What is story?
As someone who studies plot structure—and the shape of story—I find it an interesting thought exercise to consider the many ways in which the marketplace is increasingly shaping modern writing culture and even storytelling itself.
Is story a process or a product? Is it an experience, an archetype, a communication, or a commodity?
Of course, it’s all of these—and more.
As writers, the way we define story influences the way we relate to it—and the way we create it. The modern entertainment marketplace plays an increasingly powerful role in shaping storytelling, often affecting not just what we create, but how we think about story in the first place. Depending on how that definition shifts, it can change our relationship to creation itself.
One premise I’ve been pondering lately is the assumption that stories are fundamentally built to be sold. Most popular writing advice (my own included) is laced with practical suggestions for writing a story that “works,” with the implication that if a story works, it will potentially be a commercial success and earn a livelihood for the author.
A question many writers ask me (and one I wrangled with throughout the first half of my career) is “what makes a writer successful?” One of the primary reasons this is even a question is that most writers instinctively feel pressured to measure success by their books’ sales. However, the reality is that at some point or other, almost all writers are disappointed or insecure about their stories’ commercial prospects. When the only metric available is commercial viability, this means many writers feel like failures.
Although it’s true enough that most of us dream of Madison Square Garden billboards for our NYT bestsellers (after optioning the film rights to our still unfinished 20-book series), I think it’s worthwhile to remember that story as a product is a separate thing from story as an archetype.
In fact, I think the most important thing to remember is that “story-as-archetype” comes first. “Story-as-product” isn’t worth much without the former, because the former is where its innate value—its innate ability to resonate with people—originates.
On the surface, this seems obvious. Indeed, one of contemporary writing culture’s maxims is “don’t write to the market.” But even that advice is usually coming from people who are trying to help you sell your book. Nothing wrong with that.
But it’s worth a little reminder now and then that story—that incredibly valuable, lucrative goldmine of a human experience—did not originate as a commodity. Our relationship to story as a product is a comparatively recent development. Indeed, to the degree humans have become more and more capable of commoditizing story, we can sometimes risk losing the forest for the trees. To the degree we treat stories as something we can, should, and must make money from, we can unintentionally skid away from our relationship to story as an archetype and toward story as a mere marketing formula.
The irony is that, when this happens, stories actually become far less valuable—both culturally and, eventually, economically.
The Role of Storytellers in Society: Value, Money, and Meaning in a Marketplace-Driven Culture
At its simplest, the marketplace shapes storytelling by influencing what stories are told, how quickly they are produced, and how writers define success.
Much of writing culture is centered heavily around this paradigm that ultimately views story as a commodity. Partly, this is because story is a commodity. But what was it before it was a commodity?
As humans, we recognize ourselves as “the storytelling animal.” By this, we mean that, to our knowledge, we are unique amongst the denizens of Earth in our desire and capacity for meaning-making. Organizing events into patterns, arcs, and narratives—via stories—has long been one of our prime means of communicating meaning amongst ourselves.
Story is a key foundation of society. It allows us to communicate not just with those with whom we are most familiar—family, tribe, etc.—but even with those whose cultures are far different or even antagonistic to our own.
Whether human experience mapped itself to the shape of story or story evolved from the shape of human experience, it is something with which we seem to have an innate and archetypal relationship. Even though we instantly understand and recognize what a story is, it can be difficult to truly define. The dictionary suggests:
[Story is] a narration or recital of that which has occurred; a description of past events; a history; a statement; a record.
Our earliest stories were recountings of events and of dreams. The pictograms on ancient caves were stories before words. Tribal storytellers passed down tales, from generation to generation—histories, allegories, fables, symbolic nightmares, tales both cautionary and cathartic. Stories were initiations; they were portals of transformation. They were thresholds of entrance to—and exit from—social belonging. They told us who we were and how to be part of something in order to survive—but they also taught us how to evolve, how to rebel, how to grow, how to challenge, how to become.
They were also just good fun. Whether peopled with the foibles of neighbors or the misadventures of gods, they entertained us. They captured us—made us laugh, made us cry, fired our imaginations.
Storytelling as Medicine, Meaning, and Cultural Foundation
Storytelling has long been recognized as inherently valuable. Early storytellers were valued members, supported by their communities. Our capacity to create narrative arcs and tell stories about who we are is the foundation and bedrock of a healthy society. In ways we often now fail to recognize, storytelling is “medicine making.” For example, Aristotle argued that the tragedy witnessed in plays functioned as a form of catharsis—an experience that allowed audiences to process and release powerful emotions like fear and pity. Theater wasn’t just something people watched; its attendance was viewed as necessary to the health of both the individual and the community.
One of contemporary culture’s dissonances is that, even as we increasingly view story as a valuable product, we can often dismiss the importance of the storyteller’s role. This is true even amongst writers. I can speak for myself about periodically wrestling with the feeling that maybe I should be doing something “more important” with my life. In comparison to the life-saving capacity of a doctor or the practical contribution of a workman laying important infrastructure like a highway, modern society has long been inclined to dismiss or diminish the value of spending time “daydreaming and scribbling.”
This subconscious belittling of story, even amongst storytellers, belies the deeper truth that story is not a frivolous byproduct of society. Story is one of humanity’s primary organizing forces, shaping how we understand ourselves, how we relate to one another, and how we navigate both the chaos and meaning of our lives. That story is entertaining is part of its charm—part of the medicine, even. But to the degree we, as a society, tend to diminish story to nothing but entertainment, then it becomes little wonder we value it as nothing more than a recreational commodity.
Creative Act or Content Production? (How Perspective Subtly Influences Our Relationship to Our Stories)
In a society that no longer directly supports or even recognizes its storytellers as pillars of the community (in capacities just as important, if not more so, than political leaders), it is incredibly important that storytellers be able to earn enough to support themselves in making their invaluable contributions to society. To that end, it is fortunate stories are so valued as to have spawned multiple megalithic industries.
But I do question sometimes whether these industries are ultimately in service to the story (and, therefore, I would say, to society itself). More importantly, on an individual level, I find it important to notice how the pervading paradigm created by commercial models can subtly influence our own perspectives as creatives—and thus the way we perceive and value our own relationships to storytelling.
In my experience, when given proper space, the art and craft of the storyteller is a full-time vocation—even though much of that vocation is simply observing, processing, and daydreaming. Currently, one of the main ways for writers to achieve that is to turn writing into a full-time job. This job can indeed offer comfortable livelihoods (although often it does not). Even when it does, the road to success is often paved less by the author’s capacity to create resonant and cathartic experiences and more by the hustle and grind of hawking a commodity.
Even as most writers strive to remain in service to their highest inspiration, the bottom line is inevitably: will this sell? Because, hey, writers gotta eat.
A few weeks ago, I shared a post examining some of the systemic reasons for stress and burnout amongst writers, in which we talked about the pressure many writers feel to emphasize content creation over the organic rhythms of inspiration. The contemporary model for success suggests putting out as many books as possible as fast as possible (with some authors managing the astounding feat of as many as one a month) and, of course, creating loads of supplementary content for social media and other platforms.
Although a select few authors thrive within this fast-paced, high-pressure environment, many (whose stories are just as valuable) do not.
Even for those who do, it is worth asking how that pace and pressure shape the how, what, and why of the stories we’re telling. The belief that a story is a product can sometimes constrict and misshape—or even just change the trajectory of—what we’re writing.
None of this is inherently wrong. In many ways, it is simply the reality of working within a system that, at present, is the most effective way of both sustaining ourselves and getting our stories into the hands of those who need them. Although I do believe in the inherent value of writing even stories no one will ever read, stories are ultimately a communal experience.
Stories deserve to be shared. Writers deserve to be supported. In most cases, commercial success is the bridge that makes both possible. Commercial viability and success give stories the ability to reach vast audiences with their offering of resonance and catharsis.
But modern writers must find the capacity to simultaneously operate and be successful in the market as it exists, while also remembering and remaining true to the core of story as something that is, in fact, much deeper and bigger than simply a commodity to be sold.
Although holding both at once is not always easy, it may be one of the most important balancing acts of the modern storyteller: to participate in a commercial landscape without allowing it to define the boundaries of our creative relationship to story. The act of storytelling reflects the capacity to step into creative flow, to know what there is to be said, and then to say it well. It is the discipline of balancing the chaos and order of our art and craft.
4 Tips for Writers to Balance Commercial Success and Creative Wholeness
So how do we hold this tension between story-as-product and story-as-archetypal-process in a practical way?
We begin by becoming more aware of the perspectives we bring to our work. Our relationship to story is shaped, often subtly, by the assumptions we carry and the questions we prioritize. Following are a few ways to stay conscious of that influence, so we can navigate the realities of our roles as storytellers in a modern world without losing connection to the deeper source of our work.
1. Understand Your Own Unique Perspectives About Story
Bring attention to how and why your identity as a writer may be shaped by questions such as “is this productive?” or “will this be profitable?” Both are good questions, but notice where they may bring constriction to the ideas you embrace or reject—or how they may subtly shape your perspective on what being a writer “really looks like.” Some writers may be very clear about aggressively adapting their stories to pursue optimal marketability. Others may find the very concept shuts down their creativity.
Just as it is vital for each author to understand what personal success looks like, it’s equally important to get clear on your own perspective of what story is.
- What does story mean to you?
- What is its role in your life and your role in being a storyteller?
- What feelings does creativity bring you?
- What are the questions story helps you answer?
- What do you believe are your responsibilities as a storyteller?
- If you resonate with archetypal language, how do you understand and relate to story as an archetypal force?
- How might your perspectives and experiences of the writing industry and market (both as a creator and a consumer) bolster or contrast these views?
Creativity wants to come through a clear channel. For writers, clearing that channel of external static—including contextual, systemic perspectives—is key. Maybe the world says story is a product. But what do you say? And when you know what you have to say about it, how are your choices and actions influenced by maintaining integrity with that awareness? The goal is not to reject or compromise potential commercial success, but to expand the frame in which you understand your own work.
2. Define Success On Two Levels (Not One)
External success is easy to measure. It shows up in numbers—sales, reach, visibility, etc. For many writers, this is what makes it possible to continue writing at all. External success is the bridge between the solitary act of writing and the communal impact of story.
Internal success, on the other hand, is measured in resonance.
- Does what you’re writing feel true?
- Does it reflect something honest?
- Does it feel aligned with what you sensed you needed to say?
Internal success shows up in the experience of writing itself. It is the feeling of coherence when the art and the craft meet, and the chaos and the order find balance.
Both levels matter. The first allows the story to live in the world, but the second determines whether it has the archetypal depth and resonance to matter once it gets there.
When external success becomes the only metric, it can shape the work from the outside in by influencing which ideas you choose to pursue, how quickly you feel you must execute them, and how much space you allow for exploration and discovery. Over time, stories can become calibrated primarily for performance rather than for that deeper inner truth.
3. Write Your Best Stories by Honoring Your Relationship to Story
One of the many ways to think of story is as a relationship. It is a relationship we have, first and foremost, with ourselves—but also with society, with humanity, with our ancestors past, and our progeny future. It is a relationship with the mysteries of inspiration and archetype, with the forms that live before and beyond our words. It is a relationship that predates story-as-product and a relationship that will far outlive any market.
Seen this way, the question of how to write our best stories becomes less about performance and more about participation. It becomes a question of how we show up to that relationship.
- How will we listen?
- How will we respond?
- How will we choose to shape what comes through us?
This doesn’t eliminate practical concerns. The question of “will this sell?” still exists, and for many writers it must. But it sits alongside another question that is, in many ways, more foundational:
- What is most honoring to my relationship to story?
When that question is active, it naturally creates space for exploration. It allows even for wild ideas that don’t immediately present themselves as viable. It creates a pace that values the internal rhythms of discovery and understanding.
4. Engage With Story As an Archetypal Force
By “archetypal,” I am referring here to an underlying shape and force that both reflects and organizes human experience. Story functions on multiple levels: psychologically, societally, spiritually. It is the means by which we process transformation, encode meaning, understand beyond our understanding, and pass wisdom from one generation to the next.
Long before it was ever packaged into books or films, it existed as a way of knowing and becoming. It grounded both individuals and cultures in shared patterns of experience. Even now, it remains much larger than any system that seeks to contain it.
When we approach story in this way, our role as writers shifts slightly. We are still crafting, still structuring, still making deliberate choices about plot, character, and theme—still adapting to the economic necessities of the writing industries. But we are also remembering our shared connection to story that goes so much deeper.
This perspective can be grounding right now in a landscape that often prioritizes speed, output, and performance. It reminds us that story can be both product and process, both commodity and experience—but that its deepest value originates, not in its ability to be sold, but in its capacity to resonate.
Holding that awareness allows writers to move through the marketplace without becoming defined by it. It offers a way to remain connected to the deeper source of creativity, even while engaging with the very real demands of audience, platform, and sustainability.
In the end, this is less about changing what we write and more about noticing the perspective we’re writing from. For many of us, storytelling now exists almost entirely within the context of a marketplace. That can make it feel as if this is simply what story is—something to be shaped, packaged, and sold. We should not lose sight of the fact, however, that this is a relatively modern way of relating to storytelling.
Story did not originate as a product.
The fact that we now encounter it primarily through commercial systems can subtly influence how we perceive and value it, as well as how we participate in it as creators. Noticing that influence doesn’t require us to reject the marketplace or the opportunities it offers. But it does invite a wider awareness that allows us to recognize that story-as-commodity is only one lens—and that the lens we choose, consciously or not, will shape our relationship to the storytelling itself.
Want More?
Writing Archetypal Character Arcs (affiliate link)
If this idea of story as something deeper than product resonates with you, you may find yourself drawn to recognizing and working with those deeper patterns on the page.
I wrote Writing Archetypal Character Arcs to help writers understand how the archetype of story operates beneath the surface—not just as plot structure, but as a reflection of the patterns of human transformation. The six archetypal journeys explored in this book (along with archetypal shadows and antagonists) offer a way to engage with story as something alive and meaningful so you can better connect your characters’ journeys to the larger patterns we all recognize on an instinctive level. Once you understand these patterns, you get to participate more consciously in the deeper shape of story itself.
Available in paperback, e-book, and audio.
Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! How do you see the marketplace shaping storytelling and your own relationship to story? Tell me in the comments!
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Author: K.M. Weiland | @KMWeiland