So somehow I ended up with 20 college credits, 2 part-time jobs, and a novel releasing in November.

Whoops.

In an effort to stay on top of my typical over-achiever-ness, I’ve started tackling some of my college textbooks over the summer. (Given that the books in question are almost entirely primary sources, it’s not as dry as it sounds.)

As a fantasy writer, I’m not sure I’m always enjoying the books for the intended reasons. (Like when I read Plato’s Republic and thought it would be a fascinating premise for a novel.) But Aristotle’s Poetics found a soft spot in my heart—because not only is it a book entirely about writing, it’s also the oldest surviving book on writing.

And in well over 2,000 years . . . not that much has changed.

So here are my top takeaways from my summer foray into the world of Aristotle, Greek tragedy, and millennia-old writing advice.

1. I don’t agree with everything Aristotle says.

And I felt slightly betrayed because of that. Not that I’d read a ton of Aristotle prior to Poetics, but enough to consider him an absolute genius.

Until this passage in Poetics:

“Second best [to a truly tragic tragedy] is the kind of plot which some people like most: a double plot like the Odyssey, with a different ending for the better and worse characters. It is regarded as best only because of the weaknesses of the audience; the poets follow the lead of the public and pander to its taste. But this is not the pleasure proper to tragedy, but is more characteristic of comedy.”

So aside from Aristotle’s digs at Homer (the nerve!), I think he’s wrong. (And I guess he would consider me a member of that “weak audience,” but whatever. He’s still wrong.)

The thing is, real life is a blend of tragedy and comedy. Humor shows its true glory in times of deepest discouragement. If the Odyssey were a tragedy, Odysseus wouldn’t have gotten a happy ending. And if it were a comedy, Penelope’s suitors would have.

And to me, that choice is deeply unsatisfying.

In real life, good isn’t always rewarded and evil isn’t always punished. But both will be in God’s time—whether in this world or in the next. And the whole point of literature is to show the world not only as it is, but as it should be.

A good artist can depict something as it is—can paint a still life so convincing it looks like a photograph.

But a truly great artist can depict what ought to be so vividly that we yearn to make it true.

So yes, tragedy is more realistic than Aristotle’s disparaged “double plot.” In a way, even comedy is more realistic—a reflection of the insanity of the mercy of God.

But what’s truly satisfying to a reader is that blend of mercy and justice found in the cross. In the death of the unrepentant thief—and the redemption of the other.

True tragedies are powerful because they serve as a sobering wake-up call, a reminder that our action have consequences. But unmitigated justice doesn’t bring tears to a reader’s eyes.

Only the unexpected mercy of God can do that.

2. Plot matters more than character.

I almost disagreed with this. But I won’t be too belligerent—he is Aristotle, after all; he must have gotten something right. . . .

And once I took the time to think about it, I do actually agree. I read books more for the characters than for the plot. If a story has a shoddy plot but well-developed characters, I’ll enjoy it. The reverse does not hold.

But what defines characters, more than anything else, are their decisions.

Backstories, character tics, and personality types are all useful for behind-the-scenes work, but what really matters is the choices a character makes. Our decisions reveal who we are—whether we are fundamentally kind or selfish, patient or irritable, generous or stingy. An author might tell you what a character’s like—but you won’t truly believe that until you see it in action.

So I will condescend to agree with Aristotle on this point—but with the caveat that the plot exists because of the characters, not vice versa. (Okay, I guess in theory you could construct the plot first and then come up with characters to fit it, but that’s not how my brain works. And also, I’m enjoying disagreeing with Aristotle here.)

3. Let your characters sin.

Or, in Aristotle’s words: “A poet exhibiting people who are irascible and indolent [aka hot-tempered and lazy] should show them as they are, and yet portray them as good men.”

And elsewhere, when describing the best main character for a tragedy: “A man not outstanding in virtue or justice, brought down . . . because he errs in some way.”

In other words, let your characters be human. Let them make mistakes—let them sin—and let them suffer the consequences.

But don’t caricature them, either. Writing is a dangerous job, because it’s all too easy (at least for me) to slip into self-righteousness. (I would never act like the villain of my story! Never! And that stupid decision the main character makes at a crucial moment? I’d know better than that. Definitely.)

That self-righteousness has the potential, when indulged in, to destroy a story.

We love characters who are aspirational—characters we look up to and strive to be like. But we also love characters who are relatable. Characters in whom we can see our own follies and foibles.

And that’s what Aristotle is talking about here. Good characters are those who err—and yet are still good men. Not characters who are justified in evil actions because they’ve been victimized in the past. Not antiheroes who can get away with dubious morality because they’re tall, dark, and handsome (oh, and don’t forget the tragic backstory!). Not even impossibly virtuous characters who’ve never so much as lost their temper and don’t have a hair out of place.

No, Aristotle is saying we should write about human beings—human beings with the capacity for both great good and great evil. Human beings who will snap at or die for their loved ones. Human beings who will work and sweat and sacrifice—and complain. Human beings who, when faced with fear, will either turn tail and run or walk without hesitation into the line of fire.

No human being is pure good or pure evil. Even we redeemed Christians still wrestle our sin daily—and even the most depraved sinner still has a conscience and an eternal soul made in the image of God.

The mythology of the Greeks, like popular fiction today, simplified morality by embracing subjectivity. Good and evil were what the author (or the gods) declared them to be.

But when you instead cling to objective morality, the world becomes infinitely more complicated. Good men suddenly look evil, and villains start to have a shred of honor left.

Don’t fight that. Embrace it.

Let your characters sin—and let them, like Edmund, sin greatly.

But let them be redeemed.

4. Let your heroes (almost) fail.

This is the distillation of several pages of complexity (one wonders if it might be easier to read it in the original Greek—and no, I don’t know Greek, but it still might be easier), so forgive me for not quoting Aristotle here . . . I think it would be unnecessarily confusing if I attempted it.

But what he’s saying in this section of Poetics is that the most satisfying twist in a story is for a hero to come to the brink of disaster (i.e. almost killing a family member), only to realize the truth in the nick of time. (Either that or Aristotle thinks it’s better if the hero realizes the truth too late, I’m honestly not sure. But let’s put the best construction on this, shall we?)

And with this, I can wholeheartedly agree.

It takes courage to let your hero break like this. And while I rarely give my characters easy victories, the obstacles tend to be external. Invading armies that far outnumber the small heroic band, for example.

But what Aristotle is talking about here is something far more visceral—more terrifying, and infinitely more powerful.

To allow your hero to come to the brink of disaster—and turn back.

To allow Frodo to stand on the precipice of Mt. Doom and claim the Ring for his own.

To allow your hero, ultimately, to fail.

But I’m a firm believer in happy endings—hence my more optimistic interpretation of Aristotle. Sending your hero to that brink of destruction, letting him teeter on the point of no return—that makes your hero deeply human. Capable of erring. Capable of failing.

But we really want our heroes to be more than human. Someone we can look to not just as a fellow sinner, but as a role model. And that’s why the “almost” is so important here.

Give your hero what he needs to win—whether it’s courage, honor, love, or even sheer desperation.

But let him come to the very verge of losing, and you’ll create a character that readers will never forget.

5. Good writing is simple, but never simplistic.

Aristotle writes, “The best style is one that is clear without being vulgar [“vulgar” meaning “unsophisticated”]. The clearest style is one that uses only common words, but this is vulgar, as the poetry of Cleophon and Sthenelus [no, I don’t know who they are] demonstrate. On the other hand, the use of exotic expressions—foreign words, metaphor, lengthening, and anything else out of the ordinary—makes a style solemn and elevated beyond the norm.”

In other words, good writing isn’t overly complicated for the sake of complexity. Rather, good writing serves the story. Simplistic (or “vulgar”) writing is only suited to a simplistic story—and that’s not what most of us are trying to write. But if the literary style is more complex than the story, the result is comedic at best.

Take, as an example, the Paddington books, which I’ve recently been rereading. (And if you haven’t read them, by all means, do!) Michael Bond’s writing style is clear and simple, but so is the narrative—these are children’s books, after all.

On the other end of the spectrum we find something like Paradise Lost. Milton’s literary style is so elevated as to be almost incomprehensible. But so is the story he is telling. Can any of us really comprehend what Eden would have been like, or what depths of mercy moved God to redeem rebellious Man? The complexity of Milton’s writing serves to emphasize the theme of his story.

Most writing, of course, falls somewhere in between. (If you want an example of this done extraordinarily well, I encourage you to check out Regency and Regicide by J. J. Fischer—a delightful comedic fantasy with writing perfectly suited to the story.)

This gets especially complicated since the best writing style can vary within an individual story. Action scenes tend to have shorter, punchier sentences. Introspective scenes usually have longer, more complex sentences with more metaphorical language. And both of those can be used within the same story.

But stories tend to have a certain overall mood, and this is where it’s helpful to be aware of some mechanics of writing. As mentioned above, action scenes generally have shorter sentences and paragraphs, with fewer adjectives and more nouns and verbs, and the same is true of action-focused stories. A story with a more mythical feel, on the other hand, will tend to have longer, more complex sentences and paragraphs, more detailed descriptions, and flowery language throughout.

Neither of those is better or worse—each is suited to the story being told. If, as Aristotle says, we value clarity, that means sometimes choosing complexity. A story of mythical proportions cannot be clearly told without some level of complexity.

At the same time, beware of complexity for complexity’s sake. There’s a point at which flowery or even beautiful writing becomes a turnoff for the reader.

So instead of worrying too much about whether your writing is beautiful enough, let your prose serve your story, and writing style will generally take care of itself.

6. Good stories are truer than reality.

This sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? After all, what can be truer than what’s real?

But there’s a very definite line between truth and reality, one that I think is often overlooked by readers and writers alike. To be clear, I’m not advocating subjectivity here. I believe there is absolutely objective truth, and this truth is external—not to be found within our own hearts or minds.

But at the same time, we live in a fallen world that portrays this truth imperfectly at best.

Aristotle writes, “Poetry [and by extension, fiction, which wasn’t really a thing at his time] is more philosophical and more serious than history; poetry utters universal truths, history particular statements.”

In other words, there are flukes in history that don’t always represent the divine justice that will come to pass in eternity. In history, we see good men suffering as evil men rise to power. We see the innocent destroyed, and the wicked victorious. We see lies rewarded, and truth punished.

And that is a very dangerous way to look at the world.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t study history—I am a historian’s daughter, after all, and my love of stories came in large part from my early history curriculum.

But studying history alone is not enough, because history is a story that isn’t done being written.

Imagine if you read Pride and Prejudice, and stopped after Lydia ran away with Wickham. Wouldn’t you conclude that being virtuous like Lizzy or Jane is worthless—that promiscuity is the only path to happiness?

And yet, the conclusion of Pride and Prejudice is the exact opposite. Your understanding of the story would be warped if you stopped in the middle, because the answer is always in the ending.

Likewise, history is an unfinished story. We learn a lot about human nature—and about natural consequences—from studying history. But there are certain things that we see more clearly in fiction than anywhere else. We see that good can and does conquer evil—that it always will in the end. We see that justice eventually catches up with even the most cunning villain. We see that our suffering here on earth is only the dark middle of the story—not the brilliant end.

So yes, stories—even fairy tales—are truer than reality.

Is it real that Cinderella’s fairy godmother gave her what she needed to go to the ball?

No—but it’s true that God will provide everything we need, even when we least expect it.

Is it real that Sleeping Beauty, through her own disobedience, fell asleep for a hundred years, only to be woken by true love’s kiss?

No—but it’s true that the selfless love of our divine Bridegroom will wake us from the sleep of death.

A story does not have to be factually real in order to be thematically true. This is what makes storytelling one of the most beautiful and most dangerous vocations. If you once lose sight of the deep truths contained in every story, you risk feeding your readers a lie instead.

But if you can wield those truths wisely—not in a way that is dishonest or didactic—you strengthen your readers’ imaginations to be the best possible shield against the devil’s trickery.

Aristotle’s Poetics is over 2,000 years old—and at a glance, some of his advice looks antiquated and out of date. And to be fair, a lot of it is. We read more novels than we watch theater these days.

But human nature doesn’t change, even though literary forms do. And much of what Aristotle says holds true today because of that.

I don’t agree with everything Aristotle says. But I also don’t think literature is somehow fundamentally different just because we happen to be in the 21st century now. Yes, the world of fiction is always changing. Yes, we as writers need to be aware of what’s happening out there.

But sometimes, we also need to look to the wisdom of the past—to study what great writers of the past have said on the art of telling a good story.

After all, if human nature doesn’t change, why should stories?

All quotations are from the Oxford World Classics edition of Aristotle’s Poetics, translated by Anthony Kenny. If you’re interested in reading Poetics for yourself (it’s only about 40 pages long, if you skip the introductory material), you can purchase it at this link.