Sam Zwick

There was a man. He was a writer. 

“I am a writer,” he said. 

“But what have you written?” the people asked. 

It was a fair question. The answer was nothing. Nothing yet, but he knew that deep down, he was a writer. So the man decided to write. 

“I will write a story,” he said. 

And so the man wrote a story. A tale of love and loss, of good and evil, of heartbreak and triumph.

“It’s wonderful, dear! So imaginative!” his mother beamed. 

“Quite the read, my boy. Good work,” his father applauded. 

The man entered his story into a contest. Days turned to weeks, and finally, the contest closed. The winners were announced, but the man was not a winner.

“It was my first story,” he said. “I shall learn from those that were chosen and try again.”

And so the man read. The runner-up was 5,000 words about nothing but a feeling. It was not the type of tale the man would tell, but there was no denying that it was well-written. The winner was a beautiful piece of writing, though the man did not understand it. There were no characters, no arc, no beginning, no ending, just words lined up one after another in a masterful way. It gave the sense of waking up from a dream but watching as the memory of it faded into the morning light. 

“Perhaps this is writing,” the man said. 

So he tried again. He wrote word after word, a tapestry of language filling his pages. This time, he spun a simpler yarn. There was no love or loss, heartache or triumph. It still had a character, it still had an arc and it still had an ending, but the writing was the star, not the story. 

“Lovely work, darling,” his mother told him. 

His father agreed. “A worthy follow-up, son.”

The man sent it to another contest, and he waited. Weeks later, the winners were announced. Again, the man was not among them. 

“It was only my second story,” he said. “I will read more and learn more and try again.” 

And so the man read. Once more, the runner-up wrote a remarkable piece. Language was their paint, and they were a talented artist. What the picture was of, though, the man did not know. 

Then he read the entry that was crowned the winner. The man was blown away. Never before had words read this way. Each sentence was spectacular, every prose near perfect. Paragraph after paragraph flowed one into the next like melted snow through a clear mountain stream. 

The man finished reading and was stunned. “This is not a story,” he declared. “This is writing.”

And so the man wrote. He cut his characters, did away with dialogue, axed any arc, and eliminated the ending. His phrases were phenomenal, his syntax sensational. The man used every grammatical trick in the book. He bent punctuation to his will, and in the simplest of terms, he wrote. 

“It’s beautifully written,” his mother said in the way that mothers must. 

“A proper use of language,” his father said in the way fathers do. 

Once again, the man sent his piece off and waited. This time he received a letter. The man, The Writer, had won. 

Dearest Writer, the letter read, Let us be the first to congratulate you on your literary triumph. We would be privileged to host you as our guest of honor so you may speak with a promising group of young writers and impart your wisdom. 

The Writer was overjoyed. He marked the day on his calendar and when it came, he dressed his finest and took to the stage. 

The audience was filled with faces, writers like him, hoping to make their first mark. 

“How did you do it?” one young person asked. 

“I read a lot, and it helped make me a better writer,” The Writer said. 

Another hand shot up. “Your language is beautiful!” the admirer announced. 

The Writer chuckled. “Thank you,” he said. “Language is the tool of the writer.”

And so the night went. Question after question until there was only one left. 

“I enjoyed your piece,” the young lady said, “but what is it about?”

The Writer opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. His story was about…it’s a narrative of…the main theme is… 

He had no answer. 

It was a piece of writing, but not a story. There was no love, no loss, no hero overcoming insurmountable odds or even surmountable ones. It was beautiful to read, and the second you finished, it flitted away, a speck of dust in the wind leaving no discernible memory. It was simply words on a page. They looked lovely and sounded even better, but with nothing behind them, the words were simply shapes representing sounds. 

The man shook his head. “It is about nothing at all,” he said. “It is merely a piece of writing.” The man paused for a moment, looking at the faces before him. “Please,” he said, “don’t become writers.”

The crowd gasped. This man, The Writer, was telling them not to become writers? 

“Become storytellers,” the man said. Now the faces looked confused. “Writing is difficult,” he continued, “but in the way that assembling a house of cards is difficult. You can carefully stack piece after piece to create something that is pleasing to look at but has no hope of lasting. Words without a story behind them are like cards defying gravity; one small nudge and it all falls apart.” 

A few heads nodded from the front row. 

“But storytelling,” the man continued, “storytelling is a true challenge. There is no right order to the words. Sometimes, things get messy, but they should. You must create a whole world. And the world is messy, so sometimes, your story will be, too.” 

A young face near the back smiled. 

“I wanted to be a Writer,” the man concluded, “but what I really am, is a Storyteller.”

The man left that night, went home, and began to write. He wrote a story. It was filled with characters, conflict, dialogue, and danger. His vernacular was vivid, but it did not outshine the plot. There was joy and sorrow, humor and drama, and a sense of fullness his writing had lacked.

When he finished, the man sent the story out. Not to a contest, but simply for people to read. 

“I was swept away,” his mother told him. 

“Your finest work,” his father said proudly. 

“A perfect story,” people pronounced. 

The man smiled. He was glad they liked it, but above all else, he liked it. After all, he was not just a writer, he was a Storyteller, and now his story had a proper ending.