Essay 3: Nobody Cries at Timelines
What writing history taught me about great storytelling in any genre
I started with historical fiction. Not because I loved memorizing dates, but because I loved what lived between the dates. The quiet, fragile, very human moments that history books forget: a father trying to protect his store during a riot, a young astronaut looking up at the stars the night before his last flight, a girl dancing in secret because it’s the only time she feels free.
But somewhere along the way, I realized the tools I was using to write about the past weren’t just for historical fiction. They were for anyone trying to tell a meaningful story—fiction or nonfiction, memoir or sci-fi, Substack or screenplay.
Below are five techniques I’ve learned. Use them however you like. Whether you’re building imaginary worlds or writing real ones down, these tools help make stories feel true—even when they aren’t.
1. Start With the Spark, Not the Statement
Don’t start with what you want to teach. Start with what haunts you. A smell. A memory. A question you can’t stop asking. Stories don’t begin with answers—they begin with curiosity.
When I write, I don’t say, “I want to explore the ethics of war.” I start with a moment: a boy finding a torn photograph in his father’s desk. From there, the themes follow. The meaning rises up like smoke after the fire’s already started.
Try This: What’s one image or feeling that keeps showing up in your thoughts? Don’t analyze it. Just write a scene around it. Meaning will emerge when you let go of the need to explain.
2. Zoom In Until It Hurts
Whether you’re writing about the fall of Rome or a bad breakup, the most powerful stories live in small, specific moments. The way someone avoids eye contact. The pause before saying goodbye. The food left untouched on the table.
Big stories become unforgettable when they’re told through human-sized lenses.
Try This: Whatever you’re writing—an article, a novel, a personal essay—ask: “Where’s the most personal moment in this story?” Write that part first. Then build the rest around it.
3. Emotion Is the Universal Language
You don’t need readers to understand everything. But you do need them to feel something. That’s what they remember.
When I write about a Korean immigrant during the 1992 riots, I’m not trying to teach a history lesson. I’m trying to show what it feels like to lock the doors of your shop and wonder if they’ll still be standing tomorrow. Fear. Guilt. Hope. These are timeless. Doesn’t matter if it’s 1792 or 2092.
Try This: Before you hit publish, ask: “What do I want the reader to feel when this ends?” If you don’t know, they won’t either.
4. Let the Structure Serve the Heart
Outlines are useful. So are templates, act structures, and hero’s journeys. But at some point, you need to step away from the map and just walk into the story.
I write with rhythm. Emotion first, logic second. I let tension build, then release it with a beat. I follow energy, not just plot. If a story feels flat, it usually isn’t the idea—it’s the structure choking it.
Try This: Take a story you’ve written and cut it apart. Rearrange the order. Start with the ending. Zoom in on a moment you originally glossed over. Don’t be afraid to break your own rules.
5. Research, Remember, Reflect
This applies to nonfiction especially—but it’s just as true for fiction. You need truth to build trust. But truth is boring without meaning.
Don’t write just to inform. Write to transform. Whether you’re writing about your own life or someone else’s, your job isn’t just to remember facts—it’s to reveal the why behind them.
Try This: Instead of explaining what happened, explain what it meant to you—or what it could mean to the reader. Information without reflection is a textbook. Add reflection, and you get a story.
Final Thought: Your Voice Is the Story
Here’s the secret no one tells you: the reader might come for the subject, but they stay for you. Your way of seeing. Your phrasing. Your courage to say something real.
Whatever you’re writing—fiction, nonfiction, a mix of both—make it matter. Not just to the world. But to you.
Because when it matters to you, the reader can feel it.
And that’s what brings a story to life.
— Allen
I totally agree—I can’t write something until I know why. It isn’t just about the fun of the words, it’s about the reason each story needs to be told.
I love this essay, Allen, because it doesn't just teach craft but reminds us why we write in the first place. I love "zoom in util it hurts" approach. That's what I want to read, that's how I strive to write. Emotion truly is a universal language.