The Writer's Creed
The Writer's Oath
On my honor, I will do my best to create havoc on every page and to leave neither peace nor happiness in my wake; To cause problems at every opportunity; To abuse characters I love, always aspire to the worst, and sleep unburdened at night.
The Writer's Law
A writer is…
– Duplicitious (Never Trustworthy!): A writer never lets her characters know everything that is going on. The more you can mislead and
confuse your characters, the more enjoyment you give your reader.
– Traitorous (Never Loyal!): A writer is always looking for ways to undermine characters and foster betrayal in her stories.
– Hindersome (Never Helpful!): A writer makes trouble; she does not solve problems.
– Curmudgeonly (Never Friendly!): A writer begrudges every moment of happiness and prosperity in her story. Contentment is offensive to her–discontent, ultimately pleasing.
– Rude (Never Courteous!): A writer has no regard for her characters’ egos or positions within society. She finds humiliation
ever-desirable.
– Vindictive (Never Kind!): A writer causes trouble because she can, not because it is deserved. Every success of a character is worthy of retribution.
– Mutinous (Never Obedient!): A writer upturns all her characters value and depend upon. She fashions those in her story with the
specific intention of capitalizing on their weaknesses.
– Profligate (Never Thrifty!): A writer never holds anything back. She seeks to expend every resource and emotional reserve of her
characters, and only constrains the extravagance of her imagination by the furthest reaches of plausibility.
– Licentious (Never Clean!): A writer collects all her characters’ dirty little secrets and yells them out to anyone willing to listen.
– Profane (Never Reverent!): To a writer, none of her characters’ beliefs are sacred; their faith exists to be challenged, and wrong must
sometimes be portrayed as right.
Despite common perception, yes, there are admirable characteristics of writers as well (though we make mighty poor Boy Scouts). We must be…
– Brave: Obeying the Writers’ Law can be difficult, uncomfortable, and wearying. Have the courage to be sadistic enough to write good
stories.
– Cheerful: Engaging in antisocial, uncivilized behavior–at least in imagination–is the primary obligation of a good storyteller. You
can’t avoid it. So don’t feel guilty. Write great stories, don’t apologize or get ulcers, and live cheerfully and well.
The Writer's Slogan
Cause trouble on every page.
What This Means...
I assume you’re familiar with Gone with the Wind? I mean, between the Pulitzer-winning novel and one of the supposedly greatest movies of all time (a bit overhyped, in my humble opinion), I would think you would be. If not, this object lesson will be somewhat less effective. So go watch it, or read it, or find cliff notes or something. Or you can just follow along, as it shouldn’t be that difficult.
So, why is the sentiment contained in this Writer’s Creed (despite its facetiousness) pertinent and valid? Consider Margaret Mitchell. She came up with a pair of great, larger-than-life characters and a little story about the American Civil War in which to situate them. Throughout this story, poor Scarlett and Rhett are afflicted by hunger, lust, jealousy, guilt, inferno, violence, and many other substantially unpleasant things. And Gone with the Wind is a substantial book. No quick and easy read (and a longish movie), and is packed pretty consistently with bad stuff happening throughout. So by the end, you’d think that the pair has earned some happiness. They’ve come through war and their own individual faults and insecurities, and even managed to balance their disparate and often oppositional egos. I don’t think many people would argue that two such individuals haven’t earned a chance at a happy ending.
So what does Mitchell do? She kills their daughter.
Now understand that this is exactly what happened. The little girl didn’t fall from the horse. This was no accident, no tragic happenstance or vicissitude of fate. It wasn’t some insistence of the Muse hoisted upon Mitchell. It was a conscious decision motivated specifically by Mitchell’s intimate knowledge of her characters, and her realization that this, above anything else she could do, would break them. Margaret Mitchell killed that child, willfully and with purpose. If she doesn’t, we never get that famous line, “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn!” But more than this, we never really see this relationship for what it is. Had Mitchell shirked this tragic compositional choice, this story immortalized on the page and film would be other than it is and, in my opinion, far less than what it has become.
This is our job as storytellers and writers: to create characters we adore and then hurt them, afflict them–to kill the things we love.
It’s what we do. Storytelling is, at heart, uncivilized. Deliberately, studiously so. Civilization, we must understand, is disciplining individual desires and impulses and idiosyncrasies so that we can function with some degree of success as a unit. It is subordinating a certain amount of the self in favor of the collective. Without this, society would not be and human existence would never escape the perpetual anarchy of unrestrained self. Civilization is the process that allows the interrelationship and mutual interest of the many.
Story is revelation of the one. Written story, in particular, is a medium of intimacy. (This is due to the nature of POV, which is a bunch of essays in and of itself.) Every written story is the tale of an identity or several identities (and occasionally a group functioning as a single identity). Thus our job as storytellers and writers is to manipulate all the aspects of narrative so as to make the one reveal herself. We do this through the liberal and skillful use of conflict.
The function of dramatic conflict in narrative is something about which I could write endless essays, and probably will as time goes on. There is far, far too much to the concept to address it here. At this stage, let this suffice: without conflict, narrative dies, and as authors it is our obligation to supply the conflict in our stories. Like Margaret Mitchell, when time comes to kill the child to break a marriage, we have to be willing to do it.
The job of the storyteller is to make trouble that people can confront and experience vicariously, and thus with a modicum of safety. This means that we must be uncivilized. A writer is duplicitous, and mutinous, and vindictive, and profane—not because it is our nature, but because it isn’t. We are looking to break the conventions with which we all live so as to access relevance, meaning, and truth that our daily existence hides, denies, or fails to acknowledge. We do this by stripping away routine and the civilized crust to expose the raw, genuine emotional core that is what it really means to be human.
So, what does this mean for writers in terms of application? It means that we have to act against our better nature. We need to engender conflict and pain in our stories; to create problems rather than solve them. It means we have to develop characters that we love and then afflict them from page one to the inevitable resolution. This method can create stories of great optimism and joy; but the method itself must be vindictive and sadistic. And I will warn you as plainly as I can: writing truly great story is not easy. It’s hard to create problems on every page. It’s hard to hurt our friends, who in this instance happen to be characters. It’s hard to endure, even remotely, the things to which we expose ourselves vicariously through our creations. Writing rich, conflict rich story is exhausting and can be emotionally traumatic.
But it’s worth it. That, I promise you.
So know the Creed and live it. Your readers will thank you.
On my honor, I will do my best to create havoc on every page and to leave neither peace nor happiness in my wake; To cause problems at every opportunity; To abuse characters I love, always aspire to the worst, and sleep unburdened at night.
The Writer's Law
A writer is…
– Duplicitious (Never Trustworthy!): A writer never lets her characters know everything that is going on. The more you can mislead and
confuse your characters, the more enjoyment you give your reader.
– Traitorous (Never Loyal!): A writer is always looking for ways to undermine characters and foster betrayal in her stories.
– Hindersome (Never Helpful!): A writer makes trouble; she does not solve problems.
– Curmudgeonly (Never Friendly!): A writer begrudges every moment of happiness and prosperity in her story. Contentment is offensive to her–discontent, ultimately pleasing.
– Rude (Never Courteous!): A writer has no regard for her characters’ egos or positions within society. She finds humiliation
ever-desirable.
– Vindictive (Never Kind!): A writer causes trouble because she can, not because it is deserved. Every success of a character is worthy of retribution.
– Mutinous (Never Obedient!): A writer upturns all her characters value and depend upon. She fashions those in her story with the
specific intention of capitalizing on their weaknesses.
– Profligate (Never Thrifty!): A writer never holds anything back. She seeks to expend every resource and emotional reserve of her
characters, and only constrains the extravagance of her imagination by the furthest reaches of plausibility.
– Licentious (Never Clean!): A writer collects all her characters’ dirty little secrets and yells them out to anyone willing to listen.
– Profane (Never Reverent!): To a writer, none of her characters’ beliefs are sacred; their faith exists to be challenged, and wrong must
sometimes be portrayed as right.
Despite common perception, yes, there are admirable characteristics of writers as well (though we make mighty poor Boy Scouts). We must be…
– Brave: Obeying the Writers’ Law can be difficult, uncomfortable, and wearying. Have the courage to be sadistic enough to write good
stories.
– Cheerful: Engaging in antisocial, uncivilized behavior–at least in imagination–is the primary obligation of a good storyteller. You
can’t avoid it. So don’t feel guilty. Write great stories, don’t apologize or get ulcers, and live cheerfully and well.
The Writer's Slogan
Cause trouble on every page.
What This Means...
I assume you’re familiar with Gone with the Wind? I mean, between the Pulitzer-winning novel and one of the supposedly greatest movies of all time (a bit overhyped, in my humble opinion), I would think you would be. If not, this object lesson will be somewhat less effective. So go watch it, or read it, or find cliff notes or something. Or you can just follow along, as it shouldn’t be that difficult.
So, why is the sentiment contained in this Writer’s Creed (despite its facetiousness) pertinent and valid? Consider Margaret Mitchell. She came up with a pair of great, larger-than-life characters and a little story about the American Civil War in which to situate them. Throughout this story, poor Scarlett and Rhett are afflicted by hunger, lust, jealousy, guilt, inferno, violence, and many other substantially unpleasant things. And Gone with the Wind is a substantial book. No quick and easy read (and a longish movie), and is packed pretty consistently with bad stuff happening throughout. So by the end, you’d think that the pair has earned some happiness. They’ve come through war and their own individual faults and insecurities, and even managed to balance their disparate and often oppositional egos. I don’t think many people would argue that two such individuals haven’t earned a chance at a happy ending.
So what does Mitchell do? She kills their daughter.
Now understand that this is exactly what happened. The little girl didn’t fall from the horse. This was no accident, no tragic happenstance or vicissitude of fate. It wasn’t some insistence of the Muse hoisted upon Mitchell. It was a conscious decision motivated specifically by Mitchell’s intimate knowledge of her characters, and her realization that this, above anything else she could do, would break them. Margaret Mitchell killed that child, willfully and with purpose. If she doesn’t, we never get that famous line, “Frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn!” But more than this, we never really see this relationship for what it is. Had Mitchell shirked this tragic compositional choice, this story immortalized on the page and film would be other than it is and, in my opinion, far less than what it has become.
This is our job as storytellers and writers: to create characters we adore and then hurt them, afflict them–to kill the things we love.
It’s what we do. Storytelling is, at heart, uncivilized. Deliberately, studiously so. Civilization, we must understand, is disciplining individual desires and impulses and idiosyncrasies so that we can function with some degree of success as a unit. It is subordinating a certain amount of the self in favor of the collective. Without this, society would not be and human existence would never escape the perpetual anarchy of unrestrained self. Civilization is the process that allows the interrelationship and mutual interest of the many.
Story is revelation of the one. Written story, in particular, is a medium of intimacy. (This is due to the nature of POV, which is a bunch of essays in and of itself.) Every written story is the tale of an identity or several identities (and occasionally a group functioning as a single identity). Thus our job as storytellers and writers is to manipulate all the aspects of narrative so as to make the one reveal herself. We do this through the liberal and skillful use of conflict.
The function of dramatic conflict in narrative is something about which I could write endless essays, and probably will as time goes on. There is far, far too much to the concept to address it here. At this stage, let this suffice: without conflict, narrative dies, and as authors it is our obligation to supply the conflict in our stories. Like Margaret Mitchell, when time comes to kill the child to break a marriage, we have to be willing to do it.
The job of the storyteller is to make trouble that people can confront and experience vicariously, and thus with a modicum of safety. This means that we must be uncivilized. A writer is duplicitous, and mutinous, and vindictive, and profane—not because it is our nature, but because it isn’t. We are looking to break the conventions with which we all live so as to access relevance, meaning, and truth that our daily existence hides, denies, or fails to acknowledge. We do this by stripping away routine and the civilized crust to expose the raw, genuine emotional core that is what it really means to be human.
So, what does this mean for writers in terms of application? It means that we have to act against our better nature. We need to engender conflict and pain in our stories; to create problems rather than solve them. It means we have to develop characters that we love and then afflict them from page one to the inevitable resolution. This method can create stories of great optimism and joy; but the method itself must be vindictive and sadistic. And I will warn you as plainly as I can: writing truly great story is not easy. It’s hard to create problems on every page. It’s hard to hurt our friends, who in this instance happen to be characters. It’s hard to endure, even remotely, the things to which we expose ourselves vicariously through our creations. Writing rich, conflict rich story is exhausting and can be emotionally traumatic.
But it’s worth it. That, I promise you.
So know the Creed and live it. Your readers will thank you.
