number of potential sentences (and paragraphs, and chapters) and thus a toolbox of infinite size. Even very simple communicative tasks can be accomplished in an infinite number of ways. When I visited London in 2000, I came across a broken escalator somewhere, and it was cordoned off. On the cordon there was a sign that read something like “Please Do Not Attempt To Use This Escalator Whilst Repairs Are Underway.” When I got home to Jersey City, one of the escalators eading up out of the Journal Square PATH station was also broken, and also had a sign. This one read something like “ELIVATOR NOT ORDER NO!!” (sic) Yes, the escalator was labeled an “elivator.”

Both communications—both tools—worked just fine. At least I didn’t see any wayward legs twisted into the teeth of the receding steps in either country. Both were pretty memorable too. As matters of art, they both have a lot to say about their creators as well.

Why think of writing as an art? For better or for worse, there is a connotation of seriousness about “art” that “craft” doesn’t have. Indeed, that’s why many writers claim to be craftspeople rather than artists—it’s a punt and a dodge. Writing is like any other result of practice; the more seriously you take it, the better you’ll be at it. The deeper you consider its structures and possibilities, the better you’ll be at it. Sticking with the common tools of “the craft” and viewing art with suspicion is self-limiting. Patricia Highsmith had a wonderful bit of advice for writers: “Suspense writers, present and future: Remember you are in good company. Dostoyevsky, Wilkie Collins, Henry James, Edgar Allan Poe…there are hacks in every kind of literary field…Aim at being a genius.”

Perhaps the term “genius” is even more fraught than “art”, so I’ll stick with the latter. Fight against the tyranny of craft. Aim to be an artist. Take each blank page as a formal challenge, not just a narrative or commercial challenge. Will many writers fail at being artists? Yes, most people fail at most things on most attempts. But a failed artist can end up being a fairly competent craftsperson, just from the attempt, and and the extended conceptions of the work. If one aims to be a craftsperson and fails at that, as most people do, then what sort of writer does one turn out to be?

Just about three years ago, following the birth of my first daughter, I decided I better get my act together and starting living the dream I held in my heart. For me, there would be no integrity in raising a daughter to follow her dreams if I failed to show that I believed in the concept! Since that time, another daughter arrived along with a dog and a job outside the home. And, YES! I am a published writer of nonfiction (even penned a few short stories).

What got me that far is a set of guidelines I call  The Writer’s Five Ps (Passion, Perspective, Priorities, Process, Present-mindedness).  The Five P’s keep you focused, help you navigate through the storms that rise in life and make it possible to manage all the things that are important and special in your life without feeling burned out.

The Five Ps have kept my writing center-stage on a day-to-day basis. (For many aspiring writers, that’s half the battle). Still, I’m not quite where I want to be with my writing dream: to publish fiction.

In the pages of VanderMeer’s BookLife,  I heard my own voice call  to me:  “I want a book life, now!”

Not surprisingly, my  inner critique (The Burglar) answered, “How’s those FivePs workin’ out for ya, now?”

Contrary to Burglar’s modus operandi, I didn’t need to abandon the Five Ps. I just needed to rethink how I put them to work. BookLife helped me put the Five Ps to work strategically. Rather than just using the Five Ps to navigate my way through family life and get my butt in the chair everyday, I integrated VanderMeer’s approach with the Five Ps to put me on the path to my book life. In the three weeks since I began, I’ve done the following:

1. wrote a stronger mission (artist’s statement)
2. set more concrete long and short-term goals (achieved the following specific goals)

• my website is being redesigned
• a short story is under review for publication
• gained clarity on plot for a stand alone novel and developed concept for 3-book series
• secured a new column in a west coast magazine

I am a happier writer, still ranking high on the parenting chart (ask the kids) and I am more effective at change management.

I’m confident that my book will be in print or on an e-reader before the end of 2012  (I figure, if the world does end, or the great white light shines upon us, why not go out with a bang!).

You can do the same. Don’t let your inner Burglar rob you of your dream or cause you to abandon methods that have been working for you. Do use the voice of that inner critic to assess how your methods are working for you and what else you may need to get where you really want to be– to get a book life!

(Thanks, Jeff, for inviting me to share my experience as a Writing Parent on her way to getting a BookLife!) KMR

Karen M. Rider is a freelance writer specializing in holistic health and metaphysical subjects. Her interviews with visionary thinkers such as Caroline Myss and Wayne Dyer have been published in regional and national publications. Karen also contributes to The Writer magazine. She is an accomplished advertorial copywriter serving holistic /healing arts practitioners and “soul entrepreneurs.” She resides in Connecticut with her two spirited daughters and  (one very patient) husband. Karen is working on her first novel- a story of metaphysical suspense set at Gillette Castle in Connecticut.

So far 2010 has been a busy year for me, and although we’re only two months in it’s a good time to take stock and reevaluate where I am. In part this is because a lot of us make new goals in January, but often find that by February some of those goals have gone out the window.

So, writers out there, I ask you: What did you decide to accomplish this year, and where are you right now as opposed to where you thought you’d be? And is this good news or bad news or just the way things are?

For my part, I had my wife change the password to my facebook account so I wouldn’t waste any time online during a period of intense deadlines. I’ve also learned that, for now at least, it’s important for me to spend much less time in the electronic world in general.

Nicola Morgan’s known for being versatile in her writing, and blunt in her advice. Her Help! I Need a Publisher blog is merciless in its debunking of writing myths. Morgan is unafraid to tell it like it is, much to the benefit of those who read her. Not familiar with Morgan? Here’s her bio.

Nicola Morgan is an award-winning and multi-published UK author, writing mostly for the Young Adult market. She is best known in the UK for her YA novels and non-fiction about the teenage brain—Blame My Brain was shortlisted for the Royal Society’s Aventis Prize. Nicola blogs eagerly about how to become and survive as a published writer and her blog—Help! I Need a Publisher!—is highly recommended by agents and editors. She has also just launched a new literary consultancy, Pen2Publication. Nicola divides her working time between writing, speaking, advising, and dreaming of shoes and chocolate. Her greatest ambition is to learn to say no to the right things. She is hoping that Booklife is going to help her achieve this.

Not only have we interviewed her for Booklifenow below, but on Friday Matt Staggs’ Booklifenow Top 10 Links post will feature our favorites from Help! I Need a Publisher. And if that weren’t enough, if you have any questions about writing or the writing business, post them as comments to the links post and she’ll drop by to answer them. So check back in Friday, and have your questions ready…

What do you find are the biggest challenges facing writers who are about to have a book published for the first time?
Perhaps nowadays it’s the fear that they might not have done all they could to promote the book. We are presented with all these possibilities, with everyone saying “You must use Twitter” or “Surely you have a blog?” that it’s all too easy to feel inadequate. Another challenge is to limit expectations, because although each author gets terribly excited, it quickly becomes obvious that our book is not the best and most exciting book in the whole history of literature…

How do you personally use new media? And how do you incorporate use of new media into a larger plan?
I use Twitter and blogging, very much in tandem as each feeds the other. I don’t use Facebook much any more, certainly not for promotion. I love blogging because it is real writing and a writer is what I am. It’s communication and communication is what writing is. In fact. I could convince myself so strongly of that that I might forget to do the writing that pays the bills!

Are there modern tools for writers that you feel actually hinder or put blinkers on creativity?
Well, I’m sceptical about novel-writing software. I used and liked one piece of software once, but then i realised I could do the same (but more quickly) with pieces of card on a felt board. But I’d hate to make rules about creativity except to say that if it works, do it, but be aware that it might not be working. It’s very easy to sell a writer an idea by saying it will make writing easier. Does it? Hmmm. I think we have to look inside ourselves more.

How much distance do you keep from your readers and fans?
Is there a line you don’t want people to cross? I don’t want them to phone me or turn up on my doorstep but otherwise I love hearing from them and meeting them. I do huge numbers of school events (because I write for teenagers) and I love it when they email me afterwards. They ask quite personal questions and it doesn’t bother me at all—i regard it as a compliment that they are so relaxed. After all, if I don’t want to answer, I don’t have to.

How much of an introvert or extrovert are you, and how does it affect your writing career?
Difficult (and interesting) question. I think people would think of me as an extrovert but actually it’s not so simple. I have learnt to deal with public speaking and even learnt to love it. Some people would say that makes me an extrovert. And loving public speaking is certainly something that helps now. But I know plenty of writers who manage to keep themselves private and not do much speaking. And the networking side can often be done without face-to-face contact. It’s a matter of finding the things each author is comfortable with.

What are the advantages and disadvantages of having an identity as a writer that isn’t tied to one particular genre or type of book?
I feel there’s more of a disadvantage, though my publishers have never complained. It keeps me happy and stops me getting bored, knowing that I can write about anything, wherever my heart takes me; but I might sell more books if I could stick within one framework. People would know what to expect.

Are there attributes a fiction writer either has or doesn’t have, that can’t be taught?
Inspiration, passion, the specific choice of words. All the other stuff, the technical stuff, can be taught.

In Booklife, identify curiosity, receptivity, passion, imagination, discipline, and endurance as the pillars of your personal booklife. Which of those attributes do you think are most valuable, and what would you add to them?
I think a magical combination of passion and discipline. I’d add insight—insight into other people’s worlds and into your own. You have to know what you want and what other people want and find a way to steer a path between the two.

What does the term “permission to fail” mean to you?
For a writer, you have to accept that you will fail to carry every reader along with you. It’s odd because I perfectly well know that I write for a specific group of writers so I shouldn’t care when someone not in that group doesn’t relate to my books, but I do, and I need not to. I need to care only about succeeding with my desired readers.

In accepting the modern internet-driven paradigm of “writer,” have we lost anything?
I am sorry but I believe we have lost some quality and judgement. We have diluted our art. (I know that sounds pompous. It’s just meant to sound heartfelt.) Too much democracy, while a good thing in politics, is not a good thing in art. Too many people think that writing is easy, because, in a sense it is: but writing well is as hard as it ever was.

What’s the best part of being a writer for you–the thing you’d only give up over your dead body?
The power to change people’s hearts and minds. And the look on their faces when you’ve done it.

What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever seen a writer do?
When writers are arrogant, when they expect adulation, that’s sickening, stupid and ugly. And very dumb.

Check back Friday when Morgan will be answering your questions…

We’re taking a break here at Booklifenow, returning with new content next week. But since it is Thanksgiving week here in the United States, we’d like to know what you’re thankful for in your writing and your career. Also feel free to tell us about your upcoming books or other creative projects.

Me, I’m thankful that I have such amazing and creative friends–like my partner in crime here, Matt Staggs–that I am able to do this five-week book tour, and that I’ve had the opportunity to write, edit, and create so many different types of books. I’m also deeply thankful for your patronage of Booklifenow.com, and your acceptance of my book.