Sometimes we over-talk about this rules-based stuff. Why? I think it’s easier than talking about what really matters.

Don’t get me wrong. Let me get this out right up front. Rules are important to make sure we don’t hurt ourselves and others. I like rules and the purpose they serve. I really like rules that say people have to stop at a red light and not T-bone me when I go through my green. I love rules when people respect my property and don’t break into my house. I’m sure you can come up with your own examples. Rules are important.

In writing, rules provide us with the standard, common ground that ensures things like, hey, are we talking the same language? Writing rules ensure legibility and clarity of meaning. Even through writing, personal safety can result from following the rules, such as when a law unambiguously prescribes how someone is or is not eligible for the death penalty.

Yet focusing on rules often causes us to neglect other considerations—as in, the transcendent ones. When it comes to creative writing, we should remember: we’re making art, not writing computer code highly dependent on compliance with strict syntax. Lean too hard on the rules and you may miss critical considerations like, what is the emotion and/or core idea I’m trying to portray here? And how do I use language, not only its accepted structure, but its nuance, rhythm and cadence to connect what I want to say with the mind and heart of the reader?

Back when I studied photography as an art form, I ran into a similar challenge. I needed to learn about exposure and proper use of equipment (the technique) and about the rules of composition (mostly a set of rules and guidelines, like never, ever, center your subject, but use the rule of thirds, dang it!). I soon discovered that clinging to technique and rules for their own sake yielded stale, meaningless imagery. I also noticed that once I mastered the basics, thinking and talking in terms of technique and rules became routine, straight-forward, and easy. Too easy, perhaps, and conveniently so—far easier than digging deeper to portray passion and spirit for the purpose of inspiring and moving the viewer. That is hard. Especially when you often realize you have to break technique and even a rule or two to get it done.

Now that I’ve moved to writing as my primary form of self-expression, I’m keeping that photography experience in mind to focus first on what matters. Before we call this a blog post, let’s deal with some of the usual objections.

You’re giving people license to make basic errors like typos, punctuation gaffes, and so on

Well, yes and no. First, a typo is a typo. An error the author didn’t intend requires correction. Take wanton errors off the table for this discussion.

On the other hand, if the writer picks up a first person narrator with certain linguistic patterns that happen to violate the rules, he’s entitled license to go whether voice takes him. It don’t matter what them rules say, ‘cause voice ain’t bound to come out right if you write like your kindergarten teacher gone and told you to. As you can see, I’ve grappled with this sort of rule-breaking recently (in my Tracking Jane series).

This relates to the issue of intent and purpose. Often, rule-keepers fail to differentiate between sloppy mistakes and those the author intentionally made with a particular purpose in mind. That purpose can aim to capture a character’s voice; it can produce, choppy, poorly constructed sentence fragments to create a rhythm in the prose; or it can insert a comma in the wrong location or omit altogether for the purpose of directing reading flow. Among other things, and there are many, as varied as authors and the stories they tell. (Yes, I meant to start that sentence with an “And” and to write it as a fragment—sorry.)

One must know the rules before one can know how and when to break them

Again, yes and no. Yes, it is preferable and recommended that one learn the rules up front. After all, if the author is to intentionally break a rule, how can he do so without knowing the rule first? In addition, knowing the rule will give him greater insight for why he wants to break it. Yet, this “know the rules first” dictum wrongly equates preferable and recommended with necessary. Rule-followers worldwide may now stipulate that no Thesaurus puts these three words in the same category.

Logically or empirically, it is not necessarily true that one must know the rules before one can break them. Consider those who wrote and created art before the rules existed. Go ahead. Go back in history as far as you need to. How did they do it? More to the point, were did the rules come from? It appears rules often come from reverse engineering what someone deemed “great” or “acceptable.” Analysts examine great art, identify common denominators, and then codify their findings into rules that presumably the next artist should follow.

Resist the temptation to dismiss this under the “that was then, this is now” banner. Every generation produces artists—and that includes writers—whose vision is so powerful as to transcend the rules they have yet to learn. Insistence on rules as the end all, or even as a pre-requisite to greatness ignores the art that a young musician or painter produces before enduring the strictures of formal instruction. Will they benefit from that instruction? Most probably, but don’t assume here either that this is necessariy so. Sometimes their expression requires rule-breaking, or, to put it another way, it will drive art analysts to repeat their assessments and codify new rules. In some cases, learning the rules will bound and/or dissuade the innovation that would have otherwise flowed.

One last point regarding this “one must know the rules first” dictum: it presumes to know the mind and intent of the author. In other words, noticing an “error” and saying the author didn’t know any better aren’t logically connected. You can point out the error, but don’t presume the author didn’t know he was making that error. That’s mind-reading. And illogical (look up non sequitur).

How do readers connect with my writing?

This is the paramount question. I dare say readers enjoy story-telling on a plane not as concerned with technicalities and rule-following. A while back, when I gave creative writing my first try something terrible happened. I could not read anyone else’s work without noticing the flaws. Too much telling. Terrible, overdrawn dialog. A lot of words coming at me, but nothing happening in the story. Caricature characters. Passive voice everywhere. Most books I picked up didn’t make it past chapter one. How could they possibly be published while my work got rejection letter after rejection letter? In short, I ruined my reading enjoyment. Why? Because I was noticing real flaws, yet missing the deeper core of the story.

Maybe noticing the flaws and dismissing the writing was the easy thing to do. It certainly was easier than admitting my own stories, active voice and snappy dialog and all, failed to connect where they needed. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. I don’t want to be the bitter writer that tears someone else’s work so I can feel better about my own. Rather I want to be the writer and reader that enjoys story-telling for what it entails beyond the often useful but not always necessary rules.