"The best writing gives a voice to our deepest humanity—it's not just about the story,
but about the truth that lies within." — Unknown
Image by https://unsplash.com/@thoughtcatalog
When a student asked me, “What kinds of stories do we need more of?” I knew they were asking the wrong person, or at least someone with a different focus. For me, writing isn’t just about adding another voice to the noise; it’s about creating a space where I can explore ideas, reflect on the human experience, and, ideally, contribute something meaningful to the world. I want to offer something nourishing in a landscape that often feels cluttered with superficial or harmful content. There’s already an abundance of stories that revolve around sex, gratuitous violence, morally bankrupt characters, and even the occult. But what are these stories really doing to the minds of those consuming them? Countless studies in the social sciences have raised concerns about the effects of such content, yet much of modern storytelling seems determined to push the boundaries, often to the detriment of the audience.
I completed my MA in Creative Writing in 2022, and during my studies, I was introduced to the personal essay—something that deeply resonated with me. I specialized in creative nonfiction, and the personal essay became a form I cherished, a vessel for exploration. I often think of it like a camel on the Silk Road: capable of carrying an eclectic mix of quotes, news, stories, and personal anecdotes—whatever is needed to drive the narrative forward toward that powerful “aha!” moment.
If I had to name a single book that has profoundly influenced my approach to writing, it would be Henning Mankell’s Quicksand: What it Means to be a Human Being. It’s not his well-known crime fiction, but his collection of personal essays that left a lasting impact on me. Writing courses often stress the need for tension, insisting that it’s essential for holding a reader’s attention. And while that’s true to an extent, I’ve found that much of what’s marketed as “tension” today is just an excuse for ugliness, designed to shock rather than engage the reader on a deeper level.
What I learned from Mankell’s essays is that you don’t need overt conflict or sensationalism to craft something compelling. His writing draws you in, not with tricks or cheap thrills, but with genuine insight and reflection. It’s about life’s complexities, not life’s staged dramas. I’m often put off by modern television dramas that insist on major conflict every five minutes, as if we, the viewers, have no patience for anything else. It feels manipulative, like the writer is constantly trying to pull strings rather than trusting the strength of the story itself.
That’s not to say conflict doesn’t have its place—of course, it does. Any writing course will tell you that conflict is essential, especially in fiction. Life itself has its moments of struggle, and the hero’s journey depends on those peaks and valleys of tension to push the narrative forward. But surely, like all things, conflict is best in moderation. Too much of it, and the story becomes a mere exercise in endurance, rather than a meaningful exploration of human experience.
So, what kinds of stories do we need more of? In my view, we need more writing like Mankell’s Quicksand—writing that can captivate and resonate without being drowned in conflict for conflict’s sake. Stories that offer depth, nuance, and insight into what it truly means to be human, without relying on gratuitous violence or contrived tension. We need more stories that nourish, that challenge the mind without assaulting the senses, and that leave us better, more thoughtful people than when we first picked them up.