There Has to Be a “There” There: What Makes a Story?

In a recent critique group, a discussion about unfinished stories made me realize how difficult it is to define what we mean by “story.”

A new writer joined us and read the beginning of a couple of his stories to the group. Each one had some interesting worldbuilding. Each one had characters. And, in each one, things happened.

After reading, he looked up and asked how he could make them better.

I have to admit, I couldn’t answer his question. I wanted to help. I really did.

The problem wasn’t his prose. It wasn’t his dialogue. It wasn’t even his worldbuilding. Those things can all be improved with practice.

The problem was that I couldn’t tell him how to improve the story because I couldn’t tell what the story was.

There are countless kinds of stories and just as many ways to tell them. From Isaac Asimov imagining the future to Charles Bukowski chronicling everyday life to Anton Chekhov illuminating ordinary people, the good stories all have one thing in common: they make the reader ask a question.

Will the dog live?

Who is the old man?

Why did she lie?

Readers keep reading to find the answers to the questions we make them ask.

Of course, that isn’t enough.

We also have to care about the people whose lives create those questions—the characters. That doesn’t mean we have to like them. Maybe we want to see them suffer the consequences of their actions…or maybe we just want to see them suffer. But whatever the reason, readers need a reason to keep turning the page.

Vivid descriptions and slow, lingering pans across a landscape can hold our attention for a while. But eventually, the part of our brain wired for story starts asking questions.

Who is this about?

What does this person want?

What’s standing in the way?

Why should I keep turning the page?

Someone in the group suggested developing plot.

Plot could help. A chain of cause-and-effect events helps the story move along. But it’s not sufficient by itself. For example:

Dave woke up.

Dave went to work.

Dave got fired.

Dave went home.

Those are events linked together. But what a boring story.

Now ask one question:

What did getting fired force Dave to confront?

Suddenly you’re heading toward story.

Or, more generally:

Why was today different from every other day?

Story.

Or, with a darker turn:

How is Dave going to get revenge?

Now, that’s my kind of story.

While driving home after the meeting, I recalled something I’d written a few weeks earlier, in my summer camp story. The old man in the story says:

“You should know where you want to end up before you decide how to get there.”

He was talking about riding a bicycle. But he could just as easily have been talking about writing.

Until you know where you’re going, every page you write may feel like progress. But only once you know where you’re going does every page have a purpose.

There has to be a “there” there.