Just Weird Enough to Work

The case for taking creative risks + seven things from George Saunders

You may know George Saunders by reputation, as he is considered one of the best short story writers of our time. You may know him from his

George Saunders

Story Club newsletter here on Substack, which is excellent. I had the joy of seeing him speak at my local book festival (LUCKY to have this embarrassment of riches so close to home!), talking about his new short story collection Liberation Day (you can get your own signed copy here). 

And I took notes for all of us.

I was first introduced to George Saunders through his award-winning collection of short stories in Tenth of December, and followed him to the novel Lincoln in the Bardo which is unlike anything I’ve ever read—call it just weird enough to work. His publisher marketed it as an “experimental novel,” which takes place over the course of a single night, yet with so many characters, the audiobook has 166 voices. 

“Just weird enough to work” might be a banner over his entire creative canon. To read Saunders is to encounter raw truths about living, and also to catch the joke about our shared humanity. His wit and humor is never far, even when dealing with the ultimates of life and death, and that kind of range makes his work remarkable. Saunders is the kind of writer who knows the rules of writing well enough to break them, and he do so, sometimes with gusto.

While fiction is not my primary form and it may not be yours, I found plenty of pass-on-able gems, so there they are. These are part direct quotes from Saunders, and part commentary of my own. A call and response, if you will, and I hope some creative kindling here for your own work.

On the struggle of starting a new creative work:

“Don’t be precious about the beginning,” he said. Much of his recent work got its start in just “goofing around”—listening to the characters as they emerged, listening to what they are saying in their own language. As a nonfiction writer myself, I love to hear how the creative process differs for fiction writers, especially where imagining entire characters from scratch comes in. As Saunders described it, he “got ornery” trying to understand what his characters had to do with his storyline. Finally, he determined, “Just put them in there and let them figure it out. Ultimately, they started cross-talking.”

On the “why” of your creative work:

This is a direct quote and I loved it and am running with it—“At this stage in my career, it’s about finding some joy.” What an aspiration! What a delight! 

On engaging your reader:

There’s an art to anticipating your reader’s response, and meeting them there. How Saunders put it: get inside what your reader is thinking, enough to say, “Let me take that on.” It is a powerful thing to let the reader see you seeing them, and this is the witness that earns their sacred trust.

On what to do when you get stuck:

“Give it the overnight reset.” Saunders described the power of actively detaching from your work, as if you “just found it on a bus bench and it’s not yours,” freeing you to respond in all human honesty. As an outside, objective party, does it move you? Where are the gaps? What does it need to fully connect with your reader?

On fair critique over easy takedown:

I noted this one in neon—“The way to critique something is to critique the highest version of your opponent’s argument, even love it a little bit. Not to pick the lowest hanging fruit and kick it. It’s easy enough to make a cartoon villain and dismiss them.” Now that is wisdom.

On the sheer work and muscle of sticking to it:

“You don’t want your gravestone to read, ‘Avoided that which he most wanted to do because it was too hard.’” Yes, writing is hard. It asks so much of us. But it’s generous, too (see: joy of the work, as cited above!) 

On consenting to paradox:

“The consolation of writing is making space to listen to your conflicted feelings. Of course you feel that. Of course you do.” I appreciate the normalization here of the inner conflict, and the call to scribe it out, even so. If you’re asking me, paradox is the greatest tell and expression of writing that moves, as it makes space for the full spectrum of our humanity. Of course we feel that. Of course we do.

Here’s to writing that’s just weird enough to work (more on this from the archive if you like). Here’s to finding some joy in all of it. 

Until next time,

Take heart. Write on. You got this.

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