As some of you may know, I’ve recently graduated from Wheaton College with a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies, focusing on storytelling in different media. As part of the capstone course for the major, I wrote a paper outlining my thoughts on storytelling as a whole. I think it turned out pretty well and most of the thoughts in it are things I’ve wanted to share here in one way or another. So below you’ll find most of that paper I wrote. (Most because I’ve omitted parts that talk only about my final project and not about storytelling in general).
So anyways, this is sort of a summation of where my thoughts on storytelling came to after four years of study.
Creative Storytelling: An Investigation of Craft
Some of my fondest memories growing up are of my parents and grandparents telling me stories and reading to me. I knew what to expect from each of them: from my grandmother, it was made-up realistic adventure stories. From my granddaddy, it was tales of his past, an unplumbable depth of hunting and fishing escapades, and stories of growing up in small-town south Texas. From my mom came stories of growing up, too, along with the Boxcar Children series. And from my dad, I was tucked in to tall-tales and the Little House on the Prairie series. I drank them all in like water. As I got older, I kept taking in stories wherever I could find them. Book after book. Batman on TV. Any movie I could find. I got lost in these other worlds, other places. My mom worried I was turning apostate because I wouldn’t stop talking about the mythology in The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, a favorite video game, and it was not uncommon to find my bedroom quite literally covered in LEGOs as I acted out some epic of my own.
The point of all this, of course, is that I love stories. There have been plenty of interests in my life to this point, but as I look back, one of the few constant passions have been stories. Thus, this study and this project. The goal of my study, simply stated, is an understanding of storytelling in a way that transcends any particular medium. That is, I want to understand how stories work regardless of the form they are found in, from myth to movie, short story to video game. This paper is in large part an attempt to unpack the implications of this mission statement and to suggest how this might be done.
To begin any such discussion requires a working definition of the term “story.” Through the course of this paper, I will provide a nuanced understanding of this term, but as a starting point, a story should be understood the whole comprised of events, characters, themes, etc. and communicated through such forms as novels, plays, myths, movies, and the like (“forms” in this paper understood to mean these particular methods of storytelling within a medium). I mean story in this very specific sense – that it describes the whole. In contrast, Merriam-Webster defines story as “an account of incidents or events.” This is what I would call plot, and the two cannot be confused. Story is greater than plot, more than theme, and larger than archetype; it is the master which all these things serve.
While my study involves (and rightly so) the academic disciplines of English and communications, my effective disciplines are actually the storytelling forms themselves. These forms, as well as theory and insight surrounding their practice, are housed chiefly within these two departments. While I certainly to aspire to produce good writing, the stated goal of my study is not a writing practicum in any particular form. It is the understanding of storytelling. To this end, I choose to draw insight wherever it may be found. Even supposing my personal end to be writing a better short story, can’t the study of theater improve my manipulation of symbol? Or a study of game design, my understanding of character? Different forms have different emphases. They allow one to see stories from slightly different angles, which in turn provide a lens through which to gain a fuller picture of story told in any medium. The goal of my integration here is not the production of new storytelling forms, but the cross-application of insights which are traditionally bound up within a single form to A) improve practice within a given form, and B) develop a fuller understanding of the mechanics of storytelling. This paper will develop a rationale for these goals, as well as what is meant by these terms.
Two questions in particular have shaped my exploration into storytelling: 1) What makes a good story? and 2) How do we tell a story well? These questions are intimately related; they both seek truth about essential pieces of storytelling. But careful examination reveals meaningful differences in the sort of answer they seek. The first question requires a moral judgment. It asks, what is good? And how should one go about determining what is good? The second, on the other hand, asks for judgment of a different sort. While the first asks which stories are worth telling, the second pays no heed to whether or not the story ought to be told and focuses only on the quality of the telling.
Craft vs. Criticism
The difference in the aims of the two questions above reflects an essential divide in the way stories are studied. Ultimately both are important, and the answers they provoke generally both complementary and intertwined, but it is important to understand the basic ways their approaches differ. For the purposes of this essay, the two approaches will be termed the Craft approach (which corresponds to the second of the driving questions: How do we tell a story well?) and the Critical (or Criticism, used interchangeably as grammar of the particular sentence dictates) approach (which corresponds to the first question: What makes a good story?). It should be noted that while the definition of the terms “craft” and “criticism” are important to understand in their own right, Craft and Criticism are here used to denote the particular approaches to literature as a whole.
Defining the Approaches
While the differences between the approaches of Craft and Criticism are most fully understood through a number of related distinctions that will be explored shortly, it seems important to first arrive at a basic definition of these two terms and an understanding of what the respective approaches entail.
Tied up within the definition of craft is the debate regarding the relation of craft and art – specifically, what qualifies as art, and what lies within (or perhaps more commonly is relegated to) the realm of craft. Although the implication of and need for a definition or theory of art will fall largely outside the purview of my study, I think it prudent to briefly address this debate as a means for arriving at a specific definition of craft.
As I mentioned, “craft” is usually used as the pejorative to “art,” supposing them to be meaningfully, if not wholly, different things. Critic R.G. Collingwood is among those who maintain the existence of such a distinction, claiming that “art proper cannot be any kind of craft.” (Collingwood 26). In the second section of his book The Principles of Art, Collingwood lays out his argument in support of this distinction (Collingwood 15-41). His arguments, however, are deeply flawed; chiefly, Collingwood is enamored of an overly scientific approach, but fails to adequately support many of his claims. He relies on flawed metaphors, and is ultimately unconvincing in arguing for a sharp divide between the realms of art and craft.
Many writers and other storytellers refer to themselves as craftsmen far more frequently than as artists, even if they would describe their own work primarily as art. In keeping with this (and in contrast to Collingwood), I would suggest that all art is also craft, although the inverse is not also true. Craft is a process by which particular skill is applied to produce a particular product, anything from a chair, to a painting, to a story. Art is then a state of being, a badge of honor which we pin on works of craftsmanship which speak in a particular way to the human soul. As I said, it is not within the purpose of this study or this paper to define and defend a philosophy of art. Rather, the above represents a generally accepted definition of craft (even Collingwood defends a similar definition) combined with my own opinion regarding the nature of art.
The important takeaway here is that craft is invariably tied to practice and skill. Part of the way a one studies any craft must be through practice. This is integral to the Craft approach: stories are studied as works of craftsmanship. They are examined with the presupposition that the student might apply insight gained in his own practice of the craft, just as an apprentice blacksmith will learn technique from watching his master. He comes to see not just the product, but the particular way in which the product is produced. The Craft approach is an inherently practical one, and as we shall see, this commitment informs the way the Craft approach looks at storytelling. This requires careful investigation of the pieces that make up a story and its telling, just as a carpenter must understand the use of a variety of tools, techniques, and types of wood in order to make just the sort of chair he hopes to.
The terms “criticism” and “critical” carry severely negative connotations in the modern world. To be critical is to condemn. The traditional understanding of these words, however, casts no such shadow. This is reflected more in the term “critic,” as applied particularly to media reviewers. Critics of film, literature, theater – these are not people who detest these media; rather, they are immersed in them. A critic speaks the language of evaluation, yes, but for the purpose of praise as much as censure. It is the role of a critic to evaluate, and indeed to interpret, a story. Thus, the Critical approach is deeply couched in theory. It sees a story in the context of its culture, genre tradition, and audience. Involved in this, as previously discussed, is an essentially moral judgment. It is the critic’s job to reflect on the story as a part of the broader human narrative, not just on the way it was constructed on a mechanical level. Seeing a story in its historical and cultural context requires judgment regarding the story’s worth.
Implicit in the Critical approach is a discussion of the worth of storytelling. If there is a moral judgment to be made, that implies that stories are affective in the ways people live their lives. While it is important to note this influence, particularly in the Critical approach, of arguments about the worth of stories or beliefs regarding their transformative efficacy, such a debate lies largely outside the realm of this study. A study of storytelling (regardless of approach) presupposes that stories have worth, and it is not within the bounds of this inquiry to determine the particulars of what that worth is.
A Direct Comparison
Certainly, the approaches of Craft and Criticism are intertwined with one another. Critical evaluation requires some understanding of craft, and proper evaluation of craft needs some judgment of comparative quality. It is still important, though, to understand that Craft and Criticism approach stories from essentially different perspectives.
Imagine that a story is some tangible object sitting in front of you. A mug, for instance, sitting on a table with lots of other dishes, cups, and utensils. The Craft approach recognizes that the mug sits among many other dishes, but it makes little comparison and pays little attention beyond simple recognition of presence to the other dishes. Instead, its widest focus is on the mug itself. The Craft approach scrutinizes that single mug, taking in every characteristic that makes up that whole mug: the material it’s made from, the color, whether there are designs on its sides, whether or not it has handle, whether it’s dirty or clean, empty or full. The mug as a whole is something different than simply the sum of these parts, but all these parts together make up the whole of the mug. The Craft approach is one that zooms in. The story itself is the highest, largest thing, the widest focus. The Craft approach views each element in detail, carefully examining its characteristics and function in relation to the whole. Craft never loses sight of context, it just limits the context to the story itself.
Criticism, on the other hand, places story towards the smaller end of its focus. Returning to the mug on the table, the Critical approach acknowledges the mug’s characteristics, even as they contribute to the mug’s whole, but it sees the mug within the context of the whole table. It compares to other dishes, and in this context ultimately passes judgment on whether the mug is a good dish or not. It is an approach that rises and expands outwards. Whereas Craft is concerned only with the way the mug’s elements form its whole, Criticism judges whether the whole was a good whole to form.
Story Purpose and Authorial Purpose
A related distinction that must be made has to do the dual purpose inherent to storytelling: the difference between the purpose of the story itself and the purpose of the story’s author (here used as a general designation for whoever crafted the story, regardless of medium).
A story’s purpose is essentially reflexive; that is, a story’s purpose is to be a story. The key question, then, is “What kind of story is it trying to be?” Just as a building can be anything from a shed to a skyscraper, a story can take on a number of different forms or be trying to do a number of different things. That purpose may be directed (i.e. a story trying to do X, Y, or Z), but a story in itself makes no judgment about its direction. It succeeds to the extent that it achieves X, Y, or Z. A story fulfills its purpose by doing what it is trying to do as a story. A story’s concern, then, pertains to its component elements. The story, once again, becomes the highest level of concern, meaning that questions of story purpose fall more within the Craft approach.
Conversely, an author’s purpose is essentially ethical in nature. An author (ideally) tells a particular story in a particular way for a particular reason. That reason need not be any more serious than “It was fun” or “Because I felt like it,” but it is still a reason, and still subject to ethical evaluation. The author directs the story’s purpose, but also passes moral judgment on that purpose through its very selection over other possible purposes. Clearly, then, questions of authorial purpose are most closely related to the Critical approach.
The two are integrated but must be viewed separately. If we think of the telling of a story as analogous to the construction of a building, the authorial purpose determines what sort of building ought to be built and where it ought to go, whereas the story purpose concerns itself only with building the best building possible according to those designs. Again, we see that although the two purposes share some concerns, the author’s purpose is primarily ethical while the story’s purpose is primarily one of craftsmanship.
As an example of this distinction, let’s look at George Orwell’s dystopian classic 1984. In his essay “Why I Write” Orwell said, “Every line of serious work that I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism and for democratic socialism.” (Orwell 394). That is a moral evaluation of differing forms of government and a purpose to his telling of 1984 (which was first published in 1949). However, the story’s purpose in 1984 is to be a story that illuminates possible effects of an utterly totalitarian state on both society and the individual. It passes no moral judgment on whether or not totalitarianism is a bad thing, but rather seeks the means of telling, of craftsmanship, that will best serve this purpose.
“To Entertain and To Instruct”
In his introduction to the 2010 issue of The Best American Short Stories, Richard Russo relates the story of how, as a young professor, he heard writer Isaac Bashevis Singer speak. When asked what the purpose of literature was, Singer replied, “To entertain and to instruct.” (Russo xiv) He left it at that, says Russo, as though that was all that needed to be said. When pressed for further comment, Singer declined, simply repeating the maxim. Entertainment and instruction. Together, Singer and Russo suggest, these two purposes make up the basis of all literature, and by extension, all stories. Thus, they are immediately relevant to this investigation.
Let us look first at instruction. Merriam-Webster defines “instruct” as, “to give knowledge to; teach,” or, “to provide with authoritative information or advice.” Both of these definitions imply a sense of direction; that is, the instructor gives direction to the one receiving instruction. The imperative “to instruct,” then, must be linked chiefly to authorial purpose, because as we have seen above, it directs the story purpose. The choice of what instruction is to be given, or what constitutes “authoritative information,” as the second definition puts it, is an inherently ethical one, again linking instruction to the Critical approach.
Entertainment, on the other hand, is slightly more complex. First of all, we must define entertainment. Entertainment is best understood through its relation to another idea: that of engagement. Engagement refers to the connection between an author and audience, which is manifest in two ways: interest and entertainment.
Interest refers to the appreciation of some subject, concept, or idea, anything from a love of travelling to an enjoyment of science fiction. As an idea, interest is atemporal, unembodied, and without action. Interest is connection to an idea rather than a thing, and is therefore passive in nature. Certainly, stories engage readers through mutual subject interest, but at their core stories are embodied, temporally bound, active entities. This is the great advantage of story over discursive forms: speeches and essays depend principally on the audience’s interest in their subject for engagement, but a story is able to grow engagement without prior shared interest. Basically, the eye is drawn to motion. When a story appears as a distinctive thing before us, one that moves in interesting ways, we can in some ways not help but watch what happens. For a time, we in the audience forget about ourselves and are wholly transported into the physical story. This form of engagement is what I define as entertainment.
Of the two, then, entertainment is the only method of engagement that the author can affect. An author has no control over the predisposition of an audience to certain interests, but can, by the way he tells it, make his story more embodied and active, more entertaining. Therefore, a story can be made entertaining through the craft of storytelling. Entertainment is tied to the Craft approach.
As I alluded to in my introduction, I’ve been an avid reader ever since I was little, so I was excited going into AP literature classes junior and senior year of high school. I thought they’d be perfect fits. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. In fact, I rather hated those classes, which perplexed me. Some of the problem was simply one of material; I didn’t particularly enjoy a lot of the books we read. But although I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was that didn’t click with me, I knew it was more than simple book selection. Even the discussion surrounding books I’d enjoyed seemed lifeless and disengaging to me. Thus, although I still loved to read, still loved stories, and had no idea what I wanted to major in, I arrived at college pretty sure I didn’t want to study English.
Then another weird thing happened. In the spring of my freshman year I took a creative writing class. We still read and analyzed a lot of stories, just like in my high school lit classes, but there was something different about the way we went about it. It had energy. Life. It was enjoyable. Initially, this only served to confuse me more, but it became one of the catalysts for this study. These were my first steps towards understanding the basic dividing factors between the Craft and Critical approaches.
As I have said, both approaches to storytelling are valid, and the two approaches overlap and intertwine with one another so frequently it is pointless to suppose that someone could employ one to the complete exclusion of the other. Furthermore, each proves advantageous for studying different aspects of storytelling, and a full picture cannot be achieved without the both of them. However, for a number of reasons (not the least of which simple personal inclination) this study leans more heavily on the methodology of the Craft approach.
- It is not the purpose of this paper or this study to engage in an ethical debate. One of the things that frustrated me most about the literature classes I’ve taken was an overemphasis on theme. All too often, it felt like I was taking a class in existentialism, and that the stories really didn’t matter so long as they communicated their theme. I maintain that a proper Critical approach doesn’t make the same mistake of overemphasis, but my study is not concerned with laying out moral guidelines which stories ought to follow. People are defensive of their beliefs (and rightly so), especially of their moral and religious commitments. I do not mean to suggest that morals are not important, nor that we should not be engaging in religious debates; in fact, I think in stories is a great place to have some of those debates. But dogmatic pre-commitments can preclude an open talk about quality. Questions germane more to the Craft approach than the Critical approach, as I have suggested above, typically are not question involving moral judgment. This is not to say that craft questions aren’t subjective, only that opinion isn’t based on things people hold as fundamentally “right” or “wrong.” Even if you personally aren’t a fan of, say, Hemmingway’s minimalism, you can still identify what his stories were trying to do (story purpose) and if they were successful at it.
- Commenting further on Isaac Singer’s affirmation about the purpose of literature, Richard Russo observes, “Interestingly, he never reversed the order, nor did he fail to pause dramatically between ‘entertain’ and ‘instruct,’ as if he feared his listeners were more likely to forget the first purpose than the second.” (Russo xiv) Entertainment can be a dirty word to “serious” work, but as Singer and Russo point out, entertainment is not only a primary feature of storytelling, it is the first purpose of storytelling. What Singer implies by maintaining the order of his answer is that entertainment must precede instruction. This makes sense when we view entertainment as the basis for an audience’s engagement with a story. If an audience is not engaged, instruction is not possible. A teacher must have student, and further, a student who listens if the teacher hopes to convey any instruction.
Key Questions of a Craft Approach
As alluded to above, a study of storytelling based on a Craft approach is primarily concerned with the relationship between a story’s component elements and the whole of the story. Making each element of a story as strong as it can be is only productive when that strength is directed towards a particular purpose. For example, in his essay “On Science Fiction,” C.S. Lewis explains how a confluence of great things can be self-defeating:
“Every good writer knows that the more unusual the scenes and events of his story are, the slighter, the more ordinary, the more typical his persons should be. Hence Gulliver is a commonplace little man and Alice is a commonplace little girl. If they had been more remarkable they would have wrecked their books.” (Lewis 64-65)
Lewis is speaking here to the particular situation of stories of the wildly fantastic, but the principle is widely applicable. It is imperative that elements work in concert to produce a story rather than fighting for primacy. This is true not only in creating stories, but also in evaluating them. Overemphasizing the importance of one element, such as theme or plot, devalues the contributions of other elements and skews the overall view of the given story. Thus, two guiding questions arise: 1) What is the story trying to do? (or, stated differently, what kind of story is it trying to be) and 2) How and to what extent are the story’s elements contributing to that end?
The Particulars of My Study
While the methodological concerns discussed above are applicable to a wide range of inquiries into storytelling, and indeed I am interested in storytelling as a broad subject, my study has focused on a specific subsection of stories. Limiting my study is necessary due primarily to the sheer volume of material which can be classified as having to do with storytelling. For reasons mentioned earlier and expounded upon below, I still find it important to draw insight of many forms; however, I have selected several particular constraints which, while not free (nor, I believe, should they be) from simple personal inclination, nonetheless make logical sense. The chosen particulars of my study are discussed in the following.
The Bounds of My Study
My particular focuses lie on narrative storytelling forms, the written component of these forms, and stories of fiction rather than of nonfiction.
Music can be wonderfully evocative. I believe in its power to weave a story for the listener with notes alone. Likewise, great paintings often feel alive, almost moving, communicating stories about what lies within the confines of their frames. Neither of these media, however, are overtly narrative in nature. Their stories are markedly lacking in specificity of A) plot and/or B) character. For example, Grant Wood’s American Gothic communicates something to the viewer of the nature of his two subjects, and even something of their situation, but there is no movement, no action, no plot to the painting alone. Similarly, music can be emotionally affective in a way that resembles plot through its use of elements like tempo, time signature, and key, but character is utterly lacking. At an intuitive level, we can discern a difference between forms such as music, painting, sculpture, etc. and traditionally narrative forms such as novels, films, and plays.
This divide, however, is not a hard and fast one. I freely admit that to say something is “narrative” often involves a subjective evaluation. Poetry provides a great example of this. Some poetry is rather devoid of character and plot, whereas some is full of it (as with epics like Beowulf and The Odyssey). Many poems find a middle ground, where the main way they communicate the story is through emotional affectation, but they do have distinctive (if not wholly developed) elements of plot and character. This reflects the fact that while my study is focused primarily on wholly narrative forms, the approach I am employing is applicable to a much wider range of storytelling media.
From there, I limit by giving particular attention to the written component of these storytelling forms. For example: film is a visual medium. Its stories are told through moving images as opposed to, say, the narratorial exposition of a book (not to say, of course, that movies cannot have narrators, but their voice is, at the least, far less prevalent than that of a narrator in a novel). In film, though, the screenplay is the written representation of what will be visually expressed. A good screenwriter is able to pre-visualize the film and record these images in the screenplay format. Likewise, theatrical performances have scripts and video games have design documents. For any of these examples, an understanding of the way storytelling functions within the medium as a whole is essential to the production its written component. As discussed above, a Craft approach necessarily includes a practical component. I have chosen to focus on a written component both because it is a linking element among forms (insights in one form can more easily be expressed in another) and because, as a writer, this is where my particular interest lies.
The final bound to my investigation is that I am focused primarily on fiction. This includes everything from realism to historical fiction to sci-fi, but excludes forms of storytelling like the creative nonfiction essay. There is little behind this other than personal bent, but it does serve to limit my study in a productive way without limiting the variety of kinds of stories I am looking at.
Why Study Multiple Forms?
I touched briefly upon this subject in my introduction, but I return to it here to discuss the subject in more detail and to provide a few examples illustrating the importance of this integrative basis for my Craft approach. To reiterate what has already been said, the methods of study I have outlined could easily be confined to a specific form of storytelling, such as short fiction. Indeed, it could be argued that limiting the scope could improve the practical efficacy of my study. However, the stated goal of this study is not mastery of a given form; while I enjoy the practical element my study affords, this is not a BFA degree. Furthermore, I firmly believe that a view of storytelling that is most complete is only achievable through the synthesis of insights from a wide variety of storytelling forms.
Although the active, conscious practice of applying insights across forms is not particularly widespread, I am not alone in believing in the importance of such an approach. Trent Hergenrader, PhD student and teacher of undergraduate creative writing classes at the University of Wisconsin (Milwaukee), as well as a panelist on for the “Writing Games: Gaming, Digitality, and Creative Writing Pedagogy” panel at the 2012 AWP Conference in Chicago, is applying a similar tact in both his teaching and his doctoral coursework. Hergenrader uses the role playing game (RPG) Fallout 3 to aid in his class’s exploration of story elements like character. Because a key principle of game design is player agency, says Hergenrader, traditional modes of literary criticism fail when applied to games. A designer must plan a story (or stories) that account for a wide variety of player actions and attitudes. Therefore, game design provides a unique perspective on character traits and motivations. In a game like Fallout 3, the player is given a finite number of “points” to spend on an array of character traits. The player is forced to choose proficiency in a few of these traits to the exclusion of others, much like a prose writer creating a character within his story. No one is good at everything; every good character has both strengths and weaknesses. But game design helps us imagine a character as he could be in a number of different circumstances. Similarly, in an RPG the player is given choice that affects the story. Translating to fiction, if we then think of our characters as able to make any choice, rather than whatever is convenient for the plot, we are forced to take a closer look at the character’s motivations. What choice would they make, based on their traits and journey thus far? Have we written the character such that the choice they make is the only logical one for that character? (Hergenrader “Build”) (Hergenrader “Writing”).
The opening line of his essay “On Stories,” C.S. Lewis says, “It is astonishing how little attention critics have paid to Story considered in itself.” (Lewis 3). This paper has been an attempt to contribute to the mass of work trying to rectify that oversight. Part of the challenge here has been to relate an education that has been largely experiential in logically traceable means. Intuition is important in deciding what is good telling and what is not, and it only gained by spending time with stories. For all the mechanical emphasis of the Craft approach which I have attempted to lay out, stories remain mysterious entities, and we lose something essential when we suppose otherwise. Storytelling is magic. We “spell” out words, images, and sounds in feeble attempts to touch the human soul. Few storytellers are true wizards of their craft, able to freely mold these forms to their will. But even the poorest of alchemists has the potential to strike gold.
Telling stories is a craft, a skill which can be practiced and honed. I have tried in this paper to pull back the curtain and reveal what pulls the levers insofar as I understand it. We need more critical engagement with stories, challenging past suppositions and integrating new ways of thinking provided by a variety of storytelling forms. There’s a saying that it’s all been done before. To some extent, this is certainly true. Archetypes and plots repeat through time. Disparate civilizations have shockingly similar myths. But this should not be a discouragement to storytellers; rather, it should be a drive forward. It should be a challenge to find the best recombination of these elements, the best telling that the particular story has ever been treated with. It is my dearest hope that this paper can be part of a meaningful conversation informing how this might be done, and can offer a framework on which to build a better exploration of how stories are told. People have been telling stories as long as there’s been someone to listen. Stories welcome strangers, inviting them to experience alien walks of life. Stories bind people together into community
In the words of poet Shel Silverstein:
“If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!” (Silverstein)
 For example, as I have previously written regarding pages 20-21 of Collingwood’s argument:
“As a control for the first section, Collingwood uses the creation and application of horseshoes, to compare to poetry, his test case. He says that the end of a poem is a certain state of mind in the audience. He provides no support for this theory of poetry (which I have serious reservations about), but even supposing it is right, Collingwood’s comparison is flawed. First, while the ‘recipient’ a poem would be the listener or reader, the recipient of a horse being shod is the horse. The owner in Collingwood’s example is a third party to which poetry has no corollary. Collingwood is comparing disparate parts.
Furthermore, Collingwood says that unlike the means of forging iron to which the end is a horseshoe, there are no specific means by which a poem is the end. He suggests that it is therefore preposterous to consider poetry a craft, for what blacksmith could “make a horseshoe by sheer labour, without forge, anvil, hammer, or tongs.” (20-21). This metaphor is thoroughly unconvincing…Collingwood flippantly dismisses writing, metrical composition, application of theory and practice, etc. as legitimate means without due consideration.”
 Good criticism also requires practice of the craft of criticism, but this is a fundamentally different sort of craft than the craft of storytelling, like the difference between baking and sculpture. Thus, a discussion of the craft of criticism falls outside the purview of this paper.
 This is not to deny the capacity of discursive forms for entertainment. See, for example, the web show Extra Credits (http://extra-credits.net/) a weekly show that critically analyzes video games and the game industry. The show is undeniably entertaining, but is not sustainably engaging if the viewer does not have an interest in video games.
 Mozart’s Horn Concerto No. 4 is a fantastic example of this.
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