Just outside of Chinatown, the stylist holds my hair in his hands and calls to his assistant. “Help me!”She runs over and sticks her fingers into the dye-free floppy strands.“It’s hard to hold!” he exclaims. “It’s so healthy!” she nods.“It is sooo healthy!” he returns.“We never see hair this healthy,” the assistant speaks into the now-falling tresses I see reflected in…
We wear the mask that grins and lies . . .” — “We Wear the Mask,” Paul Laurence DunbarTysha Wilson adjusted the disposable face mask over her nose and walked faster down the cracked sidewalk outside her grandmother’s house. The braids bundled together at the crown of her head acted like a counterweight and dragged…
Reopening In a blue light, the woman is still. She is water recuperating after the kind of storm that again and again unfolds its violence and gives way to the drop of a stone. One morning, she is on the precipice of the small town where she sewed the hem of a too-long skirt: dusted…
He can see everything but her. The rest of the room exists clearly in his mind. The walls painted a sunshine yellow. The sturdy, handcrafted oak bedroom set with dovetail joints and darkly stained grain. The paper birch with the coin-shaped leaves seen out the second-story window. On the night table sits a clock, the red numbering of which reads 7:00 a.m. The digits blink as the alarm sounds. But he doesn’t reach out to silence it. He doesn’t open his eyes.
Next to the beeping clock is a framed portrait of his family. They show their teeth in smiles. They wear matching jeans and white-collared shirts. They stand in a flower-filled meadow. They lean and weave their arms together in such a way that they appear to be holding each other up. He can see his daughter. He can see himself. He cannot see his wife. She might as well have been scissored out of the photo, scrubbed out of his mind, a raw vacancy.
He wants this image to remain true, but it no longer is. He wants to roll over to face the opposite side of the bed, where Pamela ought to be sleeping, her body denting the mattress, but she is not there. Something else is.
The screeching of his alarm seems to grow louder. His veins throb in time with it.
If he looks, that would mean acknowledging what he has to do. A muscle in his jaw pulses. He barely breathes. Morning light warms the bed but he feels cold.
When he finally opens his eyes, he does not scream or even flinch away. He simply stares back with an ugly resignation.
The sheets and the comforter are as white and clean as soap. But the thing that shares the bed with him is not. It is dressed in filth, clotted with what might be dried blood and grave dirt. Sticks and dead leaves cling to it. The fabric of its wrappings might have been stitched out of the night itself and buried for a thousand years. Its face is hooded, so he cannot see the features hidden within, but the shadow there is so profound that he feels he is looking into a cave littered with bones that goes on for an unguessable distance.
The alarm continues to sound, but he no longer hears its noise in intervals, only as a single, uninterrupted, high-pitched scream.
The showerhead hisses and Sam stands under its needling spray. He splats shampoo into his hand and fingers it onto his scalp until bubbles froth up. He scrubs himself with a sponge.
Through the marbled glass, he can see the thing standing in the bathroom, watching him. Even when he doesn’t look directly, he can feel it, like a bruise at the edge of his vision.
The room swirls with steam. When he finishes rinsing off, he twists the knob and remains in the stall until the dripping stops.
He slides the door open and the cold air tightens his skin. He reaches for the towel on the bar, only a few inches from where the thing stands.
“Leave me alone,” he says.
While Sam dresses—pulling on khakis, buttoning a gingham shirt—he can hear his daughter downstairs making them breakfast.
Their kitchen is stainless steel and white quartz; he can imagine Ella down there, snapping on the stovetop burner. The gas flares in a blue ring that matches her dyed hair. She is seventeen and her fingers are busy with rings, including one of a horned skull. She bought it at a vintage shop, along with everything else she is wearing: the shredded jeans, the Korn T-shirt with the cutoff sleeves, the gray grandpa cardigan. That’s not how she looks in the family portrait. She has changed since then.
Everything has changed.
The window over the sink offers a view of the neighborhood—mostly neocolonials and Tudor Revivals set back on three-acre lots. Ella is likely looking out of it now. The sun won’t have burned off the mist yet, and the Land Cruisers and Teslas and Range Rovers will cut through the gray scarves of it as they roll off to work and school.
She will be cracking six eggs into a bowl. With a fork, she’ll stab and stir the yolks. She will drop a sizzling square of butter into the hot pan. The eggs will soon follow and she will let them sit a moment before roughing them with a wooden spatula.
The toast pops. She scoops the scrambled eggs onto two plates. And she carries it all to the round table tucked into the kitchenette—just as Sam pounds down the stairs and enters the kitchen with a leather messenger bag strapped to his shoulder.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” He heads directly to the coffee maker. The carafe is burbling, nearly finished brewing. From the cabinet, he pulls down a mug and splashes it full. He blows the steam off it before taking a delicate sip.
Ella says, “You have to have breakfast.”
“I will.”
“Come sit.” She uses her foot to nudge out a chair for him to occupy.
“You’re the best, but…” His words trail off as he recognizes that his seat is occupied by the thing. It looms only a foot from his daughter.
She scrapes butter onto the toast. Her knife slows when she notes his widening gaze.
“No!” he says.
The scream startles his daughter. She drops her knife with a clatter. “What?” she says, standing up. “What’s wrong?”
He hurries to her fast enough that coffee splashes over the lip of the mug, burning his hand. He drags her from the table and puts his body between hers and its.
“Dad?” Ella says. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just… I wish I could sit down, but I have this stupid meeting. With the hospital board.”
Her face twists with confusion. “You can’t sit for five minutes?”
“Not today. No. But.” He scoops up the plate she made for him. “Thank you for this—I’ll eat it on the way.”
He rushes to the mudroom, trips over her skateboard and curses, and Ella calls after him, “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“What about tonight?”
“What about it?” He tucks his coffee into his elbow and rattles the knob and opens the door to the garage. “What?”
“Mom,” she says in a pleading voice. “We’re supposed to go see Mom.”
He pauses in the doorway, already halfway gone. “Right. Yes.”
“It’s her birthday.”
“I’ve got to… do some things first,” he says. “But we’re going to make that happen.” He nods to himself. “Of course we are.”
He pulls the door shut behind him so roughly the house shakes.
His eyes flit between the road and the rearview mirror. His house retreats into the distance. The neighborhood blurs past. He drives a Volvo station wagon. He bought it after Pamela’s accident—after her car plunged off the road and hit a tree, after her unrecognizable body was found mangled inside—because it had a steel frame and a top safety rating.
His breakfast plate is balanced on the dash and when he rounds a corner, it slides from one side of the car to the other. It is about to sail off, soon to flop onto the floor, when he catches it.
He slows now, easing the brake. The speedometer drops from sixty to twenty-five. He feels far enough away from home to settle his breathing.
In the backseat, the thing sits, blacking out most of the rear window.
“Not her,” he says. “Okay? Never her! Never!”
The thing does not respond. It is silent and watchful.
“You’re hungry?”
He pulls the plate down, balancing it on his lap. He picks up a piece of toast and chucks it into the backseat.
“Then eat!”
He hurls the rest of the plate over his shoulder. “Eat!”
But the thing does not respond, even as the toast bounces off its shoulder, as the clumps of eggs ooze down its chest.
The recovery ward has a particular smell—an ammoniac tang—that Sam has come to associate with fear. Everyone here is close to death. The lights are always dimmed to a twilight glow. The nurses speak in hushed tones. The orderlies try not to rattle their carts or squeak their shoes. You don’t hear much in the way of laughter. Music or even the mutter of a television is rare.
The few hours a day that patients are awake, their eyes appear filled with mist. Sam wears a bleach-white lab coat and sometimes patients will rise out of their anesthetic blur and say, for a second there, they thought he was an angel. “No,” he says. “That, I am not.”
The boy is named Luke. He has dark, hollowed eyes and a naked head that is yellow- skinned where it isn’t bandaged. Some blood stains through the gauze. He lies in a bed with plastic guardrails. Fluids drain in and out of him.
His mother sits next to him, holding the boy’s hand with both of hers.
Sam approaches with a gentle smile. “Hi there.” He checks the dry-erase board and sees her name listed there. “Tina. How are you holding up?”
She gives him an ugly laugh. “Not great.”
“I understand.” He picks up the chart from its plastic sleeve on the wall and consults the nurse’s notes. Then he rolls a stool close to the bed. “What can you tell me about Luke?”
“He was awake for a little while. He had some ice chips.” She picks up a Styrofoam cup that now sloshes with water. “Maybe an hour ago.”
“Did he say anything?”
“He said mom. That was all he said. Just . . . mom.”
“That’s good. This early out of surgery, that’s kind of remarkable, actually.” He scratches down a few notes on the chart.
“I did this to him.”
Sam gives her a double take before his forehead wrinkles with concern. “I know this is hard. Don’t make it harder by saying things like that.”
Her voice cracks in ten places when she says, “It’s in my family. It’s in my blood. I had it too.”
Sam tucks his pen into his breast pocket and gives her a steady look. “And you’re still here. Just like he’s still here.”
She nods, trying to convince herself. “It just . . . feels like death is so close. I don’t know how to feel? Should I feel happy that he’s alive? Or sad that he almost died? He feels like he’s in-between, and I don’t want to believe in something if it’s going to get taken away.”
Sam’s gaze rises, taking in the black ragged thing now looming behind her. “Death is always close,” he says in a hushed voice. “To every one of us.”
The thing lifts an arm—and a long, rotten, gray-fingered hand appears from beneath its sleeve. It is reaching for the boy. There is a creaking, as if of old ropes on a ship.
Sam raises his voice when he says, “But your son isn’t going to die today. I can promise you that. Not today.”
Slowly, the hand of the thing withdraws.
Sam shouldn’t be walking so fast. When he walks fast, he makes people nervous, because it means that something is wrong. But he doesn’t have much time. He moves down the corridor of the recovery ward. The walls are the color of spoiled milk. The fluorescent lights pale every complexion.
He glances into one room—and sees the thing. It is in the next room as well.
And the next.
And the next after that.
It stands beside the beds of the patients, but it watches Sam. Because it wants him to choose.
A voice calls out to him—“Dr. Volk?”—and he nearly shrieks in response.
A woman named Carolyn—with purple braids and matching fingernails—stands from the desk at the nurse’s station. She has a stack of papers in her hand.
“Sorry,” Sam says. “Yes—what is it?”
She gestures with the papers. “Need you to sign off on a dozen or so scrips. And there seems to be an issue with a DNR. Also, Room 13’s daughter called and—”
“Can I check back in with you? In, like, five minutes?” He holds out a splayed hand for emphasis. “Five.”
“Sure. Yeah. Everything okay?”
He waves back at her apologetically when he continues down the hall.
“It will be. Soon.”
On the first floor of the hospital, Sam pushes open a door a crack and peers out the stairwell. The hallway is empty, except for an orderly who carries an armful of blankets and hums a nonsense song. Sam waits for him to vanish around a corner and then he enters the corridor fully and creeps toward the OR.
He pushes through the double doors into the observatory. He can hear the surgeon chatting in the next room, getting prepped, and he can see through a window an old man lying on a stainless steel table. He is naked except for a strip of tissue paper covering his groin. Lights blaze down on him. His mouth hangs open, revealing a serrated line of teeth. He is thin with loose papery skin.
A nurse in a floral smock smears iodine across the old man’s abdomen. Some lines have been stenciled there, indicating the site of the surgery, likely a gallbladder removal.
The nurse finishes his work and departs the room.
Sam can sense the thing beside him. Its fabric shifts like the rustling of dry leaves.
“Him,” Sam says, tapping at the window. “I choose him.”
Minutes later, after the surgeon washes her hands and fits on her scrubs cap and snaps on her latex gloves, she backs through the door that leads to the OR. Here, she almost slips. Because the floor is wet. So are the walls, and the ceiling, everything splattered with blood. The surgical lamp drips like a molten chandelier and burns with a bordello-red light.
There isn’t much left of the old man on the operating table. Some broken ribs and what might be a femur spike out of torn meat. A damp yarny mound of intestines unwinds and plops onto the floor.
Back in his recovery ward, Sam keeps looking behind him. Here is a robed patient exercising with a walker. Here is a custodian pulling a trash bag out of a can.
He tries one room—and observes a man sleeping soundly. He checks in another room and finds a woman sitting by the window, staring out at the parking lot. He pokes his head into Luke’s room next. The boy is awake, and his mother is spooning applesauce into his mouth. He eats greedily and some of it sludges down his chin.
Sam feels his muscles loosen. He takes a deep, cleansing breath. The thing is gone. For now.
He heads toward the nurse’s station. Carolyn pops her eyebrows as he approaches. “Everything good now? Ready to talk?”
“Yes,” he says. “Everything’s great.”
At Valley Grove Cemetery, the grass is mown in tidy stripes and shadows lean and pool between the old oaks. Sam and his daughter stand over a grave. The stone reads “Pamela Volk.”
Sam holds a bouquet of wildflowers. Ella has her skateboard tucked under her arm.
“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” she says. “It feels like no time.”
“It feels like forever for me,” he says.
“I remember how she hated lilies. She said lilies smelled like funerals. So…”
“So.” Sam makes a kind of toast with the bouquet before laying it down.
“So no lilies, Mom,” she says. “Happy birthday.”
Cicadas wheeze. A breeze rises and ripples through the leaves, curling up their silvery undersides. A cardinal wings by in a red flash.
“I,” Sam says, clearing his throat. “I remember how she used to call for us. ‘Sam and Ella,’ she’d say. But fast, like: ‘Salmonella.’ People would always look at her funny when she did that.”
A beat of silence passes before Ella says, “I remember how she would always make you split your order at the restaurant. So she got to try two things.”
“I remember,” Sam says, “how she used to put her feet on me when she got into bed. Her feet were always freezing cold, even in the summer.”
“I remember how she would quiz me constantly on math facts. Nine times seven, twelve times eleven; that kind of thing.”
“I remember how she loved to sing along to the radio but always got the lyrics wrong.”
“I remember how she tried to ride my skateboard in the driveway and broke her wrist.”
Sam says, “Then she made everybody sign her cast, so she looked like a twelve-year-old.”
Ella looks up at him. “Dad?”
It takes a long time for him to meet her eyes. “Do you ever wonder if she…” Her face flinches.
“Do you ever wonder if she killed…”
He can’t hide the sharpness in his voice when he says, “What?”
“If she killed herself? Do you wonder that?”
“Oh,” he says. “I thought you meant—no. No, I don’t think that. Why would you say that? She died in a car accident.”
“But what if—”
“No.”
“She would get so sad sometimes. And scared. Don’t pretend like you don’t remember. She would go be alone, sometimes for days, before coming back.”
“Ella. Please.”
“The last time I saw her, when she grabbed her keys and left, she looked like that. I called out to her. I said, ‘Mom, wait!’ but she wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Your mother loved us, and we loved her. That’s what we should be focusing on. The good parts.”
“But she had bad parts.”
“Everybody has bad parts, and when you love someone, you accept that as part of the deal.”
Ella takes in the gathering shadows of the woods. “It’s just… sometimes I get this feeling… this feeling like something dark is close. And I know… I know sometimes that stuff is inherited and…”
“Ella,” he says and pulls her into a hug. “Come here.” Her body trembles in his arms.
“You know what I used to say to your mom?”
Her tears dampen his shirt at the shoulder. “What?” she says in a quiet voice.
“When things got dark, I’d say, ‘I want you to put all of that poison in me. I’ll soak it up. I’ll eat it for you. Because I can take it. I can take it.’ I’d hold her just like this, until she calmed down. Until she felt better.”
Ella sniffs. “Did it work?”
“You tell me. Whatever pain you’ve got, just give it to me. I can take it. I promise.”
She pulls away from him and roughs some tears from her eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Did it help?”
“It helped.”
He pushes back her bangs and kisses her forehead. “That’s what family is for. We carry each other.”
She motions to the grave. “I feel like we should—I don’t know—bake a cake or something.”
“Your mom loved Dairy Queen Blizzards. Should we go get one? I kind of feel like one.”
“Yeah.” She tips her head into a nod. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Then she drops her skateboard onto the asphalt path and jumps onto it. “Race you!” she says. “Loser buys the ice cream.” She pumps her leg once, twice, rolling swiftly away.
He gives chase, yelling, “Oh, it’s on!”
And with that, they leave behind the cold stone and the bright flowers and the steadily darkening woods.
At Dairy Queen, on the outdoor patio, they eat cheeseburgers and dip their French fries in ketchup. Ella turns her chocolate Snickers Blizzard upside down, as a test, before spooning into it with a laugh. When a crow hops close, she tosses it a fry and asks it to come home as her pet.
Sam talks to her but feels as if he is only half tuned-in to the conversation. He pokes at the salty crumbs in his basket without remembering having eaten a single bite. He keeps looking over his shoulder, hunting for something that isn’t there. The sun is dying on the horizon.
At one point, Ella has to say, “Dad,” three times before he says, “Sorry. What?”
“I was asking if we can look at photos when we get home.”
“Yeah. That sounds nice.”
A half an hour later, they’re in the living room, digging through cardboard boxes and stacking albums and scrapbooks on the coffee table. Ella curls up on the couch, and Sam finds his recliner.
She says, “I used to think it was weird, how Mom insisted on printing up all our photos at Walgreens, but now I’m glad. There’s something more real about them this way.”
They flip through baptisms and camps and soccer games and picnics and vacations.
“Look at this one,” she says and rotates the album to show off a photo from Yellowstone. The three of them stand before a steaming mud pot, pinching their noses. Pamela had a smile that seemed to reach all the way to her ears. Her hair was the color of sunlight. She complained constantly about the lack of pockets in women’s clothing, so she bought men’s shorts and shirts and tailored them to fit her. That’s what she was wearing in this photo: pockets. So many pockets. She hid so much in them.
Sam says, “You wouldn’t stop complaining about the rotten egg smell. So we made a game of it. It was our goal to find the stinkiest attraction in the park.”
“Mom was convinced I was going to get eaten by a bear.”
At the bottom of a box, Sam finds a black book that appears more like a journal. The spine has the ribbing of vertebrae. He flips it open randomly— somewhere toward the back—and finds a photo of Pamela.
She is a teenager with a perm that looks like it weighs twenty pounds. She holds a volleyball and wears a jersey that advertises her favorite number: seventeen. But—and here’s the thing that makes him lean forward—there is a black figure roughly Sharpie-d into the background.
He flips back one page, and then another, and another after that, and finds the same. The thing is with her. At the county fair, when she won a blue ribbon for her sheep. At Christmas, when she showed off a new sweater beneath the tree. At a birthday party, where she puffs her cheeks to blow out the candles. There are words scratched onto the pages too: “Choose,” “Choose,” “Choose,” “How can I choose?” “I can’t choose.”
And: “Will it stop?”
And: “What if I give myself to it?”
There are also newspaper clippings—of car accidents, farm accidents, a string of homeless murders. Here are ten obituaries, nine of them in hospice, one of them a seemingly healthy teacher.
And then—Sam keeps flipping back, back, back—on the very first page of the album, there is a photo of her in a church. She stands with her mother. They both wear black. Their faces are dour. On the altar is a coffin with lilies all around it. A large photograph of a middle-aged man is placed on a pedestal nearby. The thing is Sharpie-d into the background here. “Dad left,” she has written in the margins. “And it chose me.”
He realizes that he’s been sucking his breath in and out of his teeth when Ella says, “What’s wrong?”
Sam slaps the book shut and blinks at her rapid-fire. “Nothing. Just getting tired.” He rises, taking the book with him. “Think I’m ready to say good night.”
He startles briefly because his reflection ghosts the glass of the nighttime window, and he pulls together the curtains, blocking out the night.
When the red numbers on the bedside clock turn over to 7:00 a.m., his alarm sounds and his eyes snap open. The family portrait on the night table stares back at him. The three of them, in matching outfits, smiling in the sunlight. It’s almost disgustingly wholesome. He’s known for a year that it was no longer true. But now he recognizes that maybe it never was. There might as well be a black wraith scribbled into the background, a fourth member of their family.
He punches off the alarm. In the hush, he rolls over to check the other side of the bed. He finds it empty. A sigh filters through his nose.
He throws aside the comforter and climbs out of bed—only to find the thing standing between him and the bathroom.
“No.” He retreats until the backs of his legs strike the mattress. “No, I gave you what you wanted.”
The thing continues to observe him with its dead abyss of a gaze.
“It’s too soon. Leave me alone, goddamn it.” The thing waits.
“Is it because he was old? Did that not . . . satisfy you or something?”
The thing watches.
Sam shoves his fists against his eyes. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus—I can’t keep doing this.”
When he pulls his hands away, his vision is blurred red, and it takes him a moment to find his focus again. The thing is now even closer, swallowing up most of his vision, as if night has returned suddenly to his bedroom.
“Get away!” Sam bashes into his night table, knocking over the framed photo, shattering the glass. The thing speaks in its rusty wheeze of a voice: “Choose.”
Sam dresses in a rush. He doesn’t bother combing his hair. His unbrushed mouth tastes a little like the ammoniac air in the recovery ward. He chases his way down the stairs and peers around the corner of the kitchen and says, “Thank God.”
Because his daughter is gone. She has left him a bagel with cream cheese and raspberry jam on it, along with a burbling carafe of coffee. Next to his mug is a note—written in her spidery script—that reads, “SAT prep before school. Had to go. Eat your breakfast or else! Love, Ella.”
He feels a cold trace in the air. To his right is a shadow where one wasn’t before. Every part of his body stiffens except the note shivering in his hand. “Come on then.”
Sam normally pays little attention to his neighborhood. It is a place he drives through on the way to someplace else. Now he swings his head back and forth, intensely studying lawns and garages, looking for someone who might be a suitable candidate.
The thing waits in the backseat. He tries not to look at it, but in the same way that staring at a light can stain your vision, so does its darkness. He sees it even when it is out of his range of vision; its contamination is always with him.
A man walks down his driveway to fetch a newspaper. His bathrobe hangs open and his belly swells out of it. He has a ruddy face, appears to be in his late forties, and might be sixty pounds overweight. Sam looks at him the way he would a patient and decides he likely has some combination of diabetes, high cholesterol, and hypertension—a prime candidate for a stroke or heart attack.
He feathers the brake, slowing the car.
The man snatches up the newspaper, unfolds it, and reads the headline. But he soon senses the Volvo and a stare seals between them.
Sam licks his lips. “Okay. Okay, how about—”
Just then the front door of the house opens and a boy and a girl run down the driveway. They wear backpacks and carry lunchboxes and might be in first or second grade. They grab hold of each of his legs and he ruffles their hair while giving Sam a hard look.
Sam stomps the gas and speeds off.
An ambulance is parked in the middle of an intersection, its light bar flashing.
Two squad cars are also present and the officers redirect traffic. Flares burn. Their brightness draws Sam’s gaze from three blocks away. “Give me something. Please, please, please,” he says, and the Volvo picks up speed.
At the same time, the thing leans forward, and places its rotten hand on the headrest. Its nails tear the leather with a squelch.
Sam leans forward, whimpering, trying to avoid its touch.
“Choose,” it says.
“Just be patient. Just give me a goddamn minute.” His words come out as nearly a scream.
Some sort of accident has taken place, as a sedan is parked crookedly. The windshield is shattered and bloodied, and the asphalt is littered with sparkling jewels of glass. He can’t see much, in his hurry, but the EMTs are rolling a stretcher, a stretcher with someone belted to it, toward the rear of the ambulance.
“There!” Sam says. “There! Go! Just leave me alone. Leave my family alone.”
The Volvo comes to a rocking halt. He jams the gearshift into park and rushes out of the car without even killing the engine or shutting the door.
When he looks back, he finds the backseat empty.
He chokes out a laugh and spins in a dizzy circle and runs a hand across his face. And then pauses. His hand begins to tremble and falls to his side. “No.” He walks—and then jogs—and then sprints forward. “No!”
One of the officers tries to stop him, holding up his hands. “Sir, please step back!”
“I’m a doctor,” Sam says, dodging past him. “I’m a doctor!” He nearly falls, sliding on some broken glass, and then he is upon it. The skateboard. His daughter’s skateboard, with the pink wheels, its bottom plastered in stickers. It’s been splintered beneath the sedan.
“Not her! Anyone but her!” He keeps running, breathless, toward the rear of the ambulance, where the EMTs heft the stretcher. “Take me! Take me instead! Take me!”
In the rear of the ambulance, Ella lies on a stretcher. Her arm and cheek are speckled with glass. Her hairline is split open, revealing a slick gray stripe of skull. One of her legs bends crookedly in the wrong direction. The EMTs hover over her ruined body, checking her vitals. Her breath is shallow and her pulse is elevated. She won’t respond to their voices as they call out to her.
But they are soon interrupted.
Outside there is a sudden screaming. Of one voice, then two, then three, four. They make the agonized music of those who have witnessed something horrible.
One of the officers rushes to the rear of the ambulance. His face and uniform are freckled with blood and he gasps as if he has run a long distance. “Get out here! You’ve got to get out here!”
When Ella finally wakes up, she doesn’t know how much time has passed or where she is or what’s happened. Her thoughts are muddied from pain and medication. She is in bed. She knows that. She is in bed and her leg is hanging from an elevated harness with screws burrowing into her skin. One of her eyes is half-lidded, crusted and bruised. Her head is mummied with bandages and when she looks one way, then the other, it takes her vision a second to catch up.
A heart monitor beeps with the regularity of a slow alarm. There are cards and flowers and stuffed animals on a nearby table. A hospital—the word comes to her gradually—she is in a hospital.
She searches the room further and notes a figure standing in the corner. “Dad?” And then she realizes it is not a person, but a manifestation of shadows, like the night incarnate. “Hello?”
The thing approaches, not walking, but gliding.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Its voice gasps out a single word: “Choose.”
We all want to believe we can tell ourselves to treat everyone equally. That’s why we say things like “I don’t see color,” or “I would never judge anyone by their appearance.” But some biases are so deep-seated that they’re rooted in the way our brains work. In 1972, Israeli psychologists Amos Tversky and Daniel…
Dear lovely reader,
In my eight years at the helm of F(r)iction, I’ve seen some issues come together like magic. Perfect stories shining through the darkness of the slush pile, celebrity authors ringing up at just the right moment, each artist nailing the concept on the first round of sketches. It was enough to make even the most cynical editor believe in the legendary realm of the muses, to see something so difficult come together so easily…
This, dear reader, was not one of those issues.
At every turn, it fought us. Ongoing COVID lockdowns in Shanghai in 2022—where our printer is located—set our production schedule back nearly an entire year. When a piece was locked, it didn’t paginate cleanly. When we found an artist we loved, the timing didn’t work. Again and again, we would get close, and then stumble at the ten-yard line. So badly, in fact, that we had to change the order of the issues we were producing, because the issue due out four months after this one came together faster.
But you know what, dear reader? Doesn’t that just feel right for an issue about the unseen? That an issue about invisibility and marginalization and feeling small in the face of overwhelming odds… of course, it is this issue that would fight its way into the world.
And that is what every piece has in common: the fight. When the world tells you that you don’t matter, that you don’t have a voice, that no one wants to see you, we are all given an option: to stay in the dark or to come out swinging.
But to really explore the theme, we needed, more than ever, to ensure that we pulled stories from authors with a wide array of backgrounds, races, genders, and orientations, each tackling the topic from a wildly different angle.
Some of these works are grounded in reality, from “undesirable” people going missing to invisible diseases—both physical and societal—threating to devour us. And, as in every issue of F(r)iction, this theme is also explored through the glorious lens of the surreal. You’ll find a shirt that promises to finally make you seen and loved… if you never take it off, a young Black girl haunted by her ancestors and the pressure of her legacy among them, and the ghostly consequences of the Texan oilfields.
But it’s not just our written content that brings the unseen into the light. As part of our partnership with comic legend Kelly Sue DeConnick’s #VisibleWomen initiative, we solely hired visual artists from marginalized genders to illustrate this issue, ensuring that this hugely unrepresented group of comic creatives receives the elevation they deserve.
Lastly, a special comic debuts in this issue, one that is very dear to our mission—and to me personally.
For those of you familiar with our parent nonprofit, Brink, you’ll know that as well as publishing this lovely journal, we also teach literacy and storytelling courses in marginalized communities. Fundamentally, we believe that stories have the power to change lives. Engaging with stories allows us to not only develop essential literacy skills that unlock academic and professional pathways, but the act of telling our own story—critically evaluating who we are and why—can also radically shift how we think about our own self-worth and place in the world.
The comic memoir “Brilliance” by Juaquin Mobley was developed in one of our programs. Juaquin’s story was hard fought for and developed through an enormous amount of time, self-reflection, accountability, and courage.
Today, Juaquin is no longer a student but a co-teacher, working alongside us to help other formerly incarcerated people develop the skills and belief to stay out of prison.
If I’ve learned anything from both curating this issue and my years of teaching F(r)iction in communities like Juaquin’s, it is that in order to end the cycle of being “unseen,” you need the courage to step out of the shadows yourself, develop empathy for people different from you, and—just as Juaquin is doing with his work and Kelly Sue is doing with #VisibleWomen—become a force to help others do the same.
I hope, dear reader, that the stories here inspire you, surprise you, and even upset you—because casting a light on unseen people, cultures, and experiences requires us to rethink how the world works, be open to the discomfort of having our own conventions questioned, and be courageous for ourselves and others.
Thank you for being a part of that mission.
Cheers,
Dani Hedlund
Editor-in-Chief
Now that we have covered creating compelling characters using archetypes, let’s take a look at one of the most important characters in any story: the antagonist. Antagonists come in many forms—in fact, they may not always be an explicit character—but they are always in direct conflict with the protagonist as the protagonist strives to get what they want.
Contrary to popular belief, antagonists do not necessarily have to be evil. Many types of villainous antagonists exist, of course, and they are a popular way to imbue stories with an immediate sense of conflict and strife. But sometimes, the antagonist is simply someone whose actions come into conflict with the protagonist, or they are an inanimate force the protagonist must fight against, or the protagonist is their own antagonist.
Let’s explore these different kinds of antagonists through their own stories and voices. Four different types of antagonists weigh in to provide their own insight as to what makes them work so well. We’ll hear from Lady Macbeth, Mr. Darcy, the laws of space and nature, and Dorian Gray as we dive deep into the role a great antagonist plays.
Please note that this blog contains some spoilers for Macbeth by Shakespeare, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, “The Cold Equations” by Tom Goodwin, and The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
Macbeth tells the story of a Scottish general named Macbeth who receives a prophecy from three witches that he will become king of Scotland. Encouraged by his ambitious wife, Lady Macbeth, he murders King Duncan to seize the throne. However, Macbeth’s guilt and paranoia following this lead to further acts of violence and betrayal, ultimately resulting in his downfall.
Lady Macbeth infamously serves as the major antagonist of the play, inciting Macbeth to his treacherous actions until her guilt consumes her and she descends into madness. In the end, she kills herself. Lady Macbeth is ambitious, manipulative, ruthless, and determined. She will do anything to increase her and her husband’s status and power, even if it means committing heinous acts. In this way, she serves as the traditional villain-type antagonist who works for evil purposes to destroy the protagonist.
Here’s what Lady Macbeth has to say for herself from beyond the grave regarding her actions as a villain:
They call me villain—I assure you I
Am not. Ambitious? Sure, I have been this,
And murderer, and more. But all for him.
If not for me, the story stalls in his
Unmoving, hesitant hands. Always feeble,
Always weak. Unlike me. So I wanted more,
For myself and for him. Is that so wrong?
Was killing Duncan so deserving of
This hell? Each night, I wash my hands of blood.
And yet when I awaken, there it is
Again. The stain I can’t remove, not from
My skin nor from my clothes. The blood from whose
Blue veins it ran I do not know. ‘Tis mine?
Or his? Perhaps, e’en after all this time,
‘Tis Duncan’s still. The spot that never leaves.
Oh well, I’d do it all again, for us.
Lady Macbeth puts it best. Without her, Macbeth may never have done the things he did and the story would not have been a story at all. But like any good villain, Lady Macbeth believes she is doing what is best for her husband, herself, and her community. She believes her ambition is just—at least, until her guilt drives her mad. Compelling villains never feel that they are actually villainous or evil, but rather that what they are doing is necessary or even good. In this way, when an antagonist is truly a villain in a story, their evildoing drives the story forward to its conclusion.
Pride and Prejudice follows the story of Elizabeth Bennet, the second eldest of the five Bennet sisters, as she navigates the societal expectations and romantic entanglements of early nineteenth century England. When wealthy, eligible bachelor Mr. Charles Bingley moves into the neighborhood, Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth’s mother, tries to secure him as a husband for one of her daughters. Mr. Bingley becomes enamored with Jane, the eldest Bennet sister, while Elizabeth captures the attention of his friend Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. However, Mr. Darcy’s pride and Elizabeth’s prejudice against him cause conflict and initially prevent any romantic feelings from developing between them.
While there are plenty of antagonistic characters in Pride and Prejudice, including George Wickham, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and Mr. Collins, Mr. Darcy serves as the main conflict-creator throughout the story. He is constantly at odds with the protagonist, Elizabeth, and the story is not resolved until he and Elizabeth become aligned.
But let’s have Mr. Darcy tell us what he thinks through the epistolary style:
Dear Reader, Although Elizabeth tells me it is not necessary, I am compelled to defend myself from these accusations of being “antagonistic.” I do not feel I have been antagonistic in the slightest. That is not to say that I do not have faults, but I do not think of our story as one of antagonism… rather, it was a series of grave misunderstandings. Elizabeth tells me I am misremembering. The ball, she says, the ball where we first met—you said I was ugly! I did not. I was attracted to Elizabeth the moment I met her, I just could not admit it to myself at the time. I have matured since then. The unfortunate circumstances that brought Elizabeth and me together made us stronger, did they not? At the very least, they revealed our inmost strengths and flaws and brought them out into the open. It is true, however, that I insulted Elizabeth and her family. This I much regret, though it is true that meeting with Elizabeth’s mother can be rather taxing. (Elizabeth agrees.) At the time, I was too prideful to see that although I may have disapproved of her family, Elizabeth was the only one for me. I should not have let myself be influenced by slander of her and her family. She’s smiling now, even as she says that it was she who was too prideful and too prejudiced to see past her initial impression of me. I suppose we both were blind. Despite my initial impression of her, I could not help but be drawn to Elizabeth. My actions did not always reflect my true heart. Sometimes it felt that everything we did worked against each other. She was influenced by others whispering falsehoods into her ears about me, and I was held back by my own close-minded thinking. Looking back on it, I cannot help but scoff at myself—what a presumptuous proposal I made. Yet somehow I do not regret it, for it led us to where we are today. Even after all this time, I find it easier to communicate my true feelings to her, and to myself, through writing letters. Everything is more clear when put out on the page. This is all to say, dear reader, that when you encounter conflict in your life—conflict you, yourself may have caused, do not shy away from it. You must struggle and overcome the conflict in order to reap its rewards. I have found the rewards to be most worth reaping! Elizabeth is laughing at me now. I must go. Sincerely, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy
Conflict-creators in fiction are never outright “bad guys,” but they tend to make things complicated for the protagonist. They often represent a status quo that the protagonist actively resists or are a counterpoint to the protagonist’s worldview. No matter what, the conflicts they create press the protagonist to change—for the better or for the worse. When approaching writing them, think about their motivations: why would they want to create this conflict, either advertently or inadvertently? What character traits put them so at-odds with the protagonist?
This short story explores the consequences of and the rigidness of natural laws. In it, a young girl, Marilyn Cross, stows away on an Emergency Dispatch Ship (EDS) from the larger ship the Stardust to visit her brother on another planet after ten years apart. What she doesn’t know is that any excess weight will cause the EDS to go into freefall, killing the pilot and ultimately the ailing people on the planet it is heading with a serum for a disease. Thus, the pilot must jettison any stowaways into space once discovered. However, upon realizing that the stowaway in question is an 18-year-old girl who is completely unaware of the dire consequences of her actions, the pilot is horrified and reluctant to follow through. He attempts to see if he can save her, but in order to save the lives of many—including his own—Marilyn must be ejected into space.
“The Cold Equations” features a unique, non-character antagonist. It is a tragic story about the consequences of action and inaction and the laws of nature. Their oppressive existence throughout the story serves as a reminder of what’s at stake as well as Marilyn’s inevitable death.
Since space and nature cannot speak for themselves, the pilot weighs in with a recording of the post-mission report:
Mission Report for Commander Delhart EDS 34GII
Reporter: Pilot Barton; Number A8479-Y50
Mission Date: December 9, 2178
Context: On December 6, 2178, the Stardust received a request from one of the exploration parties stationed on Woden. Six men were stricken with fever carried by green kala midges and their supply of serum had been destroyed. Stardust went through the usual procedure, dropping into normal space to launch the EDS with the fever serum, then vanishing again in hyperspace. Barton was the sole accompanier of the EDS per Interstellar Regulations.
Mission dates: December 8 and 9, 2178
Mission expected outcomes: Safe delivery of the green gala midges fever serum to Group One stationed on Woden.
Team members: Pilot Neil Barton; Number A8479-Y50
Barton’s report, particularly his findings and recommendations, help us understand the weight an inanimate force plays as an antagonist. In scenarios where an inanimate force like the laws of nature or societal expectations are the biggest drivers of conflict in a story, often the characters are pitted against it in a way that prevents them from having full control over their fate and the fate of those around them. The antagonists in “The Cold Equations” are faceless and have no motivations of their own, but are nonetheless extraordinarily powerful. Physics serves as one potential antagonist, as science dictates how the ship can land safely. Fate also plays a role as Marilyn faces the consequences of her ignorance and bad luck. The story also features an even more amorphous antagonist: choice. The fact that the pilot and Marilyn must confront a difficult “Trolley Problem” and choose between two bad options is, in itself, an antagonist.
In this exploration of a person consumed by vanity and hedonism, the young, handsome Dorian Gray is the subject of a portrait painted by his friend and artist Basil Hallward. When Dorian expresses his desire for eternal youth, wishing the portrait would age instead of him, the wish seemingly comes true. Dorian remains young and unblemished while the portrait ages. Dorian then goes on to indulge in a life of debauchery and excess, spurred by his deep insecurities and outside forces such as the hedonistic Lord Henry. As Dorian becomes increasingly reckless and immoral, the portrait grows increasingly grotesque and corrupted. Dorian fears it will reveal his true nature to the world and becomes consumed by paranoia and guilt. Finally, he destroys the portrait, resulting in his own death and restoring the portrait to its original state while his body reflects the soul inside.
Although outside forces influence Dorian’s thinking and decisions, his ultimate downfall is himself and his vanity. His own insecurities, his inability to establish and live by his own moral code, and his emphasis on appearance over all lead to his corruption and death.
Let’s hear Dorian’s ghost as it wanders through the halls of his mansion, remembering his life:
I once grieved the living death of my own soul. Now I grieve the death of myself while my portrait lives on. It has surpassed me in all, in looks, in youth, and in eternity. No longer do people remember me, Dorian Gray, they only remember my portrait. What a terrible thing it is, to be so remembered for someone else’s work. I remain blameless. For all, I blame Basil and his damned portrait. Except for the death of the girl I once loved, perhaps… perhaps that was my undoing after all. What am I saying? The portrait caused everything and now it sits there, gilded and resplendent while I wander these halls unable to pass. Do I have regrets? I already set them aside, agreed with myself that I had nothing to do with the unfortunate events that unfolded during my life. Sometimes… sometimes I think of what happiness I might have had if not for that portrait. If not for that damnable object. The object of so many’s desire: Lord Henry, Basil himself. Perhaps even Sybil Vane had only ever truly wanted the portrait of me: the image that remains perfect even after death. No one wanted me for the person inside. Then again, not even I did, that vile fellow. A lord of debauchery. I lived only as I knew to live, only as I should have lived as an immortal. Now my portrait lives on in place of me, a true masterpiece. And I, I remain here, unable to move on.
When the self is the antagonist in a story, it means that the major conflicts are caused by the protagonist’s main flaws. In Dorian Gray’s case, vanity and insecurity drive him to cause horrible deeds and ultimately to a terrible end. Characters who have an internal struggle above all may come out at the end of it better than Dorian does, but only if they’re able to learn their lesson and overcome their weaknesses.
Conflict is an incredibly important aspect of any story, and driving that conflict will always be an antagonist of some kind. Hint: All of these antagonists come from stories that are part of our Literary Tarot deck, through which you can unlock even more secrets of classic literature. Remember to check out our next blog in this series which will cover crafting compelling conflict in greater detail! For more on the complexities of antagonists and what makes them work, check out our blog analyzing four truly memorable antagonists.
Characters serve as a central part of any story and are often what compels a reader to continue reading more than anything else in a novel. Some readers can forgive poor plotting, pacing, and thematic weight when the characters resonate with them enough (of course, a truly good book does all of these well). Perhaps this is because we, as people, see ourselves in certain characters, or because we can’t help but be transfixed by the choices characters make. Some characters have made such an indelible impact on the world that they are recognizable even to those unfamiliar with their stories. Think of Don Quixote, for whom the word quixotic was invented, or Don Juan, known around the world for being a womanizer. These characters have transcended their work to become archetypes all on their own.
But what is an archetype? In general, it is something that serves as a very typical example of a certain person or thing. In storytelling, a character archetype is a character defined by particular actions or traits. Understanding character archetypes will not only help you build better, more realistic characters, but they will also help you across all forms of storytelling. Marketing and branding strategies, for example, often use character archetypes to better target audiences with messaging.
In this blog, we’ll cover twelve of the most common character archetypes used in fiction and explain why they work.
As many types of characters exist as people in the world. But here, we’ll tackle the twelve mechanical hero character archetypes that are most often associated with stories that in some way follow the Hero’s Journey. Keep in mind, however, that these types of characters don’t only appear in the Hero’s Journey story template, nor are they the only character archetypes to exist.
The Lover follows their heart and values romance, passion, and humanism. Often idealists, they can be naïve and irrational as well as deeply committed and loyal to friends, partners, and causes. While we commonly associate the Lover character archetype with romance and relationships, they symbolize more than just romantic love. Their passion can be for a cause, nature, or even life itself.
In storytelling, the Lover often goes on a journey of growth that sees them mature and lose some of their naïevity. They may face the consequences of being too idealistic and have a tragic ending, or else face a crisis of identity and faith when confronted with a betrayal. Examples of this character archetype in popular fiction include Romeo and Juliet (Romeo and Juliet), Samwise Gamgee (The Lord of the Rings), and Don Quixote (Don Quixote), all of whom represent different types of Lovers. Romeo and Juliet embody a passionate at-first-sight romantic love with tragic consequences whereas Samwise Gamgee represents a stalwart and loyal friendship-focused love. Meanwhile, Don Quixote depicts the lustful, passionate, and irrational side of the Lover character archetype. Jane Bennet from Pride and Prejudice also fits into this archetype.
In the Hero we have the protagonist, a character who rises to meet a challenge and save the day. As a character, the Hero demonstrates courage, perseverance, and honor, confronting major obstacles with a strong moral compass. However, the Hero can succumb to the pitfalls of overconfidence and hubris. Think of popular protagonists throughout history including Achilles (The Iliad), Harry Potter (Harry Potter series), Luke Skywalker (Star Wars: A New Hope), Eleven (Stranger Things), Katniss Everdeen (The Hunger Games), and Miles Morales (Spider-Man).
A narrative with the character archetype of the Hero typically revolves around their journey, challenges, and growth. They may sacrifice themselves for the greater good or overcome tests and obstacles and return home with a reward. In the classic Hero’s Journey story template, the Hero’s character arc serves as the pivotal arc of the story.
A powerful figure shrouded in mystery, the Magician enables transformation and change. They often possess supernatural abilities, occult knowledge, or extraordinary skills. But while they are extremely powerful and may seem omnipotent, they are susceptible to arrogance and corruption. Popular examples of the Magician character archetype include Prospero (The Tempest), Gandalf (The Lord of the Rings), Howl (Howl’s Moving Castle), and Morpheus (The Matrix).
In storytelling, the Magician often serves as a catalyst for change and may provide guidance and mentorship to other characters, especially the Hero or protagonist. Because the Magician wields enormous power, they are also often a figure of authority. Thematically, they often symbolize the balance of light and dark, creation and destruction, or order and chaos.
The Outlaw character archetype is a rebel—defiant and nonconforming to fictional societal standards. Sometimes an antihero, they are usually morally ambiguous, especially in contrast to a character like the Hero’s stricter moral compass. They may represent freedom, independence, and resistance and are often seen as an outsider by other characters. In many stories, they serve as a foil for a more moralistic character, proving that not everything is black and white. Some Outlaws go through a redemption arc or have a tragic ending.
Popular examples of Outlaws include Robin Hood (English folklore), Han Solo (Star Wars: A New Hope), Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean), and Killmonger (Black Panther).
The Explorer character archetype embodies the spirit of adventure with a deep sense of curiosity and yearning to discover. Open-minded about new experiences, they often embark on quests in search of knowledge or personal growth. Because Explorers have such a strong connection to nature and yearn for freedom above all, they find it difficult to stay in one place and get bored easily with daily life. They are never satisfied with themselves, their surroundings, or others. Often, their journey symbolizes more than just the physical world—it is a way to explore the inner world as well.
Indiana Jones (Indiana Jones series), Lara Croft (Tomb Raider), Odysseus (The Odyssey), and Arya Stark (Game of Thrones) are popular examples of the Explorer character archetype.
Imagine a character like Obi-Wan Kenobi from Star Wars, Merlin from the Arthurian legends, and Professor McGonagall from Harry Potter. What do all of these characters have in common? They fit the Sage archetype.
The Sage is characterized as having a lot of wisdom and knowledge that they use to take on a mentor role for the protagonist or other characters. While they are somewhat similar to the Magician character archetype, they are less defined by having omniscient power and more by incredible wisdom. They also tend to hold back from the action, heeding a more cautious approach, which can backfire on them. In storytelling, they usually help the protagonist navigate challenges, make important decisions, and grow throughout the course of their journey. They may be an authority figure and often have some kind of deep insight into the future or truths of the world.
The Innocent represents purity, naïvety, and a sense of wonder in fiction. Inherently trusting, they are vulnerable to exploitation and manipulation. Like the Hero, they have a strong moral compass and always strive to do what is right. In a story, they may serve as a beacon of light in dark situations.
If the Innocent is at the center of a story, they may embark on a journey of self-discovery and personal growth where they are forced to navigate the complexities of the real world. Other characters feel a sense of responsibility over them and seek to protect and guide them. In many narratives, the Innocent experiences a loss of innocence which serves as the turning point for their character arc and results in growth and maturity—in a best case scenario. This loss of innocence may also lead them to becoming cynical or having a darker, more tragic end.
Examples of the Innocent character archetype include Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, Pippin Took from The Lord of the Rings, Buddy the Elf from Elf, and Gavroche from Les Miserables.
The Creator imagines, innovates, and brings ideas to life. As visionaries, they often express themselves through artistic endeavors such as writing, painting, sculpting, and inventing. Throughout the narrative, the Creator solves problems with creativity and ingenuity, thinking outside the box to find solutions to overcome obstacles. They often strive for perfection and value freedom and autonomy over everything else.
The Creator character archetype looks like Daedalus from Greek mythology, Sokka from Avatar: The Last Airbender, and Iron Man/Tony Stark and Shuri from Marvel comics and the MCU.
The Ruler is, quite simply, a character who exerts legal, emotional, or sometimes spiritual power over others. They might be a regent of some kind, an authority figure like the principal of a school or police officer, or a parent. They are characterized by having a leadership role that puts them in a position of authority over others and by the way they govern.
Often associated with stability, order, and responsibility, the Ruler may experience conflict with other characters due to an imbalance of power or because of the way they rule. They may undergo a redemption arc where they learn the responsibilities of leadership, confront their own shortcomings, and strive to be a better ruler. Alternatively, they may give into absolute power and become the ultimate antagonist.
Characters who fit this archetype include King Viserys from House of the Dragon, Aragorn from Lord of the Rings, President Snow from The Hunger Games, Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada, and Napoleon the Pig from Animal Farm.
The Caregiver is a character who supports others and makes sacrifices on their behalf, often embodying honor, selflessness, and loyalty. With a nurturing and compassionate nature, they provide physical, emotional, or spiritual care and support to others. They often put the needs of others before their own and tend to lack personal ambition or leadership qualities. They protect others and provide unconditional love, demonstrating empathy and understanding. For a protagonist or other characters, the Caregiver character archetype may represent home.
Examples of this kind of character include Mary Poppins, Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web, Miss Honey from Matilda, and Marlin from Finding Nemo.
When you think of a normal, everyday person, who do you think of? Or, rather, what traits make this person normal and everyday to you? In character archetypes, the Everyman represents the common person. They often serve as the relatable and ordinary protagonist who the audience sees themselves in. The Everyman typically shares the same moral values and principles as the general intended audience and may serve as a foil for extraordinary characters. Their normality contrasts the exceptionalism of others. Typically, the Everyman embarks on a quest for identity seeking purpose and belonging. Despite their ordinary status, they often serve as an agent of change within the narrative, inspiring and transforming other characters.
Characters such as Bilbo Baggins, Alice from Alice in Wonderland, Arthur Dent from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and Homer Simpson fit the Everyman character archetype.
Finally, we have the Jester, a character archetype who provides comedic relief as well as key insights. Sir John Falstaff from Shakespeare’s Henry V and King Lear’s Fool from King Lear are two canonically important examples of the Jester. While these characters are, quite literally, fools, their jokes often reveal essential narrative truths throughout their respective plays. In this, we see what the ideal Jester character should be—someone who lightens the mood amidst tension and drama but who also provides satire and social commentary on the events taking place.
The Jester also often engages in tricks and pranks, adding playfulness and unpredictability to the narrative like Puck does in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A Jester may serve as a narrative foil to more serious or stoic characters, such as Jaskier does in The Witcher compared to Geralt and other characters. While typically seen as comedic relief, they also incite the protagonist to change. Other popular examples of the Jester character archetype include the Weasley twins from Harry Potter, Dustin Henderson from Stranger Things, and Winston Bishop from New Girl.
Now that you know what the twelve mechanical hero archetypes are, let’s build some of your own characters using these questions and identifiers.
Character Building Questions
Character Identifiers
While it’s important to know these character identifiers, you don’t have to state all of them directly in the text. They may be better revealed through subtext or, in some cases, not at all. Sometimes a bit of ambiguity allows the reader to imprint on a character and while you as the writer may know all the answers to these questions, it can be good to let readers’ imaginations fill in some of the gaps.
Pick one of the twelve mechanical hero archetypes and create a character based on them. Now, use that character to answer the character building questions. Assign character identifiers. At the end of the exercise, write a short paragraph in which this character is actively doing something.
The twelve mechanical hero archetypes offer storytellers a tool to use when building characters in any world. But even when a character fits into an archetype, it doesn’t mean they have to exactly follow every part of it. Think about the various examples given above for each character archetype and how they differ from one another.
Archetypes are just a place to start as you begin to explore your world and use characters to uncover the best ways to tell your story. Experiment with as many of the character archetypes as you can to find out which ones serve your narrative purpose best—and which ones you enjoy writing the most! Remember, while you can use these archetypes, character building questions, and identifiers to start, your characters must feel unique in order for them to truly compel and gratify readers. Once you have some spectacular characters in an equally enthralling world, don’t forget to submit your work to F(r)iction!
In our previous installment of this blog series, we explained what the Hero’s Journey is, and why it’s such a great storytelling template to build from—particularly when it comes to character arcs. In this blog, let’s take a closer look at the Hero’s Journey as you, the reader, become Hero, the protagonist of your own story.
Who are you? You’re a protagonist named Hero, and you’re just a regular person with a Job living in a City, who does regular things. That is, of course, until one day when everything changes—and you get to decide how and why. Take your fate into your own hands as you complete a Hero’s Journey from beginning to end!
As you read through this blog, select whichever choice you like the best (A, B, or C). You don’t have to stick with one letter throughout the blog; you can choose any option you like at any time. At the end of the blog, review your choices to determine what kind of Hero’s Journey you took.
One ordinary day, you’re brushing your teeth when you get a sudden chill down your spine. You can’t explain it, but you know that everything is about to change. How and why, you don’t know. As you watch toothpaste swirl down the drain, like it does every day, you wonder why you feel that way. Nothing in particular comes to mind, so you shrug and move on about your day.
You proceed throughout the day as normal: putting on a suitable outfit for the chilly but clear weather, going for a walk through the City streets, drinking cold brew with oat milk for breakfast, and working on your computer for a while. But then, around noon, something happens. Something happens that never happens, at least not to you. What is it?
A) You fall asleep at your desk and have a strange prophetic dream in which an ethereal voice tells you to find and take a secret passageway in the City. In your dream, the voice guides you on the path to finding it and tells you that evil lurks at the end of the passageway and you must defeat it.
B) Your email dings with a new message. When you check it, there’s no sender—and the message gives you directions to find a secret passageway in the City. The email warns you that if you don’t take the passageway, you will die.
C) There’s a knock on the door. When you open it, a friend you haven’t seen in years is waiting on the other side with a grim expression. They tell you that they need your help saving the world from disaster and urge you to come with them to a secret passageway in the City.
No matter which Call you choose to answer, ultimately you…
Refuse to find the secret passageway. You’re very content with your current life and have work meetings to attend later in the afternoon anyways. Evil, death, disaster? Sounds fake to you. Besides, you already went on a walk today. Why would you go on another one? You shrug off the Call and go about your regular life. If you were to dig deeper, you know that the reason you want to stick to regular life is…
A) You’re worried about getting fired from your job if you step away from your desk. You need this job because you have a lot of debt to pay off.
B) You’re suspicious of scams and this definitely feels like one. You got scammed out of a lot of money earlier this year and you aren’t going to entertain anything like that again.
C) You seriously doubt the existence of a secret passageway in the City. And even if one existed, where would it go? Probably somewhere dangerous, which you definitely don’t want.
Nonetheless, you can’t forget the message you’ve gotten. What if there is a secret passageway? What if you die or the world ends because you don’t do this? Curiosity may have killed the cat, but didn’t satisfaction bring it back? You sit back in your desk chair and wonder if you’ve given up on a big opportunity to bring some excitement into your otherwise very boring and stagnant life.
With doubt lingering in the back of your mind, you decide to get some advice. How do you go about doing this?
A) You turn to tarot cards. You’ve often used these to help guide your choices in regular life, so why not now? When you give yourself the reading, turning each card over, there’s a clear message that sends a thrill down your spine.
B) You call your older sister. She’s always been there to give you advice and talk you out of making stupid decisions. This time, though, her advice is unexpected.
C) You decide to get some fresh air and walk to the nearby park. There, you sit on a bench. Soon, a man joins you there, sitting down next to you. He looks old and wise. You strike up a conversation which ultimately leads him to advising you…
In the end, the message is clear: you should definitely go find this secret passageway. If you don’t, you’ll be curious about it forever and you wouldn’t want that, now would you? Also, according to the message, dire circumstances will take place if you don’t. So there’s also that.
Filled with a new sense of determination, you decide to find this secret passageway. Just in case, you pack up a backpack with some snacks, a water bottle, and an extra sweatshirt. You put on your best walking shoes and head out the door, making sure to lock it behind you. Then, you head out into the City, trying to remember the directions you received. As you reach the place where the secret passageway should be, you see:
A) A strange ripple in the stone wall between two dumpsters. As you get closer to it, ignoring the stench of garbage, you put your hand out and it goes right through the wall. Suddenly, another hand grasps onto yours and yanks you right through!
B) A small door camouflaged into the wall by a mural. When you press your hand against it, it creaks open and you see a dark, winding hallway beyond. A head pops from around the corner, startling you. The person grins.
C) An open sewer entrance in the ground. You wrinkle your nose; there’s no way you’re going down there. But then it begins to glow and you realize it doesn’t actually stink—perhaps it’s not a sewer after all? Then someone pushes you into it and you fall down, screaming.
On the other side of the threshold, you meet someone else from this strange new world. Will this person be a friend or foe?
Your first challenge reveals itself: whether or not to trust this new figure in your life. After all, they are the reason you find yourself in this situation. You face each other. An unknown emotion flickers over their face as they introduce themselves. As it turns out:
A) This person is your Ally. They are here to aid you on your journey. Their first step in doing so is taking your hand and guiding you through the darkness.
B) This person is your Mentor. The magical voice from your dream has come to life, your older sister has joined you on the journey, or the old man from before has now appeared in front of you to aid you through your first obstacle.
C) This person is a Trickster. First, they bargain with you, causing you to give up your snacks to them. Then, they help you through the first obstacle.
Whoever they are, you have help on the first part of your journey—which is going to be important for overcoming your first obstacle. As you and your new companion make your way through the passage, you encounter:
A) A troll blocking the way forward. The troll demands a toll for continuing forward. But you didn’t bring any money with you! Thinking quickly, you and your companion trick the troll into believing that your extra sweatshirt is a magical object that grants the wearer invisibility. The troll takes the sweatshirt as the toll but then threatens to kill both of you anyway! However, you ask the troll how he can do that when he hasn’t even tested his hard-earned prize. How does he know that you’ve been truthful? The troll becomes agitated and squeezes into the sweatshirt, slightly ripping its seams. You wince. That sweatshirt actually belongs to your sister. The troll looks at you and your companion triumphantly as you both pretend to be unable to see him. He swings his large club at you; you stumble aside, making it look like an accident. The troll trips over his own feet, smashing his head on the ground. As quickly as possible, you grab his club and whack him over the head with it. You and your companion move on safely.
B) A huge metal gate that has been shut for one thousand years. Your companion tells you no one has been able to open it, but if you don’t both of you won’t be able to leave this place and you’ll die here like the others. Skeletons piled against the walls make you gulp in fear. But you’re Hero so you decide you absolutely won’t die here. You then realize that a riddle is written on the lock holding the gates shut. It just so happens you know the answer to this riddle because of your varied interests: A human, time, courtship, and I haven’t the slightest idea! To the shock of your companion, the gates swing open.
C) A large, rushing river separates you from the next part of your journey. Your companion worries that you’ll both be swept away if you try to swim across it. Then you spy a boat sitting on the opposite shore. You find a fishing line and use it to reel the boat in. Then, you and your companion get into the boat and perilously travel through the water to the other side.
After overcoming this first challenge, you meet a new companion. Whether you rescue them from the troll, the gate, or the river, they immediately pledge their loyalty to you and the three of you depart on the next part of your journey. But first, there’s something that’s been bothering you…
You ask your companions what this is really all about. Why have you been sent on this journey when you’re just an ordinary person, albeit one named Hero? They look at each other with apprehension, wondering if what they tell you will send you running back the way you came. Then, your first companion reveals that:
A) An Evil Wizard is using his powers to suck the City of its power. This passageway leads to his secret lair. Long ago, a Good Witch prophesied that only a Hero could defeat him and so you received the Call.
B) It turns out that your Boss from your everyday Job is actually a God who has decided that this City and everyone in it must be destroyed. This passageway is a bridge between the mortal and immortal realms. Only a Hero can enter it and survive, so you have been tasked with defeating her.
C) An Ancient Magical Creature has discovered that the City’s lifesource can bring it back to its original power and form, so it is slowly draining energy from everyone and everything. This passageway leads to where the lifesource is, and only a Hero can find it.
Whatever the main conflict is, you as the Hero must try to defeat it. With new resolve, you approach the place where you will face the ultimate ordeal and decide to:
A) Defeat it using stealth. You know you have a way of sneaking about and you can’t see yourself facing this task head-on. You’ll sneak in and defeat the evil before anyone even knows you’ve been there.
B) Defeat it using diplomacy. You know that you’re amazing at speaking. You feel you can convince anyone of anything, and you can use this to amend any situation, even the crazy one you’re currently in.
C) Defeat it by facing it directly. In life, you’ve always found that it’s best to face problems head on. You’ll cut the head right off this evil!
Depending on the path you have chosen, your newest companion equips you with the means to complete it:
You brace your shoulders and clench your sweaty palms as you turn to face the main ordeal. There’s no turning back now, even if you sort of wish you could. But no, you shake your head, you couldn’t do that after already going through what you’ve gone through! You’re ready to confront your enemy. You take up your new magical item and jump into action. After a (sneaky, compelling, brutal) battle, the result is:
A) You defeat them successfully with the help of your companions and supplies.
B) You fail to defeat them, losing one of your companions after the other betrays both of you. Your method of confrontation turns out to be the wrong one and you are left to despair.
C) You and the great evil fall deeply in love and you decide to join them in their evil doing. Your companions are left flabbergasted and betrayed.
You’ve made your choice. Whether you succeeded, failed, or switched sides, now that you have faced the ordeal it’s time to reap the rewards. In this case, the reward is:
A) Newfound friends and allies and the knowledge that you have saved the City—plus a sense of confidence and greater maturity in yourself. If you can do this, you can do anything! Including deep-cleaning your apartment.
B) MONEY. Enough to pay off your debts and invest in your future. You feel a sense of excitement for life again and your anxiety decreases. You could even go out for a nice dinner if you want!
C) Power and skill. You are in control of yourself like you never have been before, plus you have a power you didn’t know about. You can abandon your old life and embark on a new one—this time as the master of it.
Now that you’ve overcome the main ordeal, no matter the outcome, it’s time to head home—even if it’s because you’re planning to destroy it. What obstacles do you face on the way?
A) The passageway has closed itself off and you’re trapped in this new world with no way to get out.
B) You take the same way back that you came, but now the passageway seems winding and endless. You can’t find your way back to the same entrance you came through.
C) The new world you’ve entered begins to shake and smoke. It’s destroying itself and taking you with it!
Before you can get back to the other world—whether to return to your old life, try to forget what happened in this place, or to destroy it with your new love—you first have to face this new obstacle. This time, how do you overcome the challenge?
A) Using the power of friendship (along with the magical item you gained), you are able to open a new passageway back to your world.
B) Using the knowledge you’ve gained in this new world, you realize the situation you’re facing is just an illusion and all you need to do is realize that it’s not actually happening.
C) You don’t… this time, you die!
Whether you live or die, you still need to face a final test. What is this test?
A) In order to leave, you must give up everything you’ve gained along the way—including your memories of your entire journey. With a heavy heart, you do this.
B) In order to leave, you must master a whole new power, which takes over two weeks! But you do it and are able to escape into your previous world.
C) In order to leave, you have to come back from the dead. Heavy ask on that one! Nonetheless, it works, somehow, and you find yourself back in your living, breathing body.
Note: You can choose this option even if you didn’t choose option C before. It just means you died after choosing option A or B previously.
Once you face the final test, you find yourself spat back out into your previous world, a changed person. Even if you don’t remember anything that’s happened.
You take the long walk through the City, breathing in the fresh (and somewhat stinky) air. You unlock your apartment door and are greeted with your familiar hallway. Pictures of friends and family hang on the walls. Once there, you find that:
A) You feel a poignant sense of triumph. You overcame so much to be here and have truly grown as a person. You’re ready to tackle real life again with a newfound sense of confidence and power!
B) You feel a deep sense of loss. Loss of memories, loss of companions, loss of innocence—whatever it is, you’re a changed person and your grief is palpable.
C) I don’t know, reader, what do you feel after everything you’ve been through and all the choices you’ve made?
However you chose to end your story, you can see how the Hero’s Journey is a great template for creating compelling stories and characters. Go back and reread the one you just created. Is there anything you would change? I encourage you to take the journey over and over again, exploring different paths and outcomes as you do. Add your own twists, turns, challenges, and characters along the way just to see all the different places you can take your story.
Keep an eye out for the next installments in this blog series as you write, using the information to craft your perfect story. Once you’re done, consider submitting your work to F(r)iction!
Since its publication in 1949, Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With A Thousand Faces has been a hugely influential work in the field of comparative mythology and storytelling. It explores the common patterns found in myths and legends across diverse cultures throughout history. And, most importantly, it introduces the concept of the “monomyth,” or the Hero’s Journey, a narrative structure that Campbell argues transcends cultural boundaries and forms the basis of many of the most compelling and foundational stories ever created.
The Hero With A Thousand Faces provides a comprehensive cross-cultural framework for understanding what makes a story a story. Its impact, particularly that of the monomyth, has shaped the way we perceive and create stories in literature, film, and beyond. In fact, after reading this article, you may find it difficult not to see the monomyth coloring stories all around you.
But why is the Hero’s Journey so important for storytelling? Anyone can write a story. But writing something that captures the attention of readers means knowing how to craft it in a way that will tug on their emotions and stay with them long after reading. The Hero’s Journey is one of the most important structures and tools we have for creating compelling stories. In this edition of Facts of Fiction, you’ll learn what it is, how to use it, and what narrative structures lie beyond.
The Hero’s Journey encapsulates a common narrative archetype, or story template, often used in storytelling, particularly from a Western perspective. In it, a hero first departs (or separates) by going on adventure, is initiated into a new world, and then returns home.
In The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkein, for example, Gandalf calls upon Bilbo to join the dwarves of Thorin’s Company on a quest. Thus, Bilbo leaves his peaceful hobbit hole and finds himself on an adventure where he learns and struggles a great deal. Throughout the story, Bilbo gains a new level of maturity, competence, and wisdom—the skills he needs to secure his own kind of victory in ultimately leading to victories against the dragon Smaug, and at the Battle of Five Armies. Bilbo then returns to Bag End with some treasure and more stories, ultimately setting up for the beginning of Lord of the Rings in which Frodo also follows the call to adventure—once again led by Gandalf.
We see here the “nuclear unit” of the monomyth in its full form: separation, initiation, and return.
The first stage of the monomyth, also called the “departure,” has five stages wherein the hero:
The second stage of the monomyth details the trials and victories of initiation. Our hero must overcome great challenges to fully come into themself as a hero and a person. In this stage, the hero:
Finally, at the end of the hero’s journey, the hero must return home and reintegrate into society. During this time, the hero:
In short, the Hero’s Journey is a common narrative archetype, or story template, in which a heroic character—the protagonist—goes on an adventure, learns a lesson, wins a victory, or victories, with that newfound knowledge, and returns home transformed.
Perhaps the most important aspect of Campbell’s monomyth is how it serves as a classic structure to develop characters. Here at Brink and F(r)iction, we place a lot of value on character development and see the monomyth as one of the ideal ways to bring a character through a fully thought-out and satisfying character arc.
The Hero’s Journey as outlined above doesn’t have to be a physical journey. It doesn’t have to take the form of fantasy, as it does in The Hobbit or classic fairytales and myths. It can start with a character getting the call to adventure by accepting a new job or starting at a new school. It can be mundane and every day, but the point is that it changes the protagonist as a person, amplifying both their good traits and their flaws, and bringing them full circle emotionally, mentally, and sometimes spiritually as well.
A great example of the Hero’s Journey outside of genre fiction is Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Our hero, Elizabeth Bennet, lives her ordinary life until she is “called to adventure” by the arrival of Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley. In this case, the adventure is love, and most of Elizabeth’s trials are internal. But ultimately, her story follows the structure of the monomyth and brings her to the full circle of “returning home,” only this time, it is her home with Mr. Darcy.
Most importantly to Elizabeth’s Hero’s Journey, however, is her overall character arc. The title Pride and Prejudice gives us a clue: is Elizabeth the prideful one or the prejudiced one? In the end, she is both, and the journey she takes leads her to growing as a person, shedding her pride and her prejudice, and finding love—the very thing she refused at the beginning of the novel.
The point of the character arc in the monomyth is that the hero changes. The stages of the Hero’s Journey amplify this change, unearthing the character’s greatest strengths and weaknesses and how they may use and overcome them, respectively. The transformative power of the Hero’s Journey for character is what makes it so compelling to readers. For example, think of how Aang in Avatar the Last Airbender changes over the course of the show. He goes from being a scared twelve-year-old boy who ran away from his problems (so effectively that he vanished for one hundred years) to accepting his purpose, overcoming his fears, and becoming the hero he was always meant to be.
Or, take “Amorpho & The Leering Freak,” a short story by Jason Baltazar, for example. The protagonist, Amorpho, begins the story feeling uncomfortable at being observed “like an ant under a magnifying glass” as he performs his set at a freak show. He hates being watched and lacks personal connection to most people. By the end of the story, Amorpho has come to accept his new roommate “The Leering Freak” as a friend and has even stood up for him, relishing in The Leering Freak’s watchful gaze.
Many famous stories adhere to the Hero’s Journey framework. You may begin to notice them all around you. The most popular examples include The Odyssey, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Hunger Games, Star Wars: A New Hope, and many more. If you recognize and enjoy any of these stories, consider revisiting them and examining how they adhere to the monomyth. Or, pick one of your favorite stories and track it to see if it follows the monomyth’s structure. If it does, how? When does the hero get called to their journey? When do they enter the belly of the whale? How do they return home? If it doesn’t, what makes it different from the Hero’s Journey? What does the story do, or not do, that makes it a different narrative?
As outlined with Pride and Prejudice above, the Hero’s Journey is not only used in fantastical stories, but can also apply across genres. Filmmakers, writers, and storytellers all around the world constantly use the framework of the monomyth to create compelling stories that capture an audience and make us care about their characters and plots. Utilizing the monomyth is a sure way to create an engaging narrative, as it truly lends itself to rich character development, drama, and a strong ending that feels complete.
However, just because the Hero’s Journey is a popular framework for storytelling doesn’t mean it’s the only one out there. Alternative narrative structures, from the three-act structure to a classic tragedy to the anti-hero’s journey and more do exist.
The three-act structure divides a story into three parts, often called the setup, confrontation, and resolution. Films and screenplays often use this structure and it can feel very similar to the Hero’s Journey as it is also made up of three parts that mirror the separation, initiation, and return. However, in the case of the three-act structure, not all of the elements from the Hero’s Journey may be present. Examine classic movies like Jaws, Jurassic Park, and Titanic as prime examples of the three-act structure in action.
Classic tragedies tend to fall into five stages: anticipation, dream, frustration, nightmare, and destruction or death wish. In these stories, the tragic hero has a goal but ultimately fails to get what they want, and the result is complete undoing. In this way, a tragedy may reflect a Hero’s Journey but end in its opposite: the monsters win, the hero dies. Classic examples would be Shakespeare’s tragedies, such as Macbeth, Hamlet, and King Lear, but modern examples such as horror movies and organized crime films also often follow this structure.
The Hero’s Journey provides a solid structure for telling a story that is recognizable across cultures and time. It has been amply analyzed and used to tell all kinds of stories for all kinds of characters. In this sense, the Hero’s Journey has pros and cons to using it as a writer. The pros are that you know it will result in a compelling story. The cons are that it may not feel original. Because of this, we don’t recommend viewing the monomyth as a paint-by-the-numbers template, but rather as a roadmap for sketching out a particular kind of story—one focused on a “hero” character who goes through an impactful change. In the end, storytellers can use what they like and change what they need to to tell their best version of their story.
It’s good practice to study and even create your own Hero’s Journey narrative if you plan to be a writer. Like with all skillsets, storytellers must first master the basics and fundamentals in order to refine and upgrade their craft. Try using the outline below to determine the course of your next story, no matter what world you set it in. Come up with a character who you envision embarking on the monomyth and see how your story develops from there. You may find it’s the easiest story you’ve ever written. You may struggle to differentiate it from others you have read. In the end, doing it for yourself is the best way to see how it serves as such a great formulation for a story—and how it can be adapted to suit many genres and themes.
Act I
Act II
Act III
Once you have mastered—or at least played with—the Hero’s Journey, try other narrative structures. Experiment for yourself to see what suits your style of writing and your characters. If you find yourself getting stuck, or not liking where a structure is taking you, change it up. There are many diverse narratives to explore.
Think about your favorite short story, novel, movie, or series. What style of narrative does this work employ? Break it down into the “steps” of the Hero’s Journey as outlined above to get a better understanding of why and how it works as a story. An example you could use is Star Wars: A New Hope, which famously follows the Hero’s Journey very closely.
Non-traditional narratives include the circular narrative, parallel plotlines, or a story told from an unconventional perspective, or that plays with time.
In a circular narrative, for example, the story ends where it began. The characters still transform, but they return to the same place they began the story. While this may feel similar to the Hero’s Journey and, in some cases, a Hero’s Journey is cyclical, in a circular narrative the characters don’t necessarily go through all the trials and tribulations of the hero. A great example of circular narrative is One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
In parallel structure, the story follows multiple storylines that are tied together through an event, character, or theme. Parallel narratives can be found everywhere throughout popular media, but a strong famous example would be “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by Shakespeare. In this play, multiple plotlines take place at once: the love entanglement of Helena, Hermia, Lysander, and Demetrius; Titania and Oberon’s quarrel; the play being put on by Bottom and the other players; and the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta. By the end of the play, these plotlines have connected and been resolved.
Another type of story is interactive in which the reader chooses their own adventure, and the choices they make determine how the story proceeds and what narrative it takes. Video games often use this to make a compelling game that may end poorly for the player if they don’t make the right choices. The next blog in this series takes you on a choose your own adventure that will determine a hero’s fate—and hopefully help exemplify the Hero’s Journey as well as these other narrative structures!
We must acknowledge that the Hero’s Journey and many of the other narratives discussed today largely come from a western understanding of storytelling and literature. Although Campbell brings up non-Western examples of folklore and stories in The Hero With A Thousand Faces, there is debate over whether his analysis truly applies. Narrative structures outside of Western influence do exist.
The East Asian four-act structure, for example, also called kishōtenketsu (Japanese), qǐchéngzhuǎnhé (Chinese), and gi seung jeon gyeol (Korean), is sometimes described as a “story without conflict.” This isn’t necessarily accurate, but it does pinpoint how this structure does not employ conflict to drive the story forward as it does in Western narrative structures. Instead, self-actualization, self-realization, and self-development drive the story. The four acts include the introduction, development, twist/turning point, and conclusion/result, although these can vary depending on the specific culture and story. Many popular manga, anime, K-dramas, and C-dramas utilize this story structure. Popular examples include the Studio Ghibli film Spirited Away, the Korean Movie Minari, and Nintendo’s Super Mario. Some argue that Pulp Fiction uses this structure and Michel He argues that BTS’s “Love Yourself” album trilogy also employs this.
Aside from East Asian four-act structure, Kim Yoonmi outlines multiple worldwide story structures that fall outside of the Hero’s Journey, including Bildungsroman (the coming of age story), Crick Crack or Kwik Kwak from the Caribbean Black community (a performance-based storytelling tradition that utilizes audience interaction), and Harawi from South America (storytelling through lyrical and other forms of poetry). We won’t go into every possible story structure here, but recognize their existence and that a story is a story whether or not it follows a structure we expect.
I encourage you to experiment with multiple story structures but to always keep in mind one thing: be purposeful. Whether you’re choosing to form a narrative around conflict, actively avoiding it, or doing something else entirely, make sure that whatever you choose lends itself to telling the story you are trying to tell. This will result in your best-told and most compelling story.
The Hero’s Journey, Joseph Campbell’s famous monomyth, can be broken down into its nuclear unit of separation, initiation, and return. The hero is called to adventure, must overcome trials and challenges, and returns home changed for the better. The most important aspect of this journey is the way the character develops over it. In storytelling, the characters will always be the most important part of the story as they are what keeps readers reading.
However, while the Hero’s Journey is a common and popular structure, it is not the only one out there. It can be used and adapted as the storyteller wishes for the sake of the story. As you write your own stories, explore multiple narrative structures and see what lends itself to telling your story the best way possible.
In the end, Joseph Campbell’s work, The Hero With A Thousand Faces, has changed forever how we view and analyze literature. It has framed the way we see heroes and the journeys they face. This work has left an indelible mark on storytelling and continues to be an important part of learning how to tell great, compelling stories. After doing the exercise above, consider submitting your own take on the monomyth to F(r)iction and continue revisiting this series to learn more about the fundamentals of storytelling!
Author’s Note: It’s worth pointing out that The Hero With A Thousand Faces does not just detail the Hero’s Journey that we have discussed in depth today. Although Campbell’s major argument and the majority of the work is dedicated to the monomyth and its role in storytelling, he also connects this to psychology in ways that we don’t often acknowledge or discuss today. This is in part because these connections don’t help us tell better stories. It is also because Campbell intertwines them with the Freudian take on human psychology in a way that is often rejected today for lacking evidence and considered a pseudoscience. To learn more about this, I encourage you to read The Hero With A Thousand Faces and check out this article. That said, the monomyth is still important to study when learning how to create stories and, importantly, how to write compelling character arcs.
Now that you know what a story is, it’s time to start writing your own! But how? For many, getting started actually writing a story can be the hardest part. That’s why we’ve asked some writers here at Brink to weigh in with insight into their own writing processes. From coming up with ideas to how they tackle editing and so much more, here’s what they had to say.
Our writers recommend using inspiration from life all around you:
Check out the full interview with members of the Brink/F(r)iction staff below for a deep dive into their tips on coming up with story ideas.
Valerie, Brink Education Program Manager and published author: My stories usually develop in two ways. There’s the lazy, fun way: I chase things in stories that capture my imagination and make me ask “What if?” I’ll read a book, or listen to a song that stays with me. If I’m thinking about alternative possibilities a few days or weeks later, it’s worth pursuing. I guess the teen fanfiction writer in me never died.
The second way is more methodical, and usually only works for short fiction and poetry: I collect metaphorical language and turns of phrase, and then make them as literal as possible. For example, my mom used to say she was “raised by wolves” to explain her chaotic upbringing. So, I wrote a story about how my grandmother was a literal wolf living in our house. It works great for fabulism and surrealism, but it rarely has enough of an engine to support a story over 3,000 words.
Maribel’s Note: That makes it perfect for flash fiction! Check out Brink’s flash fiction submission guidelines here.
Nate, Communications & Marketing Director and author of One Person Can’t Make a Difference: One of my favorite things to do is just hang out in a public space and overhear other people’s conversations. Lots of times, I’ll note something that I never would have thought, felt, or experienced, and start digging into a story. Otherwise, many ideas come from talking with other creatives, mixing up concepts, and seeing what happens.
Evan, Editorial Director and author of Shed the Midnight: They come from a lot of different sources. I tend to write strange things so I’m often playing the “What if…” game. Like what if a random pebble fell from the sky into my mouth? What if a boy went into a field and discovered he had claws? What if someone stole a suit coat from a thrift store and found human teeth in the pocket? That sort of thing. I’m on the lookout for that strange bit that excites me. I collect those types of things and write them all down, even if I can’t get to it right then.
Inanna, Fall 2023 Intern: I wish I had a proper process for coming up with ideas, but they just come to me! Sometimes when I’m on a bus, sometimes when I’m in the shower. I’m currently working on my first novel, and I actually saw the title I’m using for it online—it’s a song title—and came up with the entire plot based off of that. It felt very otherworldly.
Sara, Fall 2023 Intern: Most of my ideas for my poems and stories come from my refusal that the world will always be the way it is, and we have to accept it as such. To me, writing is a process of interrogation or manifesting magic where it might not otherwise be observed. One of my never-ending works-in-progress is a short story that satirizes the way the political, healthcare, and justice systems work in tandem to consume marginalized bodies. Another short story of mine flips the alien-invasion trope on its head to explore themes of colonization. I don’t think we should be forced to accept these things as necessary yet flawed parts of our humanity, and writing is my way of excavating and challenging these “truths.”
Aubrey, Fall 2023 Intern: For me, stories start as a desire to preserve a certain feeling or vibe. If it sticks in my mind for longer than a week, I’ll begin turning the sensation around in my mind. Sometimes it’s associated with a specific memory or idea and sometimes it’s not. The historical fiction novel I’m working on right now explores Japanese American identity in Hawaii, cultural memory across generations, and colonization. It started as a spark of grief and awe when I learned that my grandfather’s childhood nickname was “Cherry.”
Valerie: Unfortunately, I write best between the hours of 10 p.m. and 3 a.m. Midnight is the golden hour. I go to my office, light some incense, and write until I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m perpetually exhausted, and I do not recommend this approach.
Nate: My routine used to be to write for one to two hours after school or work each day, especially if I was working on something long form. I would put classic Twilight Zone episodes on Netflix for background noise, and just burrow into the world of the book. My favorite part of that routine was when, in wintertime, I would look up after two hours of work and see that the world had gone dark. These days, I don’t have a specific routine, but when I start a new project, I always fall into one.
Evan: I used to before I had kids. Now things are a bit more wild. But my preference is to write in the morning after I’ve read for about a half hour. That reading time is crucial. If I’m not reading I’m not writing. Now I steal time when I can.
Inanna: I wish! I’ve tried sticking to a routine before and that just does not work for my brain. I write whenever I’m in the mood. I’d like to try again to establish some sort of discipline though.
Gina, Junior Editor: I wish I could say I was organized enough to have a writing routine. I tend to be loose and follow inspiration when it hits. When it comes, it comes. Even in the middle of the night—thank goodness for the Notes app! I’m most consistent in writing where I’m comfortable: on my bed and writing late at night and way past my bedtime—from midnight to 2 a.m., for example.
There’s something to be said about the saying “write drunk, edit sober”—but in my mind, it’s a metaphor for, essentially, loose writing. (Drink responsibly, please!) Late at night, after a long day, when everyone else is asleep, my writing is more uninhibited than usual. I don’t overthink what I write because I’m exhausted. It’s easier for me to tap into the story and get into the “flow.” I remove myself from the equation and let the world and characters speak for themselves—I’m just writing down what I see. So, that’s what works best for me! Also, routine-wise, I have memory problems, so I use trackers to see my progress and pace. It’s fun to look back and see how far I’ve come. Or what problems I continue to make.
Sara: Setting up a consistent writing routine is one of my eternally unresolved New Year’s Resolution items! I do set aside at least half an hour to read everyday, which has been so helpful in my growth as a writer. I took an amazing poetry workshop with Jenny Qi, and learned that you don’t have to write poetry everyday to be a great poet—it certainly helps, but a lot of the work is subconscious, and discovering new poems to read and engaging with the world around you is just as important.
Aubrey: These days I try to write in the early mornings before work. Doing this during summer was very doable for me but since Daylight Savings ended, I’ve been struggling more and more (it’s too cold to leave my bed).
Valerie: Usually a concept seed comes first. But then, because my longform fiction is voice-driven, I’ll free-write diary entries that channel a specific voice. That voice creates the character, the conflict, and the world.
Nate: I usually start with the theme. One of my books is about the disillusionment of late-20s/early-30s adulthood, another is about a gig worker who has to work just to literally recharge his synthetic body each week or he’ll die, another is about a future utopia and one person who selfishly brings back individualistic capitalism. When I know what a book is about thematically, then I start to imagine the world, the people in that world, their pasts, their legacies, and their individual motives.
Evan: For me it’s all about the characters and setting, which I guess equals situation? I don’t tend to know what characters are going to do before I start writing, but if I have an idea of who they are and where they are, the rest comes together. I know “situation” isn’t one of the options but that’s what I’ll go with.
Inanna: For me, my characters always have been and always will be the most important part of my stories. While I do sometimes come up with vague plots first, more often than not, I get ideas for characters, relationships, and/or character arcs and build my worlds around them. They are what’s important, so they are in control.
Sara: Typically, the theme or idea comes first; it’s usually something that’s been swimming in my head for weeks, and as soon as it comes to me more developed, I can’t focus on anything else until I get a first draft down! Otherwise, the characters come first. When I discovered the theme for the most recent cycle of Dually Noted was “When Memories Become Currency,” I immediately had this idea of an artist who hoards her memories like one would hoard money or property. I had been primarily writing poetry at that time, but as soon as that character came to me, I knew I had to write a prose piece about her before her story escaped me.
Aubrey: For me, characters and theme develop first and simultaneously. I also usually have a general sense of setting, but I don’t refine it until after I develop characters and theme. Plot typically comes last; I struggle with it the most.
Maribel’s Tip: The best way to get started writing is to just do it. Check out the “Exercise” at the bottom of this blog to put what you’ve learned to the paper!
Whether you spend a lot of time outlining or very little, having some kind of structure for your story—whatever form that story takes—can help you write it. A few ways to help yourself do this:
Valerie: I was a diehard pantser for most of my life, but now I outline religiously. I write story beats on index cards. Each card answers two questions: what does the character want here, and why don’t they get it?
Nate: Once I have my theme, characters, and setting, I start plotting. My outlines are often a loose flow at first, just to get all the ideas and events out of my brain and onto the page. Then I refine the outline, identify the themes of each chapter or section, and cut or alter scenes and moments. Then I test the whole thing for flow and consistency, and revise. Even when I’m writing the draft, I will reference my outline while also changing it whenever characters say things or take actions I didn’t anticipate that require altering the course.
Evan: For longer projects I tend to work toward images. I know I want a random static-y TV set in the forest. Or I know I want a sunbather to be approached by a man made out of hooks. But how we get there is always interesting. I wouldn’t recommend this process because it leads to a lot of rewriting and removal of scenes, but part of the joy for me is the discovery along the way.
Inanna: For me, the outlining process is very messy and very long. I don’t like starting anything unless I think I know every single thing that’s going to happen from beginning to end. I have google docs that I call “messy outlines” and go wild in there, dropping screenshots from conversations and bits and pieces of ideas until I can make something coherent. Outlining is the best part for me!
Sara: For poetry, it is incredibly messy—picture scattered bits of paper scribbled with incomprehensible notes or transcribed phrases from my phone’s Notes app. I prefer writing first drafts by hand, so I’ll stitch all those messy thoughts together in a notebook, or if I’m really struggling, cut phrases out with scissors and glue them on the page until I’m satisfied. Between the first draft and revision, I like to take a long break; I find that grounding myself back in the real world and letting my ideas settle over time helps me refine what I really want readers to take away from a poem.
Aubrey: My outlining process is Virgo chaos. I have a really hard time writing when I don’t know where I’m going, so I need to have a solid outline before I can write anything. Characters, scenes, and bits of world float around in a nebulous haze as I figure out my theme. Then, when I’ve marinated a story for long enough I’ll try to fit everything into a preexisting plot structure (Three Act or Kishotenketsu) just to get a semblance of pacing. From there, I develop the first act then draft, then rinse and repeat with the next act and the next act until I have an outline and a finished draft.
Maribel’s Note: What’s a “pantser,” you may ask? The Write Practice outlines the three different kinds of writers here, but essentially, a panster writes without a plan, a plotter works from an outline, and a plantser does a little bit of both. All three ways are valid, especially when you’re first starting out, but at some point it does become useful to have an outline of your work—particularly if it’s longer, like a novel.
Great stories tend to have these three things in common:
Below, our writers expand on what this means and why these things lend themselves to great stories.
Valerie: A good story stays with you. From a craft perspective, that means that the reader needs to be invited into the story experience enough that they are personally invested in the outcome.
Nate: I think if a story sticks with you after you finish reading it, it has succeeded. There are a lot of books written with differing levels of difficulty, vocabulary, and allusions, but when you step away from it feeling something, that’s the success. I’ve mourned the end of my time with characters. I’ve wanted to reread a story hoping it would end differently. I’ve spent days and weeks feeling personally changed by a story. That’s the success right there. That’s all I ever hope to do for a reader when I write.
Evan: I like to be engaged emotionally and intellectually, which can take many forms. I like experimental work if there’s a reason behind the experimentation, or better, the story is best told that way. I also love pretty writing and if there’s strong images and beautiful language I’ll be hooked. There are so many ways to tell a story and I generally am drawn to situations and characters I haven’t read before. I love to read work in translation, and I read a lot of new poetry. If I feel like I understand the world the author has put me in and that the author is in control of where we’re going that’s normally enough to keep me reading. If the ending is perfect after looking back at the whole story then I’ll be in love.
Inanna: Characters are what make the story. There is no such thing as a good story without strong, well-developed characters. It doesn’t matter how good the plot or the idea is. If there aren’t good characters to follow, I won’t care about it.
Gina: Character, no question. As humans, I think we connect with others’ stories and find that social connection is key—regardless of what species the characters are, or if they’re sentient at all. I need a good character to latch onto, whether it’s apparent through the story’s voice, the character’s actions, dialogue, or more. Thankfully there are so many ways to establish character. Characters are the most important story element to me because other story elements usually follow them—plot happens to or because of a character or is connected to a character in some way, for example—so character(s) take the lead. Establishing compelling characters early on and giving readers a reason to care about them, generally by showing a bit of vulnerability and/or showing their motivations, is, to me, the best way to keep readers coming back for more.
Sara: I took a class on the Latin American Short Story, and my professor suggested that a successful short story ending should feel shocking, yet inevitable. I haven’t been able to get this idea out of my head ever since! In my favorite short stories, every word counts, or hints at its inevitable ending. For longer pieces, like novels, I still really admire elements of surprise or horror, but I also enjoy feeling connected to a character. My favorite novels have all left me feeling sad that I have to leave its world and characters behind, longing for the opportunity to read it for the first time again. For novels, short stories, and poetry alike, I adore works that haunt like a ghost and linger in my head for days, or even weeks, on end.
Aubrey: In writing, I think it’s the sincere desire to explore. In reading, I think it’s anything that stretches the way you think or feel, whether that’s changing your world view or making you feel a delight that you didn’t know you had in you.
No matter how you approach editing, it is an essential part of the writing process. After you have a first draft, the majority of the rest of your time will likely be spent editing. You can:
Valerie: I’m a huge fan of shitty first drafts. Write a flaming pile of garbage, and then edit it toward your intentions. Editing is more important than drafting, but you can’t edit unless you draft. I’d say I spend 85% of my writing time editing.
Nate: The main things I utilize for editing are time and trusted readers. To avoid being precious about my work, I have friends who will read for me and tell me straight to cut a paragraph, a page, a chapter. It’s never fun to hear, but I always listen because my readers get what I’m trying to accomplish and have the distance to look at the work objectively. Time is the other key. I will usually set a book aside for one month after I finish a first draft. Then I can go back and read it almost anew, see the holes, find the places where the bones need more meat, and see where there’s excess.
Evan: I write and rewrite and rewrite. My normal process looks like this: Write the bones of a scene. Go back now that I know what I’m writing about and flesh out that scene. Go through again and add more. Put in too much and cut some out. Realize the story doesn’t need that scene and put it into a different folder.
Inanna: This is something else I’m working on right now. I used to micromanage every little sentence as I wrote, editing things before and after writing sessions over and over again. It was a hellish loop. Now I’m trying to just write and ignore what’s been previously written, and add new ideas or portions to separate docs. That way if I have an idea, that’s fine, but I won’t go back to what I’ve already written and get stuck in another loop.
Sara: For poetry, it’s incredibly helpful for me to switch mediums between each revision. For example, if the first draft was hand-written, the next revision needs to happen on my laptop or typewriter. That way, it’s easy for my brain to catch any phrases that sound awkward or unpolished. I took a life-changing screenwriting workshop with Josefina López, and she said this is especially important for freewriting, because handwriting your first draft allows you to access your subconscious in a way that typing can’t. Reading your work aloud is also helpful, especially for poetry, where a piece’s musicality and sound can inform the poem’s content. Most importantly, I try to give myself a lot of space and compassion in between revisions. I can easily get consumed by my own ideas or (sometimes harsh) expectations, so forcing myself to take my time is essential.
Aubrey: I like to edit while drafting. I wrote a shitty draft for NaNoWriMo once, and then when I went back to edit the thing, I got so overwhelmed by its mess that I quit and felt horrible. Nowadays, I start a writing session by lightly editing the chapter once before going back to drafting. If I feel like my words are workable on a line level, it makes the developmental edit much more digestible for me.
Valerie: I’ll let you know when I figure it out.
Nate: It’s weird. It’s a feeling. And it doesn’t always happen. I have had stories and books in which the final page feels so perfectly final. I’ll type that last sentence and feel complete. Other times, I’ll simply run out of momentum—not giving up on the story, but more that the story winds down in a way that feels less under my direct control. What’s funny is that neither case means the work is inherently good or that the feeling is correct, but I always chase that “perfectly final feeling.”
Evan: With shorter projects I’m looking for a moment when the narrator or main character makes a choice they can’t come back from, even if it’s small. Once I’m there it’s almost the end. Then I want that choice demonstrated through action. Once I know the end then I can go back to the beginning and plant all the little bits that make the ending resonant. At least that’s the hope. I’m a tinkerer by nature. I’ll keep messing with a story long after it’s reasonable, which is part of why I submit so much. Once I’m done, I give it another read and send it off and then start on the next one.
Inanna: To me, a story is finished when I can put my book down, smile, and say, “wow,” whether it’s one of the short stories I wrote or a novel I read. You get this feeling of emptiness because it’s over, but you still feel full because, well, it’s over.
Sara: My gut instinct is to say that I rely on my gut instinct, especially for poetry, but that’s not a very helpful answer! I think getting an outside perspective has been incredibly helpful for me, whether that’s sharing drafts with my partner or in my writing groups. I love to ask what people think my story or poem is about, or what main idea they’re left with after reading. Everyone will take away something new and different, but if no one picks up on the main themes or ideas that motivated a piece, I know I have more work to do.
Aubrey: I usually know a story is finished when I read it through and the vibes feel good (no nitpicks about pacing, description, or voice).
Our writers find that their best tips for navigating the writing process is to ensure you:
Valerie: So, my partner does this thing where he laughs at his own jokes before he tells them. I know it’s going to be a good joke when he laughs so hard he can’t even tell it. It’s adorable. I try to approach my writing that way. If I’m not excited, on the edge of my seat, cringing with the character, or laughing at my own jokes, it’s not working.
Nate: Life experience. I mentioned eavesdropping for story ideas. The other good thing for stories and books is seeing the world, living outside your bubble, and doing things that make you a little uncomfortable. I’m not talking about thrill-seeking or abject hedonism, just that, as one of the best ways to know how to write a break up is to love and lose, the best way to write a feeling of exploration and curiosity is to go out and do it. Living life inspires living fiction and I believe that the best books and stories are the ones that feel honestly and truly alive.
Evan: Reading. I know when my writing is feeling stagnant or if I’m stuck somewhere it’s nearly always because I’m not reading as much (or as well) as I should. I have writing buddies who will ask me specifically if I’m reading something good when I’m stuck and the answer is always no. Then it’s time to head to the library.
Inanna: A timer, through and through. Oftentimes, knowing that there is a stopping point is the only thing that helps me get started.
Sara: I struggle with severe imposter syndrome, so what’s been most essential is to remind myself of why I write. I write because I enjoy it, I write to understand myself and the world around me, and I write to make others feel less alone. Literature provided me with so much solace when I was a teenager, and I want to extend that to others who may have similarly struggled. I often remind myself that if just one person reads my work and feels seen, understood, or less alone, then that is all that matters.
Aubrey: Music. Like a lot of writers, I like to make playlists that fit the vibes of the piece I’m writing! It helps me to relax and makes it easier for me to get into a flow state.
When it comes to writing, there’s no one set process or starting point that will always work, 100 percent of the time. Every writer is different and so every process is different. But you can use the insights and tips above from our writers for ideas on how you might try to get started writing your stories—whether that means timing writing sessions, staying up late to make the most of your creative juices, or joining a writing group to get edits and inspiration. Ultimately, we recommend starting here—learning about what stories are and tackling monthly exercises with us as you commence your writer’s journey.
For the next week, spend 20 to 30 minutes each day keeping a journal. You can write about your previous day, envision the day ahead, jot down ideas stuck in your mind, share opinions, recall a conversation you overheard on the bus, or anything you feel like writing about. On the final day, look back at what you’ve written and see if there’s a story somewhere in there.
Here at the Brink Literacy Project, we view storytelling as a key part of our mission. We are devoted to utilizing its power to affect the lives of people on the brink—anyone who is marginalized in society or otherwise lacks access to traditional means of learning about and employing the art of storytelling. But what exactly is storytelling? And how does it have the power to change lives?
The National Storytelling Network defines storytelling as “an ancient art form and valuable form of human expression.” Telling stories is inherent to human nature. It has been around since the earliest humans roamed the earth. It is found in every culture and era of history. Storytelling has been a part of human communication for as long as humans have communicated.
But that doesn’t mean stories have always taken the same form. Thousands of years ago, cave drawings emerged as some of the earliest forms of telling stories. From then, storytelling has evolved over time, taking shape through oral traditions, the written word, and, in today’s world, digital media. Stories are told in many different ways for many different reasons. In this new blog series from Brink, F(r)iction’s Facts of Fiction, we’ll be providing lessons each month on how to write stories from start to finish. No matter your medium—poetry, flash fiction, short story, novel, screenplay, or other—you can use this blog series to better understand storytelling and start writing.
Embark on this epic journey with us now and discover what, exactly, storytelling is.
Storytelling and human communication are inherently intertwined. A study in Nature Communications found that storytelling serves as a powerful means of fostering social cooperation and teaching social norms. Storytellers themselves also reap the benefits, seeing improved chances of being chosen as social partners, receiving community support, and having healthy offspring.
In short, storytelling is perhaps our most powerful and essential tool for forming communities. It has played a key role in human evolution, helping shape many of the behaviors, beliefs, and structures that make up the world we live in today.
Storytelling is also deeply entwined with the human psyche. Scholars have noted how human psychology and storytelling are connected, particularly from a teaching standpoint. An article in the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning in Psychology discusses the power of storytelling as pedagogy.
Brink has seen this in practice first hand through our educational programs that center around storytelling, such as the Frames Prison Program, F(r)iction in the Classroom, and Publishing Internship Program. Through storytelling, we as humans learn how to think critically, express ourselves, empathize and connect with others, and aspire for new dreams.
There’s no doubt that stories influence our emotions. Ever cried during a movie? Laughed? Got goosebumps? If so, the story has done its job of influencing your emotions. There’s also evidence that stories expand our ability to empathize with others. Given what we’ve learned about stories so far, this makes sense. Stories broaden our imaginations by putting us in someone else’s shoes through the narrative.
Stories also have incredible educational value. Storytelling has been used to teach people things for almost as long as stories themselves have existed. Think about Aesop’s Fables for example. The classic fable “The Tortoise and the Hare” has many interpretations, but today it’s often used in the classroom to demonstrate the pitfalls of arrogance and to teach the idea that “slow and steady wins the race”—don’t rush things or you may fail due to your own arrogance.
Beyond this, stories are memorable. Because they’re memorable, lessons taught in the form of stories have a stronger chance of sticking with the reader.
Brink believes storytelling is a powerful transformative process—that is, the story the writer tells and the way they tell it transforms them. It is one of the most powerful tools we have for self-empowerment. By telling a story, especially one’s own story, our experiences can feel more concrete and valid. Beyond that, we can use storytelling to examine, connect with, and influence our experiences to better understand our trauma, choices, and who we strive to become. In that sense, storytelling can work as therapy created by ourselves.
Storytelling is also a powerful tool for empathy and social change. Narratives are a worldview. They start wars and save lives. At Brink, we do our best to elevate voices that might otherwise be neglected or silenced. In our educational programming, our students have explicit discussions about what stories should be told and the misconceptions they seek to correct. We hand them a megaphone and ask, “What do people need to hear?”
Distant political decisions, the opinions of the public, and the judgment of strangers profoundly impact our students’ lives. Effective and empathetic storytelling has the power to change laws, unify a community, or help someone self-advocate for the care they need. In storytelling for change, both the writer and the audience are transformed in profound ways.
Storytelling transcends cultures and generations, leaving a marked impact through time. Let’s take Le Morte d’Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory for example. This work is one of the first to take the many tales about the legendary King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and combine them together into a written work that forms a “complete” story. The Arthurian legend has had a clear impact on public and, particularly, literary consciousness, especially in the West. The lore has inspired multiple iterations and adaptations, from T.H. White’s The Once and Future King to the spoof movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
There are countless examples of stories making an indelible impact on culture like this, from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights to The Odyssey to Journey to the West. Ultimately, while the details of these stories may transform over time, affected by the social and political environment in the moment, they are retold over and over throughout history and culture.
Some argue, in fact, that there are only seven possible stories to write in this world. Others argue there are only three, or thirty-six, or six, and so on. However many there may be, storytelling has clearly been the crux of culture and communication for humans throughout history.
Stories can take many forms. We mentioned before that the earliest evidence of stories are drawings on cave walls. These pieces of past civilizations left behind prove that storytelling has always been a part of being human. But how has the form stories take transformed over time?
Defined as “the telling of a story through voice and gestures,” the oral tradition of passing down stories has likely been around for as long as humans could speak. Even after the written word was created, stories have been passed down through generations by word of mouth. Think of the family lore learned from your grandparent over the dinner table, or the spooky tale shared over a burning campfire between friends.
Cultures from across the globe have a long and pronounced history of oral storytelling. Aboriginal Australians have storytelling rituals believed to date back almost 18,000 years. The Choctaw people, a tribe native to North America, have an oral storytelling tradition that goes back generations. West Africans, Jewish people, the seanchaí from Ireland, and native Hawaiians all have their own oral traditions as well.
The myths, legends, fables, religion, and more passed down via oral traditions have impacted the way people think, act, and tell stories—whether the stories themselves are true or not. Spoken from generation to generation, these stories are used to pass down cultural traditions and have helped shape society into what it is today.
Evidence shows that written language dates back about 9,000 years. The earliest known examples of writing come from the Sumerians in 3400 B.C. Around the same time, the Egyptians began using hieroglyphics as well.
The evolution from oral traditions to the written word provided stories with permanence. Spoken aloud, storytellers have a lot of opportunity for change and embellishment. The slip of a word, the leaving out of a detail can mean a story changes a lot when it passes from one person to the next. The written word is less easy to change and more easily referenced. The creation of the printing press in 1436 further impacted the power of the written word. From there, newspapers, mass market paperback novels, science journals, and so much more have been key to spreading stories in the form of the written word far and wide.
Since the mid-twentieth century and the birth of the Information Age, we’ve introduced digital forms of storytelling. Social media has advanced and truncated stories in ways that are still being studied. The internet has allowed more stories to reach more people than ever before. New forms of storytelling, such as day-in-the-life videos, have allowed more people than ever to become storytellers themselves and on a broader platform. Brands themselves have become storytellers, as the world of business utilizes the power of storytelling to sell products and services. We live in an age not just of unlimited information, but also of unlimited storytelling.
In the best stories, a single line tells a story itself. A single paragraph contains a beginning, middle, and end. A single scene introduces and resolves a problem. Stories can be told in many ways, from visual paintings, sculptures, photography, and video to songs—whether they have lyrics or not—to poems and epic sagas. We can’t cover them all there, so let’s briefly dive into the different kinds of stories that F(r)iction publishes.
Think of the different forms of written word storytelling as a Matryoshka doll. On the outside, you have the longest, fullest-breadth story you could possibly imagine—an epic saga like The Tales of Genji or The Epic of Gilgamesh. Within that, you have novels, such as Journey to the West or Don Quixote. Then, you have novellas—generally speaking, about 10,000 to 40,000 words in length. Many famous works, including Siddhartha, Animal Farm, and Bartleby the Scrivener technically fall into this category. Finally, you have the short story, flash fiction, and poetry as shown below. Ultimately, all of these are just smaller versions of each other. Or, you can look at it the other way—The Epic of Gilgamesh is really just a bunch of short stories put together into an overarching narrative to create an epic. Creative nonfiction and comics are just different forms of the other mediums that can be as long or short as needed.
Think of a poem as a very, very short, lyrical story. Take Joe Dunthorpe’s “Boating” as an example. This poem tells the story of Charon, the ferryman that takes dead souls across the river Styx in Greek mythology, on one of his many journeys across the Styx.
Here, we have an established character, Charon, in an established setting, on a boat in the river Styx, following the plot of dropping a fishing rod into the river, taking the souls across it, and then returning to find that he’s caught a fish. Each line that Dunthorpe writes in the poem lends itself to the telling of the story. No words are wasted, and the punctuation and spacing of the words on the page are a part of the story being told. This is poetry at its best, where form, format, and words come together to form a perfect story.
Flash fiction is a very short story, defined by Brink as 1,000 words or fewer. Take a look at “The Forgiveness Machine” by Joy Baglio, a piece that follows the character Pam as she hesitates to use the forgiveness machine for a lifetime. Even though flash fiction tells a story in just a few paragraphs, it must still feel complete and contain both conflict and resolution.
The short story has an interesting and often debated history. Prospect Magazine purports that the earliest modern short story is Walter Scott’s “The Two Drovers,” published in 1827. Whether that is true or not, the generally accepted length for short stories is about 1,000 to 10,000 words. F(r)iction accepts submissions between 1,000 and 7,500 words. Like flash fiction, short stories aim to tell a complete story in a shorter space than, say, a novel. Every line and scene must lend itself to telling the story because there’s no room to waste. Check out “Interstellar Space” by Scott O’Conner to better understand what a short story can look like.
Creative nonfiction (also referred to as CNF) tells a story just like any of our other genres. However, this story must be based in truth and reflect an accurate retelling of the author’s real-life experiences. Crucially, it uses craft techniques of fiction to tell nonfiction—unlike other forms of nonfiction such as biography.
F(r)iction accepts work up to 6,500 words and, while it is nonfiction, we ask that it still contains a “weird” or “strange” element matching with F(r)iction’s other work. Read “To Get To Sleep” by Benjamin Kinney to get an idea of what we look for in CNF.
Another note for this kind of story is that it can come in many forms of its own: flash fiction, memoir excerpt, personal essay, or braided narrative to name a few. The main differentiator from other genres is that it reflects true rather than fictional events.
Comics are stories told using words and, importantly, pictures. When thinking about comics, perhaps the funny and sometimes silly comic strips published in newspapers come to mind, or else a favorite graphic novel. Either is correct, but comics as a medium take many forms. The MoMA in New York City notes that, “Any work of art that divides into two or more side-by-side parts is formally a comic.”
F(r)iction publishes at least one every issue because we see comics as an essential form of storytelling. For this reason, our Frames Prison Program centers around our students crafting their own short graphic memoir. To get an idea of the kind of comics F(r)iction publishes, take a look at “Personal Mythology” by Tracey Maye, with art by Arthur Asa, Nakoo, and Florian Shahab.
Today’s definition of a “story” feels quite set in stone. But this hasn’t always been the case. In general, stories seem to share three major elements: character, plot, and setting. These three pieces make up pretty much every story—and that’s why getting them right is so key to telling a good one.
Let’s take a story that serves as the prototype for the modern novel as an example: Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. Written in 1605, Cervantes wrote this work to satirize the idea of chivalry and chivalric romance. Don Quixote tells the story of its titular character on his epic “quest” to follow the chivalric ideals of the books he’s read.
Cervantes succeeded at creating a character in Don Quixote so impactful that it led to a new word: quixotic, meaning “exceedingly idealistic, unrealistic, and impractical.” This alone tells you all you need to know about Don Quixote as a character. In his impact, we see the effect that a good character has on an audience. People care about characters in a story more than anything else in a story. Characters serve as the heart of the story, and their relationships, personality, and struggles will keep us reading even if we, for example, aren’t an errant knight from the seventeenth century.
Plot is the main events of a story devised and presented by the writer as an interrelated sequence. Rather than a specific structure, plot is simply which characters need to be present in a scene in order to share information and have events take place so that the story follows its intended order. Most of the time, the plot comes together as it’s written and is not necessarily planned out before the start of a story. Of course, there are exceptions, but every good story needs major plot revisions after that first rough draft.
Continuing with Don Quixote as our example, we know Cervantes wrote purposefully to illustrate the demise of chivalry. To do so, he created a character who lives in fantasy while fully believing and following the code of chivalry. Over time, the events of the story and the other characters present in it are used to burst his bubble. Every moment that happens in the story serves this purpose and leads to the conclusion.
All stories must exist in a time and place. And the reader of the story must be privy to this information as near to the beginning of the story as possible. Whether that time and place is familiar to the reader or alien, the context that setting provides in a story is essential to the reader understanding it.
Don Quixote takes place in the early 1600s in La Mancha, Spain. The concept of chivalry would have been well-known to readers of the time. A modern adaptation of this novel may seek to translate the concept of chivalry into something more familiar to today’s audience, such as a set of religious ideals. Or else the storyteller would simply take the time to explicate the code of chivalry so that the audience understands it. Either way, key information such as the time and location will go a long way in ensuring a well-told story.
There is one more essential aspect to storytelling that all of the above help make up. As Haruki Murakami puts it in IQ84, “the role of the story [is], in the broadest terms, to transpose a single problem into another form.”
For Cervantes, this problem is the illusion of chivalry and those who follow it. Don Quixote’s obsession with chivalry leads to the events of the story taking place and forms the central conflict of the novel. Every story must have a conflict, and that conflict must result in a resolution. Whether the resolution actually resolves the conflict is up to the storyteller. But the importance of conflict and resolution cannot be understated. Characters in a story are doomed to be constantly in conflict because this is what makes stories so impactful.
As you can see, storytelling connects all of us. It has the power to change language, unite communities, and move causes forward. It comes in many forms, from the novel to the poem to the comic strip and much more. It has been around since before the written word. It is an educational tool and a way to bring people together.
Our goal is to empower you, reader, to be the teller of your own stories. This is part one of a series of blogs the F(r)iction Log is releasing over the course of 2024 that can serve as your Storytelling 101. Whether you’re a beginner writer who’s unsure where to start, a seasoned writer looking for a refresher on the things you learned in school, or just curious about what it takes to tell great stories, we’re here for you.
Over the course of this limited blog series we’ll delve into topics such as story structures, exposition, character and conflict, description, editing, and so much more. Come on this journey with us! Write your own stories and consider joining the National Novel Writing Month challenge in November. Even better—once you’re done with all these blogs and have written your story, submit your work to F(r)iction!