Creative writing usually gets defended in emotional terms. It builds empathy, it processes feeling, it lets you live inside someone else’s experience for a while. All true. What gets talked about far less is a claim I ran across recently in some research on writing pedagogy: that creative writing, done a certain way, can actually train critical thinking, not just emotional range.

That’s a bigger claim than it sounds. Critical thinking usually gets treated as the opposite skill from storytelling: logic and argument on one side, imagination and feeling on the other. The research I’m thinking of pushes back on that split, using an idea borrowed from philosopher Martha Nussbaum, that self-awareness gained through narrative imagination is itself a form of critical reflection, not a separate thing that happens to sit next to it.

The Setup

The core of the argument comes from a study built around a single writing prompt: a single parent takes a job that requires two years away from their eleven-month-old child. Writers were asked to inhabit that dilemma in narrative form, rather than argue about it from the outside. Then, crucially, they were asked to reflect on what they’d written, on the choices their own narrative had made about who was right, who was sympathetic, what counted as a reasonable trade-off.

That second step is the actual mechanism. Writing the dilemma as a story forces you to make hundreds of small interpretive choices you’d never have to make in an essay: whose perspective the story centers, what details get emphasized, which character’s guilt or relief gets more page time. Reflecting afterward on why you made those choices, and what those choices reveal about your own assumptions, is where the critical thinking actually happens. Not in the writing itself. In the writer catching themselves in the act of having written a particular way.

Why This Is Harder Than an Essay

An essay lets you state your position and defend it. That’s a real cognitive skill, but it’s also one where your assumptions can hide comfortably behind the argument’s logic. A narrative doesn’t give you that cover. If you write the single parent as clearly justified and the disapproving relative as clearly small-minded, that’s not an argument you’ve made explicitly. It’s a bias you’ve enacted, in scene, without necessarily noticing you did it.

That’s the useful trap. Fiction makes you commit to interpretive choices before you’re consciously aware you’re making an argument at all. Going back afterward and asking why you wrote it that way surfaces something an essay would have let you keep hidden, on purpose or not.

Where This Lines Up With the Heresies Book

This is close to the actual structural bet the Heresies book is making, whether I’d have described it in these terms while writing it or not. Every chapter opens with Chieqe stating a claim in its most extreme, least defensible form. The essay that follows isn’t just arguing against her. It’s the same move as the reflection step in that research: taking a position that got stated instinctively and interrogating what it actually assumes, what it gets right, what it overreaches on.

Chieqe’s draw at the end of Heresy No. 16 isn’t a plot twist. It’s what happens when the reflective step is taken seriously all the way through: neither position collapses, because both were actually interrogated rather than one being set up to lose from the start. That’s the difference between using a character to stage an argument you’d already decided the outcome of, and using one to genuinely find out what the outcome should be.

The Practical Version

You don’t need a formal study or a moral dilemma prompt to use this. Next time you’re stuck on what you actually think about something, don’t write the essay. Write the scene. Give it to a character and let them make the choices the situation demands, then go back and ask what those choices assumed about who deserved sympathy and why. You’ll usually find the honest version of your position was hiding in the scene you wrote, not in the argument you would have made if you’d started with the essay instead.

Keep writing.

2nd-Person narrative is a narrative mode so shunned by the mainstream publishing industry that utilizing it to uncover its effects and honing it to be a sustainable method of storytelling is a myth. To a mainstream genre or literary fiction writer, the limited definition of its use as being a tool to only address the reader, as well as its being barred from the industry as a mere nuisance to readers is something to be adhered to like a creed.

Yet, to the burgeoning experimental writer, 2nd-Person has its appeal, and rightly so. As a misunderstood, under-utilized method of storytelling, 2nd-Person as a narrative mode operates in mysterious ways. It’s use of language such as the word “YOU” does stand as a form of address to the reader, as it invites them to place themselves in the situations invoked by the author. This is the crux of the titular Choose Your Own Adventure! style of story. But what if you make use of such language in a story that is told in a more traditional, closed and linear format?

Here are my take-aways from doing just that.

SKIN, told in 2nd-Person.

As the author, there isn’t much I have to say about Skin now that I’ve published it. After all, what harm could a story about culture shock do that hasn’t already been witnessed and written about before? Yet, it was from my desire to be challenged that I made the decision on a whim to write that tale as though it were intended for 2nd-person use. Though not a Choose Your Own Adventure tale, Skin is evocative in that it does invite the reader into the situations I’ve written about, but it also plays with the fact that YOU does not refer to the reader, but to the nameless main character in the story.

It was through the use of 2nd-person narrative that Skin got its bite. The readers, those whom I’ve spoken to, were gripped by being able to insert themselves into the story, although they weren’t sure what to make of the obvious layer of distance of not quite fitting in as the titular character. It led to instances of introspection and thrill, to the extent that they had to read it multiple times before being able to dismantle the tale and put it to rest.

In the context of a short story, it makes sense and works well. In part because readers know they’re not strapped in for miles should this turn out to be a bad fit for them. But, too, it is just the right amount of length for its implementation to not feel like an exhaustive, cheesy gimmick.

The important thing to underscore, should you take up Skin as an experimental read, is that you will need to experiment with it to get it just-right for the tale you’re intending to tell. 2nd-person didn’t up-and-drop into my lap. I had to contend with several openings and other seemingly extraneous details before it would get off the ground. Once it had, I needed to figure out how to make it feel as natural as possible, and during this phase I had the hardest struggle.

As a loner type of writer, there wasn’t a lot of feedback to get on it. As with a lot of experimentation, you may find yourself at odds against the mainstream and genre-loving crowds. In these scenarios, you have to trust your intuition (this is part of why it is good to know the basics and “rules” of writing, so that you know how to steer yourself towards familiar territory in the event that you might get lost). With enough fooling around with it, it’ll eventually begin to sound natural.

Once you’ve reached this phase of practice, 2nd-person gets… interesting.

2nd-Person: A Hybrid of 1st and 3rd…?

What are the effects of writing in 2nd-person as a narrative mode? You may have heard that it’s the most annoying of the narrative modes, the most taxing way to convey information, and readers don’t like it. While it may be true that readers aren’t used to this narrative mode, and that this particular narrative mode does not sell well, there is a wealth of experience to be gleaned from it.

2nd-person is unique in that it demands the writer have a different kind of intimate understanding of their story, for the simple fact that you’re calling the reader to be an active participant in the tale. Your other techniques will become quite limited. Things such as expositional infodumps, or heading off the beaten path and venturing into character arcs may have to take a back seat as the only information you’d be able to disseminate is that which the narrator immediately knows. Even then, you have to tread carefully for if you wear your reader down, they’re not going to make it through the book.

That being said, writing in 2nd-person narrative is pretty niche. It feels intimate like 1st person due to the nature of its language, and like 1st person, is just as limited, but may also at times find itself using literary strokes from the 3rd limited perspective. What does that mean?

That 2nd-person is closer, more intimate and intrusive to the reader, but it can be utilized in such a way that it flows almost as naturally as the common 3rd pov. There is no easy way to achieve this. Each tale is different, and each author needs to have a strong grip on their voice when attempting a story in this narrative mode. When, where, and how you use “YOU” and invoke the reader, or refer to a nameless character, or however you’ve gotten it set up will impact the overall readability of the story.

But if not addressing the reader, as I’ve hinted at, what else can 2nd-person be used for?

Rhetoric & 2nd-person.

What is rhetoric? Rhetoric is how we use language to influence our readers. 2nd-person is common in academic settings and rhetorical discourses, as the power of invoking the audience to be critically-thinking participants in the discourse is often seen as desirable to get the proper effect out of them.

On it’s own, Rhetoric is a winding and broad subject, the likes of which I don’t have time to get into as a writer myself. Still, it does not alter that its use of 2nd-person in address is critical to sustaining the message that the speaker is presenting. In these live or broadcast instances of having to address the audience, perhaps the best aspect to glean from the use of this technique is how to drive the point home in such a way that it impacts the listener.

As a writer, it’s important to keep that barrier in mind, that you may not always be talking directly to your reader such as in cases of orating carefully contrived messages to whatever gain or detriment. As your story progresses, you are going to have to carefully handle stretches of narration. Then what? Do you continue to refer to the reader as you describe the monotony of a glorious morning wherein they wake up, or the high-speed police chase that led to the discovery of unknown treasure?

Intimacy, Discomfort, Subjectivity, & YOU.

Sometimes, we have to acknowledge that prolific use of a technique is a bad thing. Given the rarity of 2nd-person narratives, and especially full-featured novels, there is always a degree of discomfort that readers will experience. A skilled writer will find ways to minimize the effects readers feel when utilizing this niche, experimental narrative mode.

Yet, for those who develop a liking to it, 2nd-person’s use is thrilling and compelling, especially because it puts the reader on the spot. A well-written tale in this narrative mode evokes such emotion and imagery the likes of which is unique to the method in which it is told. Such a literary skill should not go without practice, as even in small doses where this technique is not the focal method by which a story is written, its use can make statements and situations stand out to your audience as being more memorable.

I did mention that there is a level of distance between the writer, the reader, and the prose. Subjectivity is important when using 2nd-person. Unlike 1st and 3rd, it’s not as objectively interpreted, again, because the reader is involved, and beckoning them to participate invites them to bring their own experiences, sentiments and judgments to the fore of the tale. Despite how well-crafted your story may be, there will always be misinterpretations, and in the case of 2nd-person, all the more so.

Be prepared to receive criticism and feedback that you weren’t anticipating, and wouldn’t have thought to have gotten. Not in the usual “One man’s story is another man’s dumpsterfire kindling!” type of way, but be aware that people will bring the unexpected to the table.

It leads me to think, that as niche a storytelling mode as 2nd-person is, and with all the challenges it imposes, it has the potential to be a method of storytelling that is unique to and colored by the reader, since as the author, I’d have given them the freedom to accept or reject the plight and messages of the tale I’d woven in that style.

To 2nd, or not to 2nd?

There’s a lot still to uncover about 2nd-person narrative that I’m going to have to come back to address. But, in a nutshell, while you may be itching to give this one a try, I recommend giving it a lot more thought before diving right in. 2nd-person requires skills drawn from both 1st and 3rd, but utilized in ways different than we’re used to. Whether or not you should boils down to basic reader’s comprehension, and hoo-boi will that be a subject to go over.

For in the mean time, here’s some light reading on 2nd-person narrative.

Until next time.

Worldbuilding and lore get used interchangeably a lot, but they’re not quite the same job. Worldbuilding is the sum total of what you know about your setting. Lore is the specific slice of that knowledge the story actually leans on, the myths, histories, and half-remembered events that shape why characters act the way they do right now.

A story can be milieu-heavy without being lore-based. A lore-based story is one where the past isn’t just backdrop. It’s load-bearing. Pull it out and the present-day plot collapses.

The Rule You Already Know

There’s a line worth repeating here, one I’ve landed on before in thinking through worldbuilding: the best worldbuilding usually isn’t explained to the reader directly. It’s experienced. You don’t see gravity, you feel it when it puts you on the ground.

Lore works the same way. The strongest lore-based stories don’t open with a history lecture. They open with a character bumping into the consequences of history, a ruin nobody will walk past after dark, a name that makes an entire room go quiet, a law nobody remembers the reason for but everyone still obeys. The reader learns the lore is important before they learn what it actually says. That order matters more than people think.

Lore Wants to Be Withheld

Because lore lives in the past, it’s tempting to front-load it. Chapter one, page one: five hundred years of history before anyone does anything. This kills momentum almost every time, because the reader has no reason yet to care about kings and wars they haven’t met the consequences of.

Lore earns its place by consequence first, explanation second. Show the ruin, then let a character explain what happened there only once the reader is already curious enough to want the answer. This is functionally the same idea/character pacing question from the MICE quotient: the story opens with a question the audience actually wants answered, not one you’ve decided they should want answered.

Sources of Lore Inside the Story

Lore rarely needs a narrator standing outside the story to deliver it. It usually arrives through people and objects that were already going to be there anyway:

• A character who lived through it, and remembers wrong, or remembers selectively.
• A physical object (a monument, a scar, a banned book) that forces the question of why it exists.
• An institution that still enforces a rule nobody living can explain, which is its own kind of lore delivery.
• A song, prayer, or children’s rhyme that’s technically history, worn down into something people recite without meaning.

That last one is worth dwelling on. Lore that’s decayed into ritual, a phrase everyone says but nobody can unpack, tends to land harder than lore that’s still treated as fact. It signals time has passed, that the event mattered enough to survive but not enough to stay accurate.

The Trap: Lore as a Substitute for Story

Lore-heavy fiction has a specific failure mode. The writer falls in love with the history and starts mistaking depth of world for depth of story. You end up with pages of internally consistent backstory and nobody currently in the scene wants anything.

The test is simple: does a character in the present timeline want something because of this lore, or does the lore just exist because you built it and you’re proud of it? If it’s the second one, it belongs in your notes, not on the page. Worldbuilding is for you. Lore that makes it into the story has to be for the reader, meaning it has to be doing work on someone’s present-tense motivation.

Unreliable Lore Is Underused

One of the more interesting moves available to a lore-based story is letting the lore be wrong, or contested. Two cultures remembering the same war differently isn’t just texture, it’s conflict you get for free. A character built their entire identity on a legend that turns out to be propaganda. That’s not just backstory, that’s an event-story climax hiding inside what looked like a milieu setup.

Treating lore as fixed and true removes one of the more useful tools available: the reveal that history lied.

The Point

Lore-based storylines work when the past keeps pressure on the present. If your history section could be deleted and nothing in the current plot would need rewriting, it isn’t lore yet. It’s just notes you haven’t found a use for.

Keep writing.