Four Chord Fiction: A Better Understanding of the Genre Born from Workshop Clichés


I finally came up with handy name and metaphor for the genre of fiction MFA programs and creative writing workshops seem to produce: Four Chord Fiction. You see, it’s like formulaic pop music where the musician plugs in a few unique elements into a set structure and out of the other end of the machine comes an audience-pleasing pop song. That’s not to say there is anything universally bad about a pop song, but understanding pop songs and the way they manipulate the listeners’ impulses requires recognition of the formula. In the same way, the workshop system indoctrinates young writers with four clichés (“Write what you know”; “Find your voice”; “Show, don’t tell”; “A character must want/learn/change, etc.”) and out of the other end of this machine comes a story with four corresponding elements (Domestic Realism; Naturalistic Free Indirect POV; Meandering Detail; Iceberg Conflict/Joycean epiphany) engineered to please, in this case, a much smaller audience: the workshop.

In fairness, this is an understanding of the workshop clichés and genre that can aid any writers who likes to write that way: understanding it as a genre is much more honest and helpful than treating the clichés as inviolable truths. But I also wanted language to critique the genre, the clichés, and the teaching technique for those, like me, who utterly disdain it.

As with pop music, part of the value of the Four Chord Story is that anybody can create a basically pleasing piece of fiction without a lot of legitimate work, just a lot of simple techniques that disguise themselves as work, and readers can critique Four Chord Story within the narrow bounds of the genre and the clichés without putting much effort into considering whether these clichés actually apply or if the clichés are even true to begin with. However, like a pop song, a Four Chord Story really should grate on the nerves of anyone with an understanding of the mechanisms at work. In both cases, if you like the Four Chord Story or not, lack of awareness of these mechanisms serves no one.


I’ve struggled in the past to explain how my experiences in writing workshops were entirely useless to me – because the workshops seemed to all be teaching a genre I was uninterested in writing, whether or not the workshop leader was brutal or kind (and I hate to critique the kind ones but I have to confess they were all equally useless) – but the problem was the genre had no convenient name. I sometimes call it the “workshop cliché story,” but this genre need not necessarily come from an actual workshop, just exemplify the same clichés. The genre is sometimes called, in a self-congratulatory manner, “literary fiction,” but “literary” is egregiously inaccurate and unhelpfully broad (and placed in opposition to the even broader and less helpful and less accurate name “genre fiction”). In my opinion, “literature” functions in precisely the opposite way. Literature challenges conventions and clichés, exemplifies excellence and virtuosity within a full range of possibilities, etc., while the Four Chord Story functions merely to please in the easiest way possible. Literature creates, innovates, fosters originality, and so on, but Four Chord Fiction actively discourages creativity in many forms and depends on preset structures and story elements far more frequently and pervasively than so-called genre fiction. Hypocritically, this version of “literary” fictions sets itself in dialectic opposition against “genres” like science fiction with exponentially more originality, creativity, vitality, and intentional violation and deconstruction of expected generic elements than Four Chord Fiction could even allow.

The other major distinction between literature and Four Chord Fiction which troubles me deeply in explaining the difference (a problem which proper naming helps me resolve) is that anybody could write a Four Chord Story, and “literature” implies a level of elite virtuosity. It’s by far the easiest type of story to write. I can appreciate this egalitarian principle without necessarily liking the result. I love Tristan Tzara’s concept of creating a poem by cutting words out of a newspaper and arranging them at random partly because that obliterates poetic elitism, but that doesn’t mean I necessarily like every poem that results from cutting up a newspaper. I support on principle any democratization of art. However, the more significant problem here in democratizing the fiction process is the tie between Four Chord Fiction and creative writing education which seems to be the place of this genre’s birth and proliferation. While elitism may be a problem society, a school is designed to set the elite level as a goal for any student (equally, democratically) to reach while not alienating or dehumanizing anyone who fails to reach that level. An educational system can affirm inherent equality of all students while retaining the elite level as a goal for all students without hypocrisy; an educational system designed to foster mediocrity in the name of egalitarianism fails in its most basic purpose. The writer in a writing class should train like Rocky in all of his Rocky montages (working class underdog everyman striving with great physical difficulty and passion for a goal far beyond his present skill level) with the writing-teacher-equivalent of Burgess Meredith barking “Do it again! Do it better!” until our writing muscles bulge with Apollo-Creed-beating perfection. Whether or not Rocky beats him is irrelevant, but that is the goal of the training montage. But Four Chord Fiction is like Burgess Meredith handing Rocky a TASER and saying, “This is how you beat Apollo Creed, and since beating him is the only goal, this is the only tool you’ll need,” and nobody ever pointing out how this is a cheat and a complete misconception of the purpose of training. It’s like going to finance school and only learning about credit default swaps (I’m hardly knowledgeable enough in finance to make this metaphor work, but Four Chord Fiction makes me scared that literature built on such a hollow structure is bound for a collapse like the Great Recession). It’s like going to a math tutor who says, “Look at the answers in the back of the book, and do everything else on the calculator.” It’s like teaching students how to use the grammar check on their computer instead of actually teaching them grammar. It’s not real training. But these metaphors are inadequate because they imply a definite rule system, and this would run counter to another major criticism of creative writing education, that there can be and should be no objective rule system in artistic expression.


Thus, I arrived at four chord songs as the perfect metaphor. This music metaphor appeals to me partly because I have throughout my life been surrounded by fans of indie music or art music or classical music who complain they can’t enjoy pop music because it is overly simplistic and formulaic and repetitive. Music experts know the tricks that allow any musician, irrespective of any legitimate creativity or originality or skill, to make a piece of music which casual fans will enjoy. Full disclosure: I got this idea from an Axis of Awesome video called “4 Chords,” and any formulaic pop song structure could work just as well, but that video thoroughly demonstrates how any musician could plug in new lyrics to essentially the same song and make something basically pleasing. Mix and match these four chords, insert various other components, and you get “Someone Like You” by Adele or “Take Me Home, Country Road” by John Denver or “Sparks Fly” by Taylor Swift or “With or Without You” by U2 or “Let it Be” by the Beatles or “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” by Smashing Pumpkins. These songs seem superficially quite different, but a music expert can hear the underlying structure. While I appreciate learning about this perspective, I am no music expert myself and couldn’t explain it any more thoroughly than that. I prefer to remain blissfully ignorant to the flaws and clichés in popular music. The songs I picked as examples are songs I like. This hopefully proves my total honesty and attempt at fairness since nobody pretending to be cool and smart would admit to loving “Sparks Fly” as much as I love “Sparks Fly.” I’d even call “Let it Be” one of the greatest songs ever. That’s a safer position in terms of coolness, but I’d rather remain in an ignorant world where “Let it Be” really can be one of the greatest songs ever. You might also consider Prince and David Bowie who both died this year. Both were lauded in their many eulogies as creative geniuses and many of their most beloved songs are pop songs, so this clearly demonstrates pop music is far from universally bad. My point is that if writers use the cliché components I describe, that does not necessarily mean they are bad writers. They could be like Adele whose virtuosity compensates for any structural deficit, or they could be like Prince whose monumental creativity forced something unoriginal to metamorphose into something entirely original.

But here’s the problem: if I went to music school and all I learned was how to play a four chord song, I’d be pissed. If I wanted to start a rock band, I’d study “Let it Be” to figure out how it was made, but I wouldn’t need to go to school for that. If I wanted to be the next Beethoven or Arthur Schoenberg, I could go to school to learn the essential structural components beyond this singular form. The level of expertise necessary to be the next Beethoven would require extensive study and training even if my aim was to break it down and create something entirely new like Schoenberg. My hypothetical Four Chord Music School would be even more problematic if it had no way to teach me anything about Beethoven, if it was designed to only teach students how to create this one type of song (no matter how good or how superficially different these songs might seem), to even imply that Beethoven was a bad musician because he didn’t fit the four chord formula – this would be egregious educational malfeasance, yet we tolerate it from fiction workshops and programs.

Here are the four structural components, or “four chords,” that make up the clichéd workshop story paired with the cliché advice at the root of the component, set up like a listicle since creative writing classes, in my experience, are more like “tips and tricks” listicles than anything legitimately called education. I also deconstruct each chord to examine what is really behind it and present an alternative version that works much better in understanding how a story works.


Chord 1: Domestic realism

Cliché: Write what you know.

A better understanding: “Write what you know” is the most insidious, anti-imaginative advice that proliferates workshops despite the monumental evidence of its falsity. The other three chords have relatively redeemable bits of advice at their core, but “write what you know” is a parasite, sucking creativity out of all other aspects of writing as well. I’m trying to be fair with Four Chord Fiction, but it’s hard to be fair with this one. It perhaps aids new writers in mining material for stories, hence the four-chord-based over-simplification: no need to imagine anything or put much work into the creative process if the material exists already in “what you know.” It becomes further problematic when the story material outside of this very limited range is deemed implicitly unfit for writing. By implication, if we should write what we know, we shouldn’t write what we don’t know. That would eliminate the vast majority of good writing. Writers would then no longer exercise their imagination, and fiction would become a sub-species of memoir. Just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s necessarily good, and it certainly doesn’t mean those who choose the more difficult option (e.g. making stuff up) are wrong to do so. Instead of following clichés, it’s much more important to recognize the stimulant value of story elements, and understanding the mechanism behind “write what you know” could, possibly, hopefully, fairly render it legitimately useful. First, the framing effect – taking any real object or event and simply reframing in the context of fiction – has a basic stimulant value, and writers can train themselves to recognize objects and events with optimal stimulant value the same way photographers develop an eye for compelling pictures. Those who disseminate this advice/lie/misconception “write what you know” may simply derive more stimulation from the framing effect than others. The subjectivity inherent in recognition of stimulant value is what gives art such variety, so limiting the possibilities of this variety to a single effect that happens to work better for some than others is counterproductive to teaching writing. Also, certain particular story components could benefit from application of “write what you know”: characters, for example. Applying this advice to plot is bound to limit a story to the blandest components, but applying this to character could aid in fostering empathy. I prefer to rephrase the advice “Write who you know, but write whatever you enjoy.” It’s important also to note that readers may reject signs of overt manipulation (most of the Four Chords seem to be aimed at eliminating signs of overt manipulation as if that is the only problem in a story). Audiences might reject some plot twist that comes off glaringly as a trick (which is ironic that this advice is essentially a trick meant to counteract a trick), but that’s why it’s important to free characters and events from conscious manipulation, to let them be and live and interact like hypnogogic hallucinations. Writers can train themselves to think in this way, but the comparative uselessness of “write what you know” is no substitute. Perhaps realists can help other realists by saying “write what you know,” but most great imaginative writers of any type, realist or not, will say “Characters write themselves.” In direct contradiction to this cliché, a writer can find great delights in not actually knowing everything about a character and discovering moment by moment places your character can lead you far outside of your knowing.

Chord 2: Naturalistic Free Indirect POV

Cliché: Find your voice

A better understanding: Crafting prose to enhance one’s own authorial voice is where much of the hard work of writing resides, so a scheme to make writing overly easy would seem to fail here, but the Four Chord concept of voice and prose present two contradictory notions that provide writers the same effortless cheat as “write what you know” and give writers the false impression of actually having done valuable work. “Find your voice” seems like it’s guiding writers toward originality, but that soon meets the supposed rights and wrongs of prose – for example, dishonestly favoring concision over euphony. “Find[ing] your own voice” matched with “writ[ing] what you know” leads to narrators who are simply speaking like the writer speaks. This avoids the legitimate effort of creating compelling narrators and is a stimulation cheat similar to the framing effect: any writer speaking honestly is going to be compelling at the base level. Any character or narrator based write-what-you-knowingly on the writer or the writer’s acquaintances is going to be nearly as empathetic and complicated as the actual person and requires the writer to little more than accurately frame. Readers may enjoy a narrator with a naturalistic voice the same way they enjoy a conversation. Chord 1 and Chord 2 effectively extract the effort and creativity out of plot, voice, prose, and character – a feat so impressive, no wonder it’s so popular. But why do so few people complain about the laziness of such overly simplistic advice? That’s where the direct contradiction of “find your voice” functions effectively to mask the laziness. It turns out that “your voice” is inadequate since an Ernest Hemingway-like or Raymond Carver-like concision is apparently the only valid voice any writer can have, and there is a whole swath of tips-and-tricks and lightweight exercises a writer can apply to any prose to make it sound like Hemingway or Carver, get rid of compound sentences, get rid of repetition/redundancy/parallelism, get rid of passive voice, get rid of essentially everything but nouns and verbs, etc. But this is not creative work. This is busy work. The computer programs I use to write will sometimes convert “&” to “&” and it takes a lot of necessary work to convert all of those to “and” (especially since some of them seem to be random conversions of entirely different formatting quirks), but I would never call this the hard work of beautifying prose. The Carverization of prose is hardly much different, but it may trick naïve writers into thinking effort has paid off with sharpener sentence. In fairness, maybe they did sharpen a sentence, but it’s in the same way a beginning guitar player comes up with a chord progression that sounds kind of like the Beatles after a lot of practice: the dopamine hits get them hooked on this type of practice, but this does not equate great musicianship. The bigger problem of this sort of busy work is it aims for robotic conformity, not the originality “find your voice” implies. I blame the workshop system for this since a workshop is structurally designed to foster this variety of conformity and not to foster legitimate originality partly because of the various social forces inherent in the workshop itself (as all social interactions foster conformity as the easiest, most painless choice) matched with the need for ease of transmission of supposed advice and ease of identification of supposed problems. It reduces the infinite variety of possibilities of voice development to a single choice: concision. Concision is fine in certain circumstances, but I often (in the legitimate hard work of prose crafting) find myself choosing between concision and euphony and falling more often on the side of euphony (as most great writers who are not Hemingway or Carver or any of their children (it’s a delight to imagine those two in the act of breeding) choose euphony over concision), but concision is appealing to the workshop system because it comes with its own Buzzfeed-like tips-and-tricks listicle that is (overly) easily disseminated. I imagine a clever programmer in the future creating a Carverbot 5000, running student prose through the system and producing the same concise and monotonous prose that finally causes the workshop system to collapse. Here’s a personal example: I remember when I came to the realization that I like strings of compound sentences, and I especially love coordinating conjunctions and the euphony of long lines. This is an example of a writer discovering his own voice which “find your voice” is supposed to celebrate. To develop my own voice, I would explore the proper placement of coordinating conjunctions to optimize the euphony of the long line. This discovery happened before I ever entered a workshop. However, without fail, someone in every workshop told me I used too many coordinating conjunctions. The only response I could give is that I like coordinating conjunctions and that I’m going to keep them. The exchange was as time wasting as someone saying, “I like pickles.” Well, I don’t like pickles and never will. I could have used all that time wasted in disseminating false objectivity to invent more monsters. Then there’s the matter of POV. Writers could use objective third, omniscient third, close third, second person, first person, and so on. Great writers can also shift back and forth between various POVs. But the Four Chord Story only uses one: close third – actually, only one species of close third called free indirect (eliminating such non-concise contrivances as “he thought”). I exaggerate, of course, because sometimes Four Chord Stories use first person (based on the illusion of legitimate voice finding) but extract that a slight step into third person (based on the illusion of legitimate crafting) and you get free indirect. The idea seems to be: find your own voice, choose any POV, use it consistently, but there is only one good POV, and that is free indirect. By the end of my MFA experience, it seemed like all I had learned was to write with a consistent POV since I knew all the other clichés already. I can’t really call this something I learned since it’s just plain wrong – read any story by Kafka (“Sorrows of a Family Man” uses four POVs in one page) or any work of fiction published before Carver, and you can easily prove how wrong this is – but the whole program seemed to be desperate to teach this to me. Based on other so-called teaching, the only acceptable POV that I must, must, must use consistently is free indirect, but this makes sense considering the pyramid-scheme-quality of the whole system: it’s like saying, “This system requires you to cheat, but we can’t actually tell you to cheat, so you just have to arrive at this conclusion by working out all this contradictory advice.” Full disclosure: I use free indirect most often in my stories, but I feel lazy doing it because it is so easy to generate empathy that way while maintaining the suspense and focus which first person can undermine. I wish I could accomplish the same thing with a different POV – I idolize Harold Pinter and other playwrights for their ability to accomplish this with a pure objective third POV – but admittedly my fixation on free indirect is a character-based bit of bitterness related to stereotypes of my so-called genre. I use a lot of tropes from magical realism, science fiction, fantasy, anime, comic books, etc. I could just imagine if I took on the challenge of objective third, some misguided stereotyper might say, “Of course you use objective third because you are writing science fiction which has flat, allegorical characters and requires narrative distance.” Everything about that claim would be so enragingly wrong and could occupy a dozen other ranty blog posts (most relevantly and enragingly: the character complexity of so-called literary/more accurately Four Chord Fiction is hypocritically accomplished by the laziest possible means), I’d have to be ultra-delicate with my objective third to be the champion of character complexity in all of my so-called genres. Instead, I favor the characters over the POV challenge as a proud and sentimental character father. But at least I do it consciously.

Chord 3: Meandering detail.

Cliché: Show, don’t tell.

A better understanding: In my experience, “Show, don’t tell” is the most pervasively dogmatic of all workshop clichés. This is due to the magical way in which it seems to make a story pop. Like the other elements in Carverian tips-and-tricks listicles, spotting the “show[ing]” and the “tell[ing]” is a fairly simple technique to transmit in a workshop setting and can easily trick the young writer into thinking this is real work and learning. But it’s only a trick, and it can easily slip into hollow dogmatism – resulting in strings of meandering detail – unless the writer understands why it works. The legitimate effect at the core of this cliché is the relative stimulant value of concrete images compared to abstractions. Compare these two descriptions: “He was embarrassed.” “His face went red as he averted his eyes.” The first (“tell[ing]”) is a relatively unstimulating abstraction, and the second (“show[ing]”) is relatively stimulating series of concrete images: an object, a color, an action, etc. Consciousness of the relative stimulant value of abstraction and concrete images is a great place to start for young writers, but “Show, don’t tell” narrows that consideration down to small percentage of the multitude of choices between abstract and concrete. A writer could validly choose to skip useless details to get more quickly to a story beat, to gloss quickly over necessary exposition for the sake of timing, to effectively employ abstraction for the sake of ambiguity or mystery. But, no, the dogmatism of the cliché implies that concrete description is always the right choice. This leads to narratives utterly packed with concrete detail with seemingly no purpose other than to fulfill this inviolable doctrine. Concrete detail may be intrinsically stimulating without any purpose other than its own value, but the more of this purposeless detail you pile into a story, the more its stimulant value becomes blunted. Let’s say I was giving a meta-narrative of my own present process, I could say, “He paused to think of what to say next. Then he continued typing.” This is too abstract to have much stimulant value. Compare this to the following description: “He took a sip of black and bitter coffee from his blue cup and put it back on the desk, the thud of the heavy mug muted by a homemade paper coaster. He looked at the broken blue stapler beside the computer monitor. Soon he heard again the rattle of his own typing.” Relative to the abstraction of “He thought of his next line,” the concrete detail is more stimulating, but if I pile on more purposeless description, I blunt the effect: “He had a white and yellow pencil beside the keyboard.” So what? That pencil is hardly beautiful, and my plain description hardly endows it with beauty, so why describe it other than dogmatic adherence to cliché? How does that description advance the story or reveal anything about the character? I could point out that I keep a broken stapler on my desk because I hate to throw anything away, and I like the translucent blue as it catches the window light. That would reveal a lot about me as a character, but that white and yellow pencil does nothing. I have no association with it, and I don’t even know where it came from, and it’s just not pretty, no offense to white and yellow pencils. It creates no stimulation, and it has no place in my story. I would be the last one to argue that art ever needs an end point value or that that should be the sole reason for a story element’s existence. I’m thoroughly untroubled by detail with a purely aesthetic value. For example, a writer can further enhance the stimulant value of a concrete detail with consciousness of poetic euphony. For example, if I used those details in a story about my inability to throw away broken staplers, I would keep relatively unrevealing details like “black and bitter coffee from his blue cup” partly for the visuals but partly for the alliteration and the iambic rhythm. Following that with the “white and yellow pencil” continues the iambic rhythm to the point of rendering the sentence bland with the mechanical repetition of detail and rhythm. It would be utterly counterproductive. This consideration of euphony can also be an effective counterargument to another clichés nearly as dogmatic: “Kill your darlings,” a cliché at the level of inarticulate offensiveness with “Write what you know,” as it seems to encourage the elimination of all story elements not purely purposeful, yet it seems to lack the dogmatic efficacy of “Show, don’t tell,” so Four Chord Stories become more commonly populated by purposeless detail than euphonious “darlings.” Better advice is to turn everything in your story into a darling so that editing becomes a choice between two darlings and not a process of destroying that which you love for the sake of a conformity to some false rule system. Euphony and concrete detail can be two “darlings” a writer must choose between. I run across this constantly because of my addiction to adverbs. I mostly overuse the word “mostly” for the sake of rhythm (this is part of recognizing my own voice, a voice which throws in many gratuitous mostlys, and precisely the process that the conformist, anti-adverb Carverization of narrative hypocritically works against). For example, I might change the above line to “black and mostly bitter” to break up the artificiality of the alliteration, but “mostly” is an abstraction. Recognizing that “mostly” lacks the stimulant value of a concrete image but may enhance the poetics of the line, I must choose which “darling” best enhances the stimulant value of the line as a whole. In this case, consciousness of the interaction between story elements is far more effective than the narrow focus on “show[ing]” and “tell[ing].”

Chord 4: Iceberg Conflict/Joycean Epiphany

Cliché: A character should want/strive for/do/learn something; good characters end the story by changing or coming to some epiphany.

A better understanding: To give young writers simple tricks to improve their characters, especially as it relates to story structure, workshops often give an extraordinarily simplified version of principles championed by the two Modernist darlings of workshopping: Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce (but only the Joyce of The Dubliners). Certainly, beginning writers may write passive characters unconsciously as much as they write passive voice sentences unconsciously. Writers are often passive and introspective people, and being a beginning writer in a workshop only heightens this, so if they “write what they know,” they’ll often write passive, introspective characters. So telling young writers that good characters are also introspective but still strive for something gives young writers a license to write about this highly internalized characters and give a simple fix to the characters’ bland passivity, enhancing the character’s vitality in the simplest way. Furthermore, workshops justify this oversimplification by claiming Hemmingway supported the same technique with his “Iceberg” theory: the conflict, according to this interpretation of the “iceberg,” happens under the ocean surface. Hemmingway, furthermore, is cool and active and tough and confident, so no wonder he becomes the heroical darling of passive introverts. But if conflict is internalized, how do you actually end the story? For that, workshops turn to the other oversimplified, overly narrow sliver of modernist technique: the Joycean epiphany. Instead of the artificial external conflict that ends with a fight to the death, a character must learn something and change. This also helps resolve the difficulty of determining an active drive for characters with internal conflicts: their drive is the drive to learn. They’re driven to overcome some misconception. They’re driven to change. A lot of supposed creative writing instruction books read a lot like self-help books, so no wonder the characters seem so thoroughly like the embodiment of self-help pop psychology (another metaphor I considered before Four Chord Fiction is self-help vs. legitimate psychotherapy). This self-help version of Hemmingway and Joyce is a poor understanding of characters on so many levels rooted in the same oversimplification and false dogmatism of the rest of the three chords. You could easily disprove it by naming any number of great characters who fail to conform to these standards. Taking the Four Chords as absolutes seems to disqualify half of all literature that came before Hemmingway, and certainly these standards of good characters seems to apply to only about half of all good characters ever. One of my all-time favorite characters is Dorothy Gale, a very active character, certainly, but she embodies all internal desires in external actions, and by the end (in the book version which I like better than the movie version) she learns nothing and she has not changed a bit. Workshop dogmatism implies that Dorothy Gale, despite being beloved by millions, is just not a good character. I would certainly never argue against internal conflict since interiority is vital to the stimulating vicarious experience, but the dogmatism seems to place internal/external as a binary choice, implying stories with external conflicts must lack internal conflicts. That’s pure nonsense. Claiming all good characters must learn something is even more egregious nonsense. Epiphany is one of many choices in character and plot development. Beyond that, the gross simplification of Hemmingway and Joyce does Hemmingway and Joyce a disservice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan of Hemmingway or Joyce. In fact, I hate most Hemmingway and Joyce stories. I spent a lot of time in workshops “learning” the supposedly inviolable truths of Hemmingway and Joyce, wondering why I was supposed to write like two writers I really hate. Was I supposed to hate my own writing? It made no sense. My favorite modernist fiction writers are Franz Kafka and Daniil Kharms, and the failure of Kafka and Kharms characters to ever learn anything enhances the mysterious quality of the stories. Hemmingway characters, for their part, may have the Icebergian internal conflicts but very rarely ever seem to learn or change. One of the few Hemmingway stories I can tolerate is “A Clean, Well-Lighted” place, and the power of the characters in that story is in their routine intransigence. Furthermore, epiphanies in Four Chord stories tend to have these very simple and obvious lessons – as simplistic in their stimulant effect as structuring every pop song with a bridge at the end – that are patently un-Joycean in their simplicity. What do the characters in The Dubliners actually learn with their epiphanies? It’s hard to identify in a single statement, and the power is partly in the ambiguity and complexity. Simplification of epiphanies as something identifiable is another effect of the workshop structure. In my experience, much of the workshop time was spent on useless “I don’t understand why” statements. If a reader in a workshop has a limited amount of time to read a certain amount of stories, the false impression may be that difficulty to understand something is a flaw. Joyce, despite the reverence, would fail to get very far in the workshop structure, a system designed, intentionally or unintentionally, to encourage conformity and clarity and discourage experimentation, difficulty, ambiguity, etc. – the precise qualities that garner Joyce so much praise (even though I’m reluctant to admit it as a Joyce hater). Beyond this, the two worst effects of the Iceberg/Epiphany simplification are to reduce character drive to a singular, identifiable goal and to misplace the value of the story in its endpoint, at the completion of that goal. A better way to approach character is to identify characters’ paradoxical drives and to recognize the story as a disruption of stasis. Beginning writers may start by identifying characters’ internal drives, but to make the character far more compelling, empathetic, complicated, potent, etc., writers should also identify the exact opposite: the paradoxical drive that runs directly counter to the first (relatively superficial) drive the writer identifies. This could be opposition between an internal drive and external actions, or this could be two directly contradictory internal drives. It’s easy to see how much more effective this is in understanding a wider variety of stories than the Iceberg/Epiphany simplification: Dorothy Gale only ever wants to go home, and her external actions are driven by this, but paradoxically, she also grows to love the friends she makes in Oz, rendering the completion of her quest more complicated (certainly not a lesson or change, by a potent endpoint nonetheless). Gregor Samsa may desire the return of normalcy, he may desire to fulfill his responsibility to his family, but that life also sucks, and he likes being a monstrous vermin. The waiter in “A Clean, Well-Lighted” place may superficially want a clean, well-lighted place as a refuge, but he also believes in “nada” and recognizes all temporary comforts are useless. Character paradox has such intrinsic vitality, I would recommend that as the starting place of any story for any young writer. If you can’t think of a story, imagine a character, imagine what he/she wants, and identify the opposite drive. Likewise, in starting a story, the writer should recognize that the story gains vitality by the disruption of stasis. Epiphany or change represents only one type of return to stasis. In a traditional heroic story with external conflict, the hero starts in a story world in peace with citizens upholding morals designed to maintain stasis; then a villain enters this environment and disrupts the stasis; the hero then defeats the villain to cause the story world to return to stasis. Similarly, Dorothy gets lost (disruption of stasis) and must return home (return to stasis). No epiphanies are necessary for this type of story. A story with internalized conflict, like the Four Chord style of realism, starts with the story world in a similar sort of stasis. There may be pre-existing internal conflict numbed by some realistic routine. Say, for example, the main character is in a bad marriage, but she has learned to live with it. Then there comes an inciting incident that disrupts the stasis. Say, for example, the dumb husband says something he doesn’t realize is emotionally abusive. How can that story end? She comes to the realization that she has to leave him, thus establishing a new stasis. Epiphany works for this set up, and an effective way for this type of character to return to stasis is to change, but that fails to prove there is any necessity for universal application.

Workshops seem to promote the notion that this is the only valid way to create a good story, and the only trajectory of a good character. In reality, this is a paint-by-numbers method of story creation. It clearly works for many people, and many people love the end results of this paint by numbers method. I may rail against this method because it limits the imaginative possibilities of fiction, stunts the evolution, kills experimentation and originality, etc., but that is merely what I value in writing. After all, formulas in pop music result in perfectly good songs for listeners who don’t care as much. Great performers like Adele, Prince, David Bowie, and, yes, Taylor Swift can take the formula and make it something original, dynamic, exciting, vital, beautiful, etc. However, I wouldn’t expect music schools to teach students this type of music. That would be ridiculous. And writing schools that promote this same sort of simplistic formula are equally ridiculous.

Ecstasy as the Deepest Level of Aesthetic Purity: The 7 Levels of Aesthetic Subordination

Seven Levels of Narrative Subordination

The discussion of value of a particular narrative too often misidentifies rhetoric or realism as the sole factor placing a text at a high (or the highest) level of quality; realism, in particular, has this false association with narrative purity, and rhetoric in narrative has the mistaken association of intellectual engagement as a necessary component of artistic value. This is a narrow perspective born from the notion that rationality has a greater value than emotional/visceral reaction. A more significant problem with this perspective is that it displaces value from the text or the work of art itself. The text has no intrinsic value, only its capacity to represent something else: so-called reality, a philosophical concept, a social condition, a sociological perspective, etc.

This is the aesthetic problem of subordination which art in the twentieth century strove to and should have eliminated. William Carlos Williams and the Abstract Expressionists should have, finally and completely, highlighted the falsity in the notion that subordination is superior to aesthetic purity.

Alas, critics seem resistant to accepting what Williams should have taught the world, slow to accept that thousands of years of traditional Western concepts of artistic value have been upside down this whole time (something that Eastern concepts of artistic value have acknowledged for just as long). This is partly because there are so few systematic ways to analyze a text given the elimination of subordination. Understandably. How do you rationally analyze something that is at its core irrational? When writers say (as so many writers do) that they have no rational purpose or intention in writing a narrative other than to explore a character’s tapestry of emotions, how then do critics take that irrational but perfectly valid claim and honor it without forcing rational analysis in places it doesn’t necessarily belong?

This is why I keep attempting to make something systematic, hence the Seven Levels of Narrative Subordination.

A more effective way to approach a work of art which has greater potential to give the irrational core its due weight is to look at the various levels on the spectrum between aesthetic purity and subordination. Considering this as a spectrum better highlights the value at both ends (since critical analysis has been stuck at one of the spectrum for too long).  By “aesthetic purity,” I just mean acknowledging the text based on its own value without subordinating the value to something outside of it. The most aesthetically pure is the least subordinated; the most subordinated is the most rational/cerebral but also furthest removed from its aesthetic core, that which gives it stimulant (visceral/emotional) value.

A spectrum, however, is not the most accurate way to consider these levels since each element in the scale builds on the next, so a work of art must start with that pure, irrational core as a condition of being a work of art. Thus, one could argue the higher levels have greater value in their relative complexity. What I have identified as the “Rhetorical” level, the highest level of subordination, most likely contains the other six levels as well, thus allowing the possibility of argument for the superiority of this type of text. However, as this level is farthest removed from the aesthetic core, it is least likely to be enjoyable, beautiful, viscerally stimulating, etc. Also, this complexity is not a necessary condition of the Rhetorical level, and containing each of the previous six levels is likewise not a necessary condition. For example, most children’s narratives are Rhetorical without necessarily being complex and without necessarily containing all seven levels within them.

Also, to clarify, I focus on levels  narrative subordination particularly because the first two levels (“Ecstatic” and “Paratactic”) work well with any type of art, but the other five apply best to narrative. For example, considering the rule systems relevant to each level is a way to understand its level of subordination, a consideration that is less helpful for non-narrative art. As a more specific example, the “Mythological” level functions based on its own internal rule system, a concept that is very useful in understanding narratives but not as useful in understanding visual art. Rule systems in narratives are an important aesthetic consideration since violation of a perceived rule system may seem like a flaw. To say this is an intrinsic or universal flaw is false, but it is important for a writer to recognize that the reader is likely to perceive this as a flaw. For example, a story on the Mythological level may include imaginary creatures who must adhere to an internal rule system without necessarily adhering to the rules of the so-called real world. A violation of this internal rule system may seem like a flaw no matter how beautiful the text may be at its core. Likewise, what I identify as a Rhetorical story must adhere consistently to the premises of the argument, and failure to do so may seem like a flaw even if the story itself is beautiful and adheres to internal rules irrelevant to the argument.

Here are the seven levels:

1)Ecstatic: The direct, visceral, irrational experience that eliminates the barrier between self and other.

  • Rule System: No rule system.
  • Subordination: No distance between the work itself and the experience of the reader/viewer.
  • Analytical strategy: As this is the most irrational level based purely on individual experience, the easiest element to access and analyze is individual emotional/visceral reaction.
  • In brief: As the narrative or artistic experience requires the elimination of the barrier between self and other, this is the most basic and purest level of an artwork or narrative, and each subsequent level must contain this at its core. This level could be called “Absurd” as absurd narratives are the most characteristic examples and least likely to contain one of the other levels as well, and it’s provocative to say that all narratives must be absurd at their core, but that word contains so much baggage it may be counter-productive. Most philosophical treatments of absurdity as a concept are Rhetorical in nature, not truly and purely absurd. The Ecstatic level is the level of pure artistic absurdity where philosophy is irrelevant and unnecessary (in other words, absurdity certainly isn’t a problem to be solved). To clarify, narratives or artistic works can function on other levels, and often with more purely absurd texts critics attempt to impose order and meaning on them (the need to impose unnecessary order and meaning on things is a common and often intense desire); however, since absurdity/ecstasy is at the core of all successful narratives and art works, meaning and order are more incidental factors than necessary components. There is resistance to recognizing this as the core of all art, arguably, for two reasons: 1) artifice appears impure; 2) pleasure for its own sake engenders discomfort and seems like a frivolous, indulgent, gratuitous, or self-serving moral violation. The answer to both of these objections/misconceptions is in the nature of ecstatic engagement: it eliminates the barrier between self and other. It is artifice (and all art is artifice to a degree) only in that it has no necessary relationship with physical reality and exists primarily in the interaction between self and other free of barriers. Tangible/physical/material reality is only more pure than this if you believe science is the only authentic mechanism for discovering truth. That is a valid position to hold, but it is hardly helpful in creating or understanding art. This connects likewise with the notion that ecstasy is mere frivolity or self-pleasing immorality, but empathy (elimination of the barrier between self and other) should be the root of morality, arguably, and is the root of morality in many religions, from the “Love your neighbor as yourself” of Jesus to the compassionate non-duality of Buddha. To feel the pain and joy of another can only be immoral frivolity if your moral system is devoid of empathy as an essential component. Again, this is a valid position but hardly relevant to art.
  • Favorite Examples: Incidences by Daniil Kharms, Amedée by Eugene Ionesco, “Sorrows of a Family Man” by Franz Kafka, etc. Frank O’Hara’s “Personism: A Manifesto” is essential reading in understanding the one-to-one interaction of the ecstatic text and the irrelevance of universality.

2)Paratactic: The juxtaposition of viscerally stimulating but seemingly unrelated images without a rational, directly stated, or necessary connection.

  • Rule system: No rule system.
  • Subordination: No element is necessarily subordinated to another, by definition, but images can relate to elements or concepts outside of the text itself.
  • Analytical strategy: Determine the images that create a visceral response in juxtaposition. Do not look for a rational connection but a purely irrational resonance. If you find a rational connection, especially where one element is subordinated to the other, this likely qualifies as the Representational level and muddies the aesthetic purity with overt rationality.
  • In brief: The line between the Ecstatic and Paratactic level are blurred since both levels function quite similarly. However, the Paratactic differentiates from the Ecstatic in that images can relate to concepts or a so-called reality outside of the text. For example, a William Carlos Williams poem might relate a “red wheelbarrow” and “white chickens” without stating how they connect (a classic, basic example of parataxis), but understanding of this parataxis might relate to the reader’s own experience or concept of farming or poverty without necessarily subordinating the images to the concepts or experiences. The text, however, becomes one step away from the pure ecstatic experience in this outward-stretching web. Another example: a text might contain multiple blue objects, and the reader may yearn to find some rational connection between these blue objects. However, the yearning for connection (a type of visceral stimulation vital for this level) is far more important than an actual, rational connection, and the reader may think of traditional associations of blue and the Virgin Mary without necessarily subordinating the text to Christian concepts. In other words, the color blue does not necessarily make the text about (“about” generally implying a level of subordination) the Virgin Mary or Christianity simply because of the presence of blue, but this irrational connection could add visceral value to the text. If the weight of history aids in arguing the importance of parataxis, subordinating a text to abstractions may be the traditional Western way of understanding a narrative (thus the taken-for-granted superior position), but parataxis is the traditional Eastern way of understanding imagery in multiple art forms.

3)Mythological: This narrative level functions based on its own internal rule system.

  • Rule system: Internal rule system set by the author, genre, narrative conventions, etc.
  • Subordination: A concept of order is grafted on the irrational/visceral elements of the text, but this rule system is essentially arbitrary; it may relate to rule systems in reality/outside of the text, but this is not necessary.
  • Analytical strategy: Identify the internal rule system and how the text fulfills or violates this rule system; recognize the relationship between the imposed order and the irrational, visceral core. For example, if a character has imposed a system of order on the absurd universe, does he/she violate this imposed order, or does the universe violate/fulfill this order in some way?
  • In brief: I call this level “mythological,” not because it has a relationship to myth criticism (as most of that sort of criticism functions on the Representational or Rhetorical level) or any narrative identified as myth (which is only one of many other types of stories on the Mythological level) but because it comes from the same impulse as myth making: to impose order on the disorderly whether or not that order has any rational relationship with scientifically measurable reality. Myths, likewise, must conform only to their own ordered system and not necessarily to any system outside of themselves. I would go further and say most narratives, by the nature of being a narrative, are intrinsically mythological if they have any sense of order or conform to any rule system. The most obvious place to see this is in so-called “genre” fiction – a vampire story follows the well-established vampire rules or sets its own but follows those consistently. However, internal rule systems are as relevant to a so-called “literary” work as they are to a so-called “genre” work. The terms “literary” and “genre” are grossly inaccurate and sloppily applied in most cases, but considering their relationship with internal rule systems clarifies their basic difference more accurately: a “genre” work conforms to rule systems within its own type and a “literary” work establishes its own, supposedly (and a “literary” work becomes “genre” when it follows the rule system established by the “literary” type). However, the most egregiously applied term associated with this level is “escapism” – escapism is indeed one of the effects of works which remain more purely within the Mythological level, but this one effect is hardly its most significant value. “Escapism,” especially in its pejorative sense, inverts the value system placing so-called reality above the narrative experience. The narrative experience can as easily be considered a greater level of reality. The relationship between the mythological and the realistic level is incidental – so-called reality fills in the gaps left by mythology but is far from a necessary condition of mythology.

4)Psychological: A separation between the purer aesthetic levels and reality by attributing the contrast to an internal/external split.

  • Rule system: Two separate rule systems, internal and external. The internal rule system may function the same as the Ecstatic, Paratactic, or Mythological level, but the subordination implies that the external rule system functions the same as the Realistic level.
  • Subordination: The non-realistic or seemingly disorderly elements are subordinated to external reality because they are attributed to psychological reflections of external factors.
  • Analytical strategy: Identify the internal and external elements in the story and determine how one reflects the other; for example, how does a non-real element reflect some more realistic element within a character’s world or something psychologically significant to the character?
  • In brief: This is the transition between irrational and rational levels because it acknowledges the value of both sides. However, this dilutes the aesthetic power of the Ecstatic core because it is subordinated to so-called reality. This is not necessarily limited to psychoanalytical criticism or rules of psychology, psychoanalysis, etc. though this can be enlightening method for approaching texts on this level. Most forms of criticism hover in the Representational level, but the Psychological level can resonate in both directions as long as it remains rooted in this two-level contrast between internal and external forces. For example, elements can function by internal rules, thus making it a Mythological narrative, but function simultaneously on the Representational level if elements stand in for abstract concepts. If this resonance takes place on two levels – for example, Mythological elements take place inside a character’s mind while Representational elements are outside of the character’s mind – and the internal elements are subordinate to the external elements, this narrative exists on the Psychological level.

5)Realistic: The narrative exists to depict something in the real (material, tangible, physical) world.

  • Rule system: The narrative must follow the rules of the scientifically measurable, so-called real world.
  • Subordination: The narrative is subordinated to the real world outside of it.
  • Analytical strategy: Focus on the accuracy of the narrative within the context of the real world. For example, an element inaccurate to material existence, scientifically established rule systems, or social conventions becomes a flaw.
  • In brief: While works within the genre called “Realism” are often depicted as purer forms for their elimination of imaginative elements, they are aesthetically impure because of their dependence on a material, tangible, physical reality outside of the texts. Any consideration of the text’s basis in reality displaces value from the text and places value in elements only incidental to the text’s core Ecstatic value. This is not applicable only to texts based on real events or texts in which events are depicted as being real. More important at this level is recognition of a narrative as being dependent on reality and valuation of the accuracy of this depiction of reality. However, if a text functions to reflect some universal concept (like the “human condition,” etc.) or has non-realistic elements which stand in for universal concepts, it is more likely Representational, a step further in subordination.

6)Representational: The narrative stands in for some abstract concept such as philosophy, sociological perspective/condition, or universalized concept of humanity.

  • Rule system: The narrative may follow essentially the same rules as the Realistic level but applied universally or at least broadly to a sociological condition, or it may follow the rules or principles of a particular philosophy without necessarily making an endpoint argument.
  • Subordination: Both real and non-real elements are subordinated to universal/philosophical concepts.
  • Analytical strategy: As most criticism hovers in this or the Rhetorical level, analytical strategies are well-established elsewhere.
  • In brief: When considering narrative analysis, this and the Rhetorical level are too often considered the only relevant levels or the levels with the greatest capacity to highlight the value of a narrative – this is the limited perspective I’m attempting to correct. The concept is that a narrative has value in that it “means” something or is “about” something when this perspective separates, by several levels of subordination, the narrative from its core aesthetic value. The Representational level essentially bridges the Realistic and Rhetorical level in that realistic elements are elevated into the abstract realm by being treated as representations of universal conditions (humans aren’t humans but stand in for all of humanity, for example) or reflect one of thousands of possible philosophical perspectives without necessarily making an argument (which would qualify it as Rhetorical). The various philosophies are well-established within criticism, so I need not spend much time explaining them, but an example might be a Marxist perspective which views elements within a text as representations of class oppression, commodification, historical cycles of revolution, etc. Characters aren’t people but social forces and conditions and only have value in their capacity to represent.

7)Rhetorical: A catch all term for anything with an endpoint value based in some abstract concept, argument, lesson, etc.

  • Rule system: The narrative must consistently follow the principles of the argument or lesson.
  • Subordination: Elements within the narrative are subordinate to the argument or lesson.
  • Analytical strategy: As most criticism hovers in this or the Representational level, analytical strategies are well-established elsewhere.
  • In brief: I call this level “Rhetorical” for the sake of the catchy three R’s of rational-level narrative subordination, but this includes many types of narratives beyond the argumentative – didactic narratives, for example. The significance is that the narrative has a purpose or that the narrative is leading to a particular end. This endpoint may be open to interpretation, but the writer is proposing some rhetorical premise subject to the rules of rhetoric or a moral principle subject to the rules or designed to develop or disseminate that particular moral principle. It differs from the Representational level only in that a Representational narrative can function more purely as a portrait of an abstract or universalized concept, but the Rhetorical level further subordinates that portrait to the ultimate purpose, argument, lesson, etc.

Summary of the “Seven Mountains Echo Chamber” Stories


Presently I’m live tweeting a series of stories called the “Seven Mountains Echo Chamber” in a structure I invented called an “echo chamber” — in other words, a series of stories posted in increments over time that echo vertically but horizontally tell a linear story (see for example “Seven Minutes to Midnight” or #7m212 from last fall). As this is perhaps a hard structure to follow, here’s a simplified guide to make it easier to jump on board midway. This is the basic schedule:

5:30 a.m. #ForeignPlanets

3:00 p.m. #UnknownWorlds

4:30 p.m. #Babylon

7:30 p.m. #PopulatedWound

11:00 p.m. #FertileCrescent

Here’s a summary of each of the stories already in progress:

#ForeignPlanets (5:30 a.m.) is the story of Far Clooney, an inadvertent destroyer of planets. Far discovers one day she has transmutation powers just as she falls on a small ice planet ruled over by a monstrous space pirate named Teddy Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt takes pity on Far, but Far soon destroys the planet  in a misguided attempt to save it. They flee through an unexpected version of outer space with gravity, breathable air, and an abundance of animal life. Teddy Roosevelt finds out from a comprehensive library inside a nearby tree planet that Far and her sisters, Claire and Greta, may together be able to eliminate the threat of red rage moss wiping out the teeming animal life, but they must find Claire and Greta and fight off the Alchemy Robots, creatures upon whom Far’s transmutation powers seem to have no effect. As Far’s powers and awkwardness lead inevitably to planetary destruction once again, she is plucked out of this adventure and placed into another by a godlike doe named Sevendoe who recruits Far to build a body planet — a planet made from a giant body — to infiltrate the army of Vampire Gorillas ruled by Michel, the Mountain of Screaming Mako Sharks, to save a monster called Old God from being turned into a body planet himself. Far finds out, likewise, her two sisters, Claire and Greta, have been recruited to make body planets with their own transmutation powers, but they both believe they appeared magically in their own perfect place: Claire on an isolated island where she gets everything she demands and Greta in a heaven full of babies. The Vampire Gorillas have agreed to allow Far to visit her sisters as long as she doesn’t reveal the paradise is fake on threat of execution of her friend and fellow adventurer and former lover, Cosby Rose, the Bleeding Ghost. Now that she’s convinced Claire to explore beyond the island and climb a lapis lazuli mountain, she must somehow find Greta, save Old God and Cosby Rose, and escape the Vampire Gorillas.

#UnknownWorlds is the story of Old God and The Broken Heart, two birth defect monsters who work as villain thugs because it’s the only work they can do. Old God is a giant who walks on all fours and wears a diaper, but he can summon lightening when he pounds the ground. The Broken Heart is a giant, disembodied heart who floats around inside a silver gyroscope-like machine; his tendrils can send victims into a heart broken paralysis. Old God and The Broken Heart love each other — as best friends and brothers in a common effort — because no one else will. Their job requires them to be beaten up and mocked by heroes, and the villain who hires them too often screws them out of the pay they’re owed. This has made Old God bitter and cynical, trusting no one but Broken Heart. Broken Heart is more often compassionate and tries to find the best in everyone despite knowing there’s little chance of any situation turning out well for them. Old God does have one other person he admires, however: a villain named Unknown Worlds. Unknown Worlds is a Promusaurifex, meaning he has a whole city full of slaves living inside his body, giving him power — except unlike the normal Promusaurifex, Unknown Worlds is filled with imaginary creatures. When Unknown Worlds displaces and flattens the entire country of India, Old God wishes somebody like that would hire them instead of their normal duplicitous a-holes. As if in fulfillment of this wish, Unknown Worlds soon arrives and whisks them off to his flattened India. He reveals that he’s actually flattened India to shock the world but created a paradise for all the residents below the surface. Unknown Worlds now considers them all his children though Broken Heart doubts his sincerity. Unknown Worlds hires Old God and the Broken Heart to discover who has made a mountain that has suddenly appeared on his flattened India. As they ascend the mountain, they discover a mysterious empty city and floating above this mountain, as if inside of a sphere, seven mountains pointing inward at each other. They then discover that the one who appears to be responsible is Broken Heart’s brother Hank, a hero who bullied Broken Heart his whole life. He has with him a team called The Orchestrals — a ragtag team of superheroes bent on revenge against Unknown Worlds including remnants of the Hospitalers, a team based on medical/crusader gimmicks, and “Murdergod” Ford Fordham — though their role in the creation of the city has yet to be revealed.

#Babylon is about Packer Seen in the small town of Oloi who makes an observation that brooks don’t babble, they whisper. Vivaldi, the local crazy person, tells him he just brought an end to the world. Later, Packer is sitting in his quiet place on a small hill outside of town when he sees Vivaldi, whom he views with pity and curiosity because of an exile status to which Packer relates, riding a horse up and down a nearby brook. Packer then observes a sideways tower growing out of the brook winding along the same shape as the water’s path. Vivaldi tells him this is the Tower of Babel which took an ancient war to suppress in its previous incarnation. He also says Vivaldis are fruits from a tree called The Red Priest that grows near the Vatican. Vivaldis are tasked with keeping the Tower of Babel from returning to existence. Packer comes back later alone and finds the tower has now grown bigger than the brook, and there is a monster in terracotta armor lurking, still and silent, on the tower’s side.

#PopulatedWound is part of the “Boodlepax and the Birth Monsters of Hell” series about a small, barnowl-like monster tasked with convincing customers not to pay to be tortured in Hell. His mouth is a paper rectangle floating an inch outside his face through which he must force his words, so often others fail to hear him or simply ignore him. He’s undaunted by the obstacle of his small size and weak voice because the torturers in Hell are so kind to him: these torturers include Mr. Peyzer who wears a red wedding dress and uses needle and thread to torture, treating each torture like the perfect aesthetic creation; then there’s Judson Almanac, the pacifist burnout with giant immobile stone wings who always finds a way around torturing customers. One night when Boodlepax has an especially unpleasant experience at his poetry group, he visits Hell looking for company and ends up helping deliver food to prisoners whose life is less pleasant and whose torture is less beautiful than paying customers, and there he encounters a mysterious woman named Sophie Echo whose prison cell is set up like the luxurious room of a captured princess.

#FertileCrescent is a murder mystery featuring eccentric detective Burdeneye Parnassus who rents a house in a neighborhood called Fertile Crescent to spy on brother and sister Tom and Amanda Wood who live side by side only three streets down from Burdeneye’s new house. His job is to find out for their estranged father if the Wood siblings are happy. He uses trips with his one and a half year old son Cole around the neighborhood in his wagon as pretense for spying, and he uses his son’s geniality and curiosity to overcome his own intense social anxiety for which taking on the detective role was meant to be a remedy. Burdeneye gets sidetracked, however, when Cole finds a piece of broken ceramic dentures with the word “Oloi” stamped on the side. This coincides with observation that the woman who lived on the dirt road behind him had ceased her regular 4:30 a.m. appearances, and the hefty, often-scarred man who lived with her, her son perhaps, seemed to bury something big around the time she went missing. Burdeneye decides he must pursue this murderer to keep his young son safe because protecting his son is the only happiness this broken man has ever managed. Now, he must somehow complete his investigation into the happiness of the Wood siblings while trying to find out if a murder has even taken place only a few feet behind his home. A conversation with the burly son, Holt Hefter, sheds little light on the situation but gives him the names of two residents of Fertile Crescent as clues: Murdergod and the Bird Man.