A Theory Of Story

“Is there anything in the world better than words on the page? Magic signs, the voices of the dead, building blocks to make wonderful worlds better than this one, comforters, companions in loneliness. Keepers of secrets, speakers of the truth… all those glorious words.” ~Cornelia Funke

I’m told I was an early reader. A picture floats around somewhere in my family’s dusty archives where I’m squatting inside a summoner’s circle made up of children’s encyclopedias. I doubt I was reading there, but maybe I was conjuring up the act. The ritual must have worked because I picked up a strong reading habit and a love for stories. During recess, I spun stories of murderous robot trees and mysterious stone gardens laden with goblins and magic. I’d staple together little booklets, write in them, and pass them out to customers at my family’s pizzeria. I even wrote a Christmas comedy for my 2nd grade talent show starring me and my friends.

But I didn’t like writing outside of storytelling. When I started homeschooling, my mother thrust pen and paper before me and bid me write. I crossed my arms and pouted. But the moment I was alone—no wicked expectations—I used that pen and paper to manifest universes of heroes and talking stars. Mom deemed stories “unproductive,” and I couldn’t find a way to weave them into my reports. For years, we struggled this way: she begged me to write something clever, and I begged to tell stories. Even my grandmother, an exceedingly patient Methodist pastor and author, failed to budge me during our tutoring sessions. We all had little hope for change.

On the verge of a bleak winter, Mom took me up to a homeschool writing convention in her hometown. I dragged my feet. Even though I only had to suffer for that one day, I braced myself for misery. But, during our workshops, I was given permission to write whatever I wanted to. I didn’t believe our teacher, Mr. Andrew Pudewah, even as he repeated himself. “Writing,” he chuckled, “is writing. No matter what kind of writing you’re doing, you’re still growing.” I put pencil to paper and found I couldn’t stop. Something clicked into place. I would soon find myself writing to academic prompts with greater ease. I’d found a way to weave both narrative and subject together into one snug form. When I begged to go back for the next day’s session, Mom was so thrilled that she paid the last-minute admissions fee without batting an eye. During that two-day workshop, I realized that not only could I enjoy writing, but that I had not given it the proper chance it deserved.

I realized that not only could I enjoy writing, but that I had not given it the proper chance it deserved.

This began my evolution. I saw how my storytelling interests could translate into academic writing. Hardly anyone believed me when I declared I wanted to study writing full-time. I studied creative writing at a Tennessean liberal arts college where my teachers broke me into shape. That first semester, every time I produced something, my professor, Dr. Impson, snapped it in two and handed it back with a hot glue gun. “Fix it.” With glue-stuck fingers, and many scarred essays, I crawled my way from a C+ on my first essay to an A- in the class overall. I collapsed when she handed me my grade. I’d doubted whether I had the strength to be a writer, and it was still a relatively new path for me. When I stood back up, Dr. Impson pulled me into a hug and told me I was exactly where I belonged.

This taught me that creative writing demanded more than just creativity. Academic writing forced me to form discipline around my practice. After all, the mountain of twelve-page essays wasn’t so bad when paired with a solid schedule. Grace lives at the corner of Anguish Avenue and Inspiration Boulevard. I decided that was where I wanted to build a house too.

After completing both of my degrees, and working on my novels, I see that all writing is inherently creative. All writing is a form of storytelling (despite what my well-intentioned mother believed). Academic essays, after all, are nothing more than a narrative constructed around a body of evidence. This is why writing skills cross-germinate.

After completing both of my degrees, and working on my novels, I see that all writing is inherently creative.

But if all writing is storytelling, what does that mean for the text, the writing piece’s collective consciousness? If we think of writing as a narrative, then the text it resides in must be its world. Each text, therefore, is a microcosm complete with rules and systems that govern it. Each new idea some supernova, each metaphor a cosmic vibration—nestled and folded in one each other like coronal loops. Understanding the text’s world enables us to better serve readers because then we can repair moments where the world and its story don’t align.

Worldbuilders concern themselves with questions such as “How does this country’s export influence their government’s trade policies?” and “How does human migration affect dating habits in minors?” These are deeply patterned, complex issues that operate almost exclusively in the background of a story. However, as we read stories, we know when details of the story contradict the world. We feel betrayed—“This is our reward for suspending disbelief?” This happens when any writer falls down on the job. After all, those questions the worldbuilders ask are no different than the questions of the academy. Academics write furiously to each other when someone else’s narrative doesn’t match the reality the text claims to represent.

Teaching young writers then about the way texts inhabit subspace offers new modes of understanding old problems. For years now, I have heard from teachers that their students don’t care about the work they do. From students, stories of angry lecturers who are bad ambassadors for the academy. This is not an issue of one group caring and another not; this is a communication issue. Thinking about writing as storytelling can help because storytelling is about connection.

In the realm of stories, Joseph Cambell identified the hero’s journey. The hero travels through the underworld for something he desires and suffers for it. This basic structure is innate to story because it’s innate to people. If all writing is storytelling, and experience grounds storytelling, then that must also mean that all writers want to achieve something like the heroes they write. Writing can help students set their aim, affect meaningful action, and reach their goals. Writing, in all its variations, probes meaning. Creative writing asks what it means to be human. Academic writing asks what it means to be thoughtful. Sometimes, to properly address the latter, we must engage the former and remind ourselves that being human is not only good but that the challenges we face give us purpose. Story centers the individual and points them towards higher truth and freedom.