I have been able to scientifically establish that they are so shallow and ignorant that they honestly cannot handle the responsibility of taking any meaning out of a story that isn’t neatly handed to them on a silver platter. Ambiguity, obscurity, irony, innuendo; these are devices used by clever and intelligent writers in acute, imaginative ways, and I strongly feel that they shouldn’t be understated by some shmuck with a pencil and notebook who thinks he’s Hemmingway. We don’t need each side-character mentioned in the story to have an unseen influence on the nerdy kid getting picked on by a bully; we don’t need each individual that enters the bathroom to personally know and be familiar with the woman hiding her well-meaning boyfriend in the stall; we don’t need hidden motivations for the consoling gentleman at a funeral (though I stand by the fact that my idea of a Quantum Leap-esque twist at the end where it turns out that he’s her father from an alternate timeline coming back to redeem himself (in his own eyes, that is) would at least be entertaining); and we don’t need to know how the dead man arguing with Saint Peter over what constitutes Good-Enough-For-Heaven behavior became injured. These are not the points of the story!

 Antagonist’s commitment and ability to stop our hero must be equal to protagonist’s commitment and ability to get what they want.

Stakes must be life or death – or so high that they might as well be.  Obviously the writer of these Essential Guidelines for Proper Storytelling has never watched an episode of Seinfeld.

What I take away from these story-construction schematics isn’t that this direction is the correct one. In fact, what I extract from it constitutes the polar opposite: that no matter what I write, no matter what the subject or topic or story it is that I’m penning, I am obligated by the Gods of Language to avoid these pillars of cliché storytelling like a balloon avoids a needle. What do you get when you follow an already established, standard textbook formula? Everybody Loves Raymond. What do you get when you tread new ground, when you grasp unwaveringly and hold securely onto the essence of your individuality, the style that defines who you are, what you represent, and what makes you you? The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, A Tale Of Two Sisters, The Catcher In The Rye. Three wildly different examples of narrative with one simple trait binding them all together: the creators of each embraced their unique personality, they each held steadfast to their vision regardless of what was considered “essential” to clever storytelling, and every single one was a successful and groundbreaking work of art.

I admit it; I’m a selfish writer, and I write selfish stories. The pace is dictated by me, and if I want an irrelevant tangent here, I’ll put an irrelevant tangent here. 