A story must be rational.
Art has to make sense.
Mystic writing employs the technique of hinting abstractly at points, flirting with the subconscious, giving us glimpses of a distant meaning, but once we try to reach for it, it's much further away than we were first let to believe. We're dragged in deeper, into a world of dream-logics and riddles without definite answers. Curiosity grows with the longing for the promised revelation, but it never comes out in a way that satisfies the rational mind, because if there are any answers buried deep in the soup of riddles, they are ones that defy rationality altogether – they are reserved for the subconscious mind to understand. Mysticism builds a trance, lowers your guards, and then…
Oh, hang on. A story must be rational.
If you ask a painter what their painting means, they will likely reply: "If I could tell you plainly, I wouldn't have had to waste my time painting this, would I?"
Is it so much different with a story?
All schools of writing, all self-help gurus and seminar holders will tell you right off the bat: "Know your story! You must be able to sum it up into a single line, its theme into a single word, and not a leaf may fall in your story world without you knowing it! Plots may have no holes, all questions must have answers, and you as the writer damned well better know them all!"
The result is a stream of writers typing away at manuscripts with 3 act structure, perfect causality and defined character goals presented at the 10% mark. The result is a stream of airport crime novels and Hollywood summer-blockbusters. All wonderfully polished, entertaining and last but not least: They make sense.
Something that makes sense is invariably mundane.
Art has to make sense?
Could you, rationally, write a story that speaks to a part of the human mind that rationality has no hope of understanding? Could your conscious mind relate a story to the subconscious one of others? Shouldn't you rather be on location?
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