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The room was silent as I walked onto the stage.
There were stairs leading up to the stage, of course (why are there always stairs?), and I threatened myself internally: Grace, if you trip right now, I will literally kill you.
Senior Thesis Day was a rush for everyone involved. Students gathered to watch the seniors, dry-mouthed and sweaty, present an argument to a board of teachers who specialized in said argument. A heated debate would follow. And if they failed, then they didn’t graduate.
Like most forms of entertainment, it was hellish to experience and exhilarating to watch.
I reached the podium.
A crowd of high school students settled into their seats, watching. Directly in front of me, a panel of teachers sat against the back wall. One had just finished eating her salad, and I could feel the boredom radiating off her across the room. One checked his watch, his mind everywhere but me. One gave me an encouraging smile.
I leaned towards the microphone. Grace, if your voice cracks on this first word, I will literally kill you.
“What makes a story timeless?” My voice sounded tinny and strange as it reverberated back to me. “How do books written 200 years ago make it into our curriculum today? What makes a classic a classic?”
The beginnings of my book-obsession
From an early age, I noticed how certain stories captivated me from start to finish, while other stories left me bored and emotionally unengaged.
I read a lot – so much so, that my parents would punish me by taking away my books. No more reading until you’ve finished your homework, they’d say.
My constant input of different kinds of stories led to a vapid curiosity on how to recreate them myself. What was the secret to a good story? I wrote stories as well, keeping them in notebooks scattered throughout my room. I came up with a challenge for myself: every time I took a shower, I had to start and finish a story by the time I got out. It’s hilarious to think of it now: rigorously scrubbing shampoo into my tangled curls, suds running down my face, internally scrambling to close the story with a satisfying ending while my mother shouted that dinner was ready downstairs.
It’s funny how the things we’re passionate about as adults manifest themselves so early in our lives.
Over time, I developed an insatiable curiosity about “the classics.” People threw that term around with careless excitement. Oh, that book is a classic! You absolutely have to read it!
Why? I would think. What does that mean? What’s so great about a classic story?
As I dove into titles like A Tale of Two Cities or Jane Eyre, The Count of Monte Cristo or Wuthering Heights, I began to understand: these were big books. Not physically, but because they covered a lot of ground. These were stories that talked about things that mattered in ways that mattered. There was no semblance of the “mindless entertainment” our culture has come to love. They required work. But, as is the nature of work, the payoff was much more rewarding.
As Senior Thesis Day loomed over me, I knew this was what I wanted to talk about. And luckily, God sent me Mr. Baker, the English teacher I like to think of as the Guide to my intellectual Hero’s Journey.
The Guide to my Hero’s Journey: Mr. Baker
He was a small man, with silver hair, a sharp jaw, and a broad smile. He wore tweed suits and belly-laughed while reading The Iliad. He didn’t think classic literature was boring or elitist – he found it vibrant and fascinating. His ability to see such novel beauty in the art of books only affirmed that same love within me.
Mr. Baker was my mentor for Senior Thesis Day, his role being to help me craft a compelling argument to present to the school. I spent many hours having lunch in his office, chatting about books. What makes a story good? What makes a story last? Although much smarter than me, he never pushed me toward the “right” answer. He wanted me to arrive at the destination by myself. He asked tough questions, helping me distill my own thoughts and uncover my own beliefs.
There, in the quiet sophistication of his office, books stacked around us, an occasional stray crumb bobbing in his beard, we drew our conclusions.
The four pillars of a classic novel
Time
However annoying this answer may feel, it’s true. Stories cannot be declared “classic” if they have not been tested in the furnace of time. Many books experience an all-the-rage popularity that fizzles out like flat soda; few books transcend the constraints of time and seep into the very bones of our culture. Think of stories like The Odyssey or anything written by Shakespeare, ever. These stories that persist the turning of the clock are the ones that capture the human condition most eloquently.
Universality
Classic books tell some sort of universal truth. Whether it’s about love or grief or friendship or identity, a story that lasts is one that relates to the universal human experience. Like how The Great Gatsby and Jane Eyre expose the vast and lonely lengths a man will go to for the woman he loves. Like how Brave New World and Frankenstein uncover the consequences of human creation, whether it be technology or monsters.
These books tell us something about ourselves. They’re like mirrors, reflecting the equally vivacious and broken spirit of our collective humanity. That’s why the best stories make you laugh, cry, and ponder your existence all at the same time (and all while nestled in your reading chair with a cup of tea).
Language
To tell great stories, we don’t have to write with the highbrow sophistication of an Oxford professor. But we do have to treat language like the starting point guard that it is.
Language is not about big words or complicated sentences or, Heaven forbid, purple prose (i.e. writing that is so overly ornate and descriptive it’s sickening). It’s about style and craft, voice and tone. It’s about communicating ugly things in beautiful ways. It’s about art. The best stories are beautiful because of how they are told. The emphasis is on the journey as much as it is the destination.
Hemingway’s prose, for instance, is like clear, cold water: it allows you to see all the way to the bottom, and all the things in between. He honed his craft as sharp as a blade, and generations later, that devotion to his art doesn’t miss his readers. It sticks. And it makes his stories last – all without any taste of “literary” aloofness. Just the novelty of his prose.
Originality
I think we often confuse “innovation” with “originality” in stories. Innovative writing is a surefire way to tell a story that stands the test of time. But to me, “innovation” feels a bit contrived. It conjures up images of skyscrapers and railroads and technology and CEOs in conference rooms. It lacks soul.
Originality, however, includes the act of innovation, but goes even deeper. It’s less about finding a groundbreaking way to structure a story, and more about telling it in a way only you can.
It’s harder to define, and I think that’s the point. When a writer has “it,” you just know. Think of writers like Vonnegut, Dostoevsky, or Morrison. Their writing is rich with a unique voice and personality and flavor. They would tell the same story in dramatically different ways. It’s almost as if they embody their work. Their writing is their soul craft.
There are no “new” stories – just new ways to tell them. And to tell a new story, you must tell it with your soul.
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Thus, my book-obsession led me to that podium, where I surely was going to black out before I could tell anyone about these books in the first place. (I didn’t black out. I got an A).
Before graduation, Mr. Baker approached me in the hall. “I got you something,” he said, and handed me a book: Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson. “Give it a read. I heard it’s good.”
Months later, I did read it – and honestly, I think it went over my head. Even so, I could tell it was a good story. There was a secret buried in there somewhere. Maybe I should revisit that book. Maybe I should send him this essay, as a thank-you of sorts. When you find someone that cares deeply about the things you care about, you should hold onto that. That’s a good story.
Thanks for reading The G Word.
If this essay resonated with you, I’d love it if you gave it a like, restacked it on Notes, or shared it with a friend.
Until next Saturday,
G
Sounds like Mr. Baker had phenomenal taste. Marilynne Robinson is a genius. I would start with Gilead. It’s an epistolary so the writing and message is a lot more straightforward.
One thing I also think is interesting is that many of the things we regard as classics now were “popular” when they came out--meaning, the genre/popular vs literary distinction is fairly new. But Dickens and Dumas were the bestselling authors off their day.
I don’t think this means that everyone who wants to create a classic should be creating serial mysteries or schlocky airport books. But rather that they should endeavor to write in a way that obscures their craft rather than obscures their message.
The Mr. Bakers of the world are seriously unsung heroes.
Great piece as always. Such an interesting question. As I find myself increasingly reading through the lens of a writer, great writing becomes even more magical because of the seemingly invisible and effortless execution in each of the areas you touch on. So cool. Humans are awesome.