Dear fellow creative,

What do The Lord of the Rings, The Dark Knight trilogy, and Rogue One have in common?

Maybe it will help if I add another favorite movie, Gladiator. And if I had to reach into the superhero Marvel-verse, Thor. If we include TV shows, BBC’s Sherlock. If musicals can be on the list, on a less epic scale, Disney’s Newsies.  

And that doesn’t count my mile-long list of favorite books, drawing heavily from the genres of fantasy (like Megan Whalen Turner’s Queen’s Thief series) and historical fiction (like Rosemary Sutcliffe’s The Eagle of the Ninth).  

What do all these stories have in common? 

Sam Gamgee offers an explanation in his well-known speech to Frodo in The Lord of the Rings: 

“‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things the wonderful folk in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually — their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on — and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same — like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in!'” 
~Samwise the stouthearted, The Two Towers, Chapter VIII “The Stairs of Cirith Ungol” 

I like the way Sam describes these stories as “the [stories] that stay in the mind.” The stories that linger.

What does it mean to linger? The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines this verb as “to be slow in parting or in quitting something” or “to remain existent although often waning in strength, importance, or influence.”

Stories that linger are the stories that are slow in leaving your mind, that, like an aftertaste, stay around after the experience of consumption. That leave a lasting impact.

These are the stories that feature several elements in common:

• everyman heroes
• doing hard things
• perseverance
• change and growth
• sacrifice
• companionship
• a greater cause
• a bigger story
• what else would you add?

How do stories linger?

And, consequently, how does this perspective shape my writing?

First, stories linger in history. We call these “classics”: stories that have something to say about humanity in profound, creative ways, combining art and message to highlight or challenge the society of their times.  

I have no aspiration of writing a classic, but I want to write about humanity. For humanity. With messages that impact my generation, shine a light on current issues, and provoke readers to think differently.  And I hope I write in a creative way that heightens the impact of the story and also gains readers’ appreciation.

Second, stories linger in the soul. While these stories are more variable from reader to reader, their foundational elements remain similar: stories that portray a powerful human experience the audience relates to or is impacted by, with a deep message—implicit or explicit—of truth. 

These stories may not reach the high shelf of the classics, but they often contain traits or parallel traits of the classics in a style called “literary fiction.”

In his 2023 article for Writer’s Digest, “What Is Literary Fiction?”, editor Michael Woodson explains literary fiction as a style, more than a genre, that “focuses on style, character, and theme over plot—unlike most genre and commercial fiction.” It often deviates from writing norms or outright breaks conventional rules, and, as Woodson writes, “should be for the masses, because at the heart of every work of literary fiction is the human experience.”

In other words, literary fiction can have tropes and patterns of specific genres but isn’t a formulaic, dime-a-dozen production. As an aside, this is part of why I rebel so strongly against the idea of AI-written books or cut-and-paste formula series. In my opinion, the real stories—the stories that linger—are the stories that reach out of one person’s soul into another person’s soul through well-written, creative, and deep narratives.

I’m pitching my YA series as literary fiction because while I write about universal human experiences like coming of age, navigating romantic attraction, and weighing hard decisions between right and wrong, I also write about specific human experiences that will resonate with a narrower audience: chronic illness, ethnic differences, travel—narrower topics that, like a taproot, can be traced down to the subterranean current of challenges and victories every human knows.

Finally, stories don’t linger forever. No word written by a human is immortal. While stories often linger in a generation, or from one generation to the next, sometimes over centuries or millennia, only God’s Word truly lasts forever.  

I write knowing my words, like my life, are a vapor that are here one day and gone the next (James 4:14). Not even technology can make my words truly immortal, and I send them into the public hoping not to change the world for all time but to impact my small corner of the world in the time I’m given. I steward my time and talents knowing they are finite and will be judged by an infinite God.  

What makes a story linger?

Now we get to the real question: why do some stories linger, gifting the reader with lasting memories or a changed perspective, like a first-time delicious and nutritious steak, while other stories last no longer—and leave no more impression—than the oily crunch of a potato chip?

The seeds of these thoughts have been germinating over the past year, starting to sprout in other posts. For example, in my review of Lloyd Alexander’s Chronicles of Prydain in January, I started by describing the ultimately good book as a book that is good in three ways: not just appealing to the senses or pleasing to the intellect but also pointing to a message of truth.

I unpacked that message of truth in my Christian writer’s mission statement in June, claiming an obscure verse in Ezekiel 13 that demonstrates God’s desire for His messengers to tell the truth, because truth will encourage the righteous, combat evil, and turn the wicked from death to life.

As I mentioned above, if you look at the classics, and most literary fiction, you see them elevated by a unique or powerful demonstration of art (beauty), message (truth), or, most commonly, both, because truth teaches the soul while beauty reaches the soul.

Let me unpack this combination:

Art without message

Can art exist without a message? This idea was the root of the Aesthetic movement: valuing art for art’s sake rather than for the message it communicated or the purpose it served. (Does art need to communicate a message? That’s a conversation for another time, but this movement and its effects, at least, suggest that art can be created without an intentional message.)

In the world of stories, art without message includes stories that benefit the senses or the intellect only: they’re creative or nice but communicate no underlying, overall theme or message. For example, I love the Jason Bourne movies, and they could be considered artistic with their intricate plots, creative filming techniques, and emotive soundtracks, but they carry no real theme. I come away with a great adrenaline rush but that’s it.

Like all writers, I have ideas for pieces (short or long) that tell a fun or interesting story but communicate no theme. Per my mission statement, however, the stories I’m going to invest my time in and want to share with the world are the stories that communicate an intentional message of truth.

For Christian writers, art without message is a disservice, at best, to our calling as truth-tellers.

Message without art

On the other side, a message can exist without art, though as Neil Postman writes in Amusing Ourselves to Death, no message can be communicated without a medium (some format of communication), and the medium does and must shape the message. As a result, I believe a message needs some form of art in order to be communicated.

For the sake of this post, however, let’s consider the difference between a sermon and a story: a sermon could be a message didactically communicated (goal: to teach) without any frame of art, while a story is a different medium that is not didactic (goal: to entertain) but can imply a worldview or message through events, dialogue, character change, and other story elements.

There are, unfortunately, stories that are message without art, and they’re the reason Christian fiction is currently working hard to combat the bad reputation it has (sometimes rightfully) earned. These are the “preachy” stories, or the stories that have a good plot and maybe a good message but the writing is terrible.

Imagine going with a friend on a scenic drive. If your friend’s vehicle is a 1972 sedan so rusted you can’t tell the make, model, or color, with holes in the floor and no doors and flat tires and an engine that chokes like a cat coughing up a hairball, when it even runs—you’re not going to pay any attention to the scenery. You won’t last thirty seconds in that car, if you get in it in the first place.

Now imagine your ride is a 2024 Jaguar F-Type with a 444-horsepower engine, all-wheel drive, leather seats (heated and cooled), rain-sensing wipers, ten speakers, lane departure warning, and a sunroof. You’re going to enjoy that scenic trip, aren’t you?

As a reader, bad writing is one of the biggest turn-offs for me, and it will determine whether I stay or go on the first page. You might have the best message to tell, but if I can’t even get in the car without a panic attack, I’m not going with you, sorry.

As a writer, then, I owe it to my readers to use art well. Art is the vehicle that carries the message, and if I want readers to hear what I have to say, I have to make sure they’re at least willing—if not interested—to listen to me first.

Art with message

As a Christian writer, my calling is to art with message, story with meaning, a combination of beauty and truth. I’m also called to employ both well—to use quality art to communicate biblical truth—because both reflect back on the Creator, the ultimate source of Beauty and Truth.

This combination of art and message is what creates the classics, the literary fiction, the stories that linger.

When J.R.R. Tolkien penned Sam’s words to Frodo, I wonder how much he was thinking about his own saga that would become a hallmark of this very idea, a beacon lighting the way for generations of writers coming after him.

So, to put words to my promise to you as friends and readers, I borrow from the reflective speech of a hobbit gardener to his friend and master, a character created by one of my writing heroes and perhaps the modern world’s greatest fantasy writer:

The stories that tell truth in a beautiful way, the stories that speak to human experience, the stories that linger in the reader’s soul—these are the stories you can expect to see from my book reviews on the blog and my book recommendations on social media, as well as (hopefully) from my own pen someday, with the occasional non-fiction review.

Because the stories that linger, they’re the stories I love to read, the stories I love to write, and the stories I love to share.

If you’re along for the ride, thanks. Buckle your seatbelt, roll down your window, and let’s enjoy the scenery together.

From my soul to yours,

Melissa