The „Best Book on Writing“

Storytelling Secrets from George Saunders‘ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain

Review by Bernd Friedrich von Schon

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What can you expect from a writing guide praised by renowned authors? A book so highly recommended that none other than Doris Dörrie declares it to be “indispensable for everyone who loves reading and writing,” a sentiment that Daniel Kehlmann takes even further by stating that it is “the best book on writing he has ever read.”

Before reading George Saunders’ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain {*}, I felt a sense of trepidation: Would the book live up to the promises made by others?

What does Saunders want to teach us?

Recognize the World and Trust Yourself

Saunders seeks to introduce literature as a means for unprejudiced understanding of people and the world. According to him, literature gently and entertainingly broadens our horizons. For Saunders, writing and reading are always journeys of world and soul exploration, exercises in empathy and mindfulness.
Furthermore, Saunders aims to instill a basic trust in your own taste, trust in your writing process, and trust in yourself as an aspiring writer.

To illustrate his approach, he draws from four of the greatest Russian storytellers—Tolstoy, Chekhov, Turgenev, and Gogol—analyzing the (in his opinion) best seven short stories of theirs to extract universal principles of good storytelling.

Who is this George Saunders, anyway?

Master of his Craft

George Saunders has taught creative writing for over twenty years, currently at Syracuse University in New York. Moreover, he is not only a theoretician and educator of writing but also a practitioner. After several short stories, he published his first novel, which quickly became a bestseller — Lincoln in the Bardo {*}.

The Rolling Stone praised it as “an extraordinarily original, eccentric book, in which the comic and the deeply moving, the absurd and the human, magically balance each other.”

With Saunders, we undoubtedly have a master of his craft. So, when such a figure engages with the short stories of four of the greatest writers in history to unearth insights about writing, the result is bound to be fascinating.

What does Saunders essentially want to tell us?

This Way, and No Other!

First and foremost, Saunders is skeptical of rigid rulebooks that come with overwhelming self-confidence, claiming: “This is how it must be done.” He does not wish for his book to be misunderstood as offering “the final word of wisdom.”

Where does Saunders’ skepticism towards definitive storytelling rules come from?

It likely stems from his particular view of the world and literature.

No Final Certainties

According to Saunders, what we believe we know is always incomplete and flawed, merely provisional, never the final word of wisdom, always only a fragment of the larger puzzle.

He attributes to Tolstoy the “empathy of a saint,” as he contrasts the perspectives of various characters, which contradict each other, while Tolstoy refrains from making judgments about their correctness, truth, or completeness.

Good literature, Saunders argues, should strive to reflect our inherently fragmented and distorted view of reality, not by seeking to impose our opinion through the story but rather by effectively contrasting attitudes, perspectives, and positions.

Since great literature, in Saunders’ view, brings our fragmented understanding of the world into sharp focus, it becomes something marvelous: it highlights the blank spots on the map of our worldview, teaching us that there is always more to discover, that it is worth refraining from hasty conclusions, and that we should listen to others with openness and empathy.

For him, this leads to the following conclusion:

“Any narrative that displays moral flaws (such as being sexist, racist, homophobic, transphobic, pedantic, appropriative, plagiaristic, etc.), if we analyze it deeply enough, will be shown to be technically flawed, and once those flaws are fixed, it will (always) be a better story.”

George Saunders

According to Saunders, literature does not fare well with opinion pieces. He advises aspiring writers:

“Keep your opinion out of the story.”

Despite his skepticism towards rigid rulebooks and final convictions, Saunders does, however, hold a clear stance on what constitutes a good—and perhaps even great—story.

Moreover, Saunders extracts additional principles of good storytelling from the seven masterful stories.

What You Can Learn From Saunders:

• What makes a good story
• How to read attentively, which helps you become a better storyteller
• How to create characters that evolve
• How to build your narrative in a logical, escalating way
• How to imbue every detail of your story with meaning
• How to tell your story efficiently
• How the strange can help you tell the truth
• How to lead your writing to a satisfying conclusion

Naturally, I cannot present all of Saunders’ insights here in full, but I will endeavor to highlight his most important discoveries.

What, beyond what has been said, characterizes a good story, according to Saunders?

Stories as “Black Boxes”

In short: A good story changes (at least) one character and you along with them.

For Saunders, the least a story should do is alter our emotional state at least once. “A narrative is a black box: the reader enters in one emotional state and exits with another. What happens inside this ‘black box’ should be exciting and not trivial.”

A story should intensify our feeling; we should feel as though we have experienced something meaningful through it.

Such “meaningful experiences” are often “shared experiences,” meaning: they occur through identification with one or more characters, whose fate(s) we participate in.

Thus, Saunders’ writing workshop advises, “For a text to become a proper story, something must happen in it that forever changes the life of a character.”

Between the “Once upon a time…” of a fairy tale and the “…and if they haven’t died yet, they’re still alive…” lies a moment of profound, irreversible change.

But how do you learn to turn moments of significant change into good stories?

Saunders recommends: Practice by studying the masters and learning from them.

Thus, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain {*}  is always also a course in mindful reading.

Read attentively, Page by Page …

You can train such precise, instructive reading with Saunders’ page-by-page exercise: Before moving on to the next page of a story, pause and ask yourself:

• What makes you curious?
• What kind of story does this narrative seem to be?
• Where do you think the story is going? What might happen next?
• How do you think the story will end?

Write down:

1. What do you know so far (about setting, characters, plot, etc.)?
2. What piques your curiosity?
3. Where do you think the narrative is headed?

Additionally:

• List what could happen next.
• Which continuation would disappoint you?
• Which development (of characters, plot, tone, style, etc.) would be inappropriate?

Finally:

• Sum up what the story is about in as few words as possible.

Through this exercise, you learn where the story is directing your attention.

A second exercise Saunders recommends:

… and Cut Off the Ending!

Choose a point near the end of a story, cut it off—with scissors or imaginatively, whichever you prefer—and ask yourself: Is this already a story? What’s missing?

Through this exercise, you learn which narrative threads can be left unresolved and which demand to be neatly tied off, thereby learning how successful, satisfying endings should be structured.

Both exercises are aimed at exploring the tools of how a successful narrative unfolds.

What further …

Principles of Good Storytelling

… Saunders has uncovered by careful reading?

First and foremost, it is essential to recognize that stories negotiate „problems“—problems that hinder people, upon which they grow, which they solve, or which they ultimately fail to overcome.

A story with a problem is like a person with a problem: intriguing.

George Saunders

Other teachers of dramaturgy might refer to this as a „lack“ or a „disturbance“ that the main character must resolve, or a „conflict“ into which the plot thrusts them.

However, in order to present a character with a problem, we must first create that character.

Create a Character From a „Fragment of Yourself“

According to Saunders, when creating a character, „we export fragments of ourselves, then we give these fragments trousers and a hairstyle, a hometown, and all of that.“

But what exactly does Saunders mean by such a „fragment“ of ourselves?

„Most of the time,“ as the author explains, „we identify with certain opinions and assess the world from that vantage point. Our inner orchestra is instructed that certain instruments should dominate, while others should play softly or remain silent altogether. When we write, we are given the opportunity to alter the mix. Raspy instruments are invited to the forefront, while our usually trumpeting convictions are asked to sit quietly, their horns on their laps. This is good; it reminds us that the quieter instruments were always there.“

What Saunders so vividly portrays here is reminiscent of an observation by the Austrian winner of the Büchner Prize Clemens J. Setz, who expressed a similar idea in an interview. He spoke of separate „extra-brains“ that we send on an exploratory journey into the world, in place of our usual thinking organ.

Both writers, then, suggest that we take a particular trait, attitude, or belief—something we grant less space to in our everyday lives—and make it the central essence of our character, in a „What if?“ manner.

The idea of using a single characteristic like modeling clay to shape a character is reminiscent of Will Storr’s „Theory of Control“ from his Science of Storytelling {*}, which I discussed in my review of the book. This theory revolves around a core belief that the character holds, one that they believe will enable them to move forward in the world with clarity and purpose, a belief they must now test through the events of the story.

From Character to Story – How Trait Meets Adversity

To transform a character into a story, a trait must meet adversity. Saunders writes: „Once our stick figure has been given a characteristic trait, the narrative sets about testing that trait.“ This again echoes Will Storr’s The Science of Storytelling {*}, which argues that the plot exists to test whether a particular „Theory of Control“ — a method for navigating life and advancing through it — can succeed.

For Saunders, it’s also about reflecting on a particular trait in all its virtues and flaws, exploring it through the story in a variety of ways. Thus, a character develops progressively.

Though Saunders advised:
“Keep your opinion out of the story,”
he also recommends:
“Ask yourself how you can use beliefs.”

In Anton Chekhov’s Gooseberries (1898), he assigns one of his characters a strong opinion but undermines it by showing that the character seems to not live up to his own ideals.

As Saunders explains, “Chekhov… does both: the force of a passionate opinion (whose truth we feel) and its disruption by attributing it to Ivan (whose flaws we notice).”

In Leo Tolstoy’s Aljosha the Pot (1911), the titular figure’s attitude of „joyful obedience“ initially seems to offer him an easy life, but as it obstructs his capacity for love, it begins to spark increasing scepticism.
On the one hand, one might say the story advocates joyful obedience; on the other, it suggests that this very obedience is all too often exploited.

Saunders writes: „The miracle of this story lies in refusing to answer that question or, more precisely, in successfully answering it in favour of both perspectives simultaneously. (…) The story, then, is exactly these two coexisting interpretations, which joyously wrestle with each other forever.“

These examples illustrate how a trait grows into a character, and, when confronted with adversity, spawns a narrative that deals with conflicting views without forcing a single, unequivocal stance upon its readers.

In terms of characterisation (and storytelling in general), the rule is:

Be specific!

For well-observed, eavesdropped, sniffed-out, and felt details, woven into the story, help create a vivid, varied, fragrant, sonorous, and ringing world before the reader’s eyes. We humans seem obsessed with speaking facts.

Through Chekhov’s short story In the Cart (1897), Saunders demonstrates how the main character, Maria, through „increasing specification,“ increases the potential for „significant action.“

In essence: the more detailed a character is, the more vivid and tangible they become for the reader, opening up avenues for interest and engagement.

However, this doesn’t mean you should bore your readers with an exhaustive list of details. So, where should you be specific and where should you remain general in your character portrayal?

It’s simple: Once your character steps onto the stage of your story, readers expect something from them. The more they get to know the character, the more precise their expectations become.

Good stories begin with a character’s entrance into a dialectical play: expectations are guided and confirmed, yet also contradicted. And from this interplay of fulfilling and breaking expectations, a vivid, lifelike character gradually emerges.

For: If your character is one-dimensional, they will appear flat, and your story will remain trivial. But contradictions in your characters increase their credibility and, with it, the “truth” of your narrative.

How does this play of fulfilling and breaking expectations relate to the change in both your character and your readers?

Chekhov’s In the Cart tells us that the protagonist, Maria, is lonely. This evokes expectations regarding the progression and genre: Will Maria remain lonely? Are we reading a love story?

Maria’s loneliness elicits our sympathy. No one likes to be alone. And Maria, too, deserves better. We come to like her. But then Chekhov reveals flaws in Maria that we may struggle to accept. Yet, these imperfections only deepen our engagement with her.

As Saunders puts it: „Maria is not: a perfect person and lonely. She is: an imperfect person and lonely. We feel pity for the lonely, imperfect Maria, as we would for an imperfect, lonely person we have loved, or for the imperfect (lonely) person that we ourselves are.”

Interestingly, Saunders holds a view similar to Aristotle’s in his venerable Poetics {*} — the main character of a tragedy should neither be a flawless hero nor a villain, but someone we can like, who nevertheless suffers a tragic flaw.

Returning to Saunders‘ Chekhov analysis:
Once Maria meets Chanov, readers‘ expectations sharpen: Is Chanov a potential lover? Is this a classic meet-cute? Will there be a happy ending?

This demonstrates that readers not only have expectations about characters but also about the type and progression of the plot.

Do Not Shy Away From Using Story Patterns

You cannot escape readers’ expectations about the type and progression of your story. Readers expect repetition and variation, and typically enjoy it when surprising twists appear. Thus, do not hesitate to use established patterns, but use them wisely and vary them creatively.

Through Chekhov’s The Darling (1899), Saunders shows how recurring patterns (the protagonist Olenka falls in love, adapts to her lover, the love ends, she falls in love again, and so on…) create, direct, and break expectations: the recurring, varied pattern forces readers to compare the episodes of love, which is exactly what the story requires.

The raison d’être of Story

In Chekhov’s In the Cart, it becomes clear that Maria’s longing to end her loneliness — and with it, the readers‘ longing — will remain unfulfilled.

Yet, Chekhov grants his character a brief moment of strength and self-confidence, suggesting a potential change. We wish for Maria to move from loneliness to strength.

The essence of the story is not spectacular. Essentially, it says: “Yes, that’s how the world is.” Still, we have gotten to know Maria and her problem, accompanied her for a portion of her journey, and her fate has moved us. And that is enough. Saunders quotes Chekhov as having once said:

„Art does not have to solve problems. It just has to state them properly.“

Anton Chekhov

To „state them properly“ can be understood as „making us fully feel a problem, without denying any part of it.“

According to Saunders, good stories strive for this truthfulness: when people encounter difficulties, they are never one-dimensional. There are rarely comfortable, simple solutions, yet we experience moments of triumph, joy, strength, and hope.

To tell a story coherently, elegantly, and effectively, Saunders recommends stripping away all unnecessary elements, which boils down to the command:

Be Brutally Efficient!

Saunders argues that storytelling is, in terms of „efficiency,“ a „brutal genre.“

What does he mean by this?

One of the core questions readers will ask themselves when reading your story is: “How efficiently is this story told?”

Readers will forgive you for digressions and embellishments only if they serve a meaningful purpose within the structure of the story.

Saunders explains:

„Like an obsessed detective, the reading mind interprets every new piece of text in this regard; it is uninterested in much else.“

George Saunders

After reading a story, we look for what struck us within it and how the elements we encountered served their purpose. If an element is deemed unnecessary, it is detrimental to the story. This is what Saunders means by „brutal efficiency.“

In light of the advice to focus on the heart of your story, Saunders offers two rules to remember:

• „Let nothing happen for no reason“
• „If you let something happen, give it meaning.“

The latter means that each element in the story serves a purpose, be it characterisation, conflict exposition, atmosphere, foreshadowing, or tension-building.

To assess the „efficiency“ of your story, readers will want to work out what its „heart“ is — its raison d’être. This heart must be identified by each individual author, and it is the significant insight granted to readers, which may be as unspectacular as „Yes, that’s how the world is,“ when they experience a poignant moment of truth with a character.

The overarching meaning of a story does not necessarily lie in where it ends up, but, as Saunders suggests, rather in how it progresses. Art, especially when it is good, is often a delicate balance of form and content.

The Truth is the Strange

Facts, attention to detail, and truthfulness — also in the sense of a humility that acknowledges one’s own conviction may not be the ultimate wisdom — have been identified as essential ingredients of good storytelling.

Saunders uses Nikolai Gogol’s The Nose (1836), the bizarre story of Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov, who suddenly loses his nose and later sees it walking around Petersburg in the uniform of a state councillor, to illustrate that the strange can indeed be truthful. The key point here is that often it is the „how“ of the narrative that gives it significance.

On the one hand, Gogol describes the events accurately; on the other hand, they are absurd occurrences with a crude logic narrated by his unreliable, pompous, vain, and eccentric first-person narrator. This technique, known as skaz, serves to highlight Saunders‘ approach that our perspective is always limited, incomplete, and distorted, sometimes taken to the grotesque.

Saunders, therefore, does not require aspiring writers to be truthful in the sense of realism (which itself is a construction), but rather encourages a truthfulness of feeling and understanding that can be expressed in the crude, quirky, and absurd.

Trust Yourself and Trust the Process

Finally, in A Swim in a Pond in the Rain {*}, Saunders encourages aspiring writers to trust in their skills and the process of writing. A story does not emerge from a place of control or perfect mastery, but requires the courage to start, make mistakes, learn from them, and trust one’s intuition.

„The writer is someone who starts a task without knowing how.“

Donald Barthelme

Saunders references Hemingway, who suggested that every writer has an „in-built, shockproof shit detector“ that „is only refined and sharpened through reading and writing.“

In essence, we must simply „find the voice“ of a story and try to „keep it steady“ while subjecting it to ever-increasing challenges.

As Saunders puts it: „It sounds kind of crazy, but in my experience, that’s it, the whole game: 1) convincing myself that there’s a voice inside me that knows exactly what it likes, and 2) training myself to hear that voice more clearly and act in its favour.“

Ultimately, it takes a little audacity.

Good stories impress us often because they resolutely follow their own path, through awkward placements and bold ellipses. This willingness to take risks is something to be cultivated.

My Conclusion: The Best Book on Writing?

George Saunder’s A Swim in a Pond in the Rain {*} is, in my opinion, an invaluable read, and writers will undoubtedly benefit from it. Saunder’s understanding of art and its value resonates with me, and many of his pieces of advice are invaluable.

It’s no surprise that it is primarily prose writers who praise the book to the skies. However, writers in theatre, film, and television often have no choice but to draw up a plot outline in advance and follow it, rather than listening to and „keeping steady“ their internal „voice,“ as Saunders recommends.

Nevertheless, Saunders‘ book offers enlightening insights even for them, with many of his lessons being universally applicable to any form of fictional writing and character and plot development.

In sum, I believe Saunder’s plea for writing and reading as an exercise in empathy and mindfulness makes his book an essential read for anyone creating stories. My initial worry that the book might disappoint me was quickly replaced by the delightful sensation of learning new, enlightening, and valuable lessons about the craft of writing.

It is my heartfelt wish, dear readers, as always, that only the very best be yours.

Yours sincerely,

Postscript: Should this review have proven enlightening, enriching, or of any use to you, I would be most grateful if you might consider sharing it.