Math is a weird concept. Growing up, it wasn’t just a subject I grew to hate — it became a novel way of thinking that transcended the classroom. I began searching for tidy answers to messy problems everywhere, eventually treating writing like an equation.
More or less, I was wired like a calculator: I’d start from a blank screen, punch in an idea that was uniquely my own, hit “equals,” write, write, write, finish quickly and move on.
My mathematical mindset was painfully evident in my first attempt at fiction: a discarded, four-page short story.
I remember sitting in a hotel room, mapping the entire blueprint out as though it were a linear equation. I decided to hit a fixed quota –– X amount of pages per day until I finished –– because obviously I could will a story out of thin air.
Writing too fast wasn’t the only problem I faced. My work also revolved around clinging to proven models I trusted more than my own voice.
Embarrassingly, I remember reading “No Country For Old Men” by Cormac McCarthy for the first time and immediately deciding I’d write something just like it, word for word, bar for bar. His succinct, minimalistic and weary prose appealed to me, the carbon copy for an excellent noir novel.
By copying McCarthy’s style, I truly believed I’d be the next great American author. Obviously, I’m not.
Fast forward to my first creative writing class. I’d spent the previous three years in hibernation, reeling from the humiliations of that failed short story. Our professor asked us to write a 50-sentence blueprint for a story, with every sentence drawn from something we were already familiar with. Write what you know, they instructed. My first instinct was to scoff. I did, in fact, multiple times.
After my very serious scoffing session, I threw on a hoodie and headed to the second-floor balcony.
I hadn’t written any fiction before that. Save for my infamous four-page short story written in high school, I was utterly out of my depth.
Naturally, I tried to outsmart the assignment, my stubborn nature in full swing. Ignoring the 50-sentence requirement, I dove straight into writing the story, the familiar formulaic approach flaring. The result? I stared at a blank page for an embarrassing amount of time. Building a character, plot and setting from scratch is harder than it looks, especially when you have no idea who that character is or where the story’s even supposed to take place.
I was chasing the quick solution, the easy way out. I was writing like I had somewhere to be.
This, in itself, is an entirely different problem. If you’re weirdly interested, I’d shamelessly point you in the direction of a previous column where I dive into that exact problem.
My failure was the only thing that sparked change. Begrudgingly, I took my professor’s advice and did the prompt, fully expecting to finish in five minutes. Instead, I sat there for thirty, not because it was hard, but because I found myself enjoying it. Also, 50 sentences is a shit-ton.
I was completely immersed, lost in developing a character I knew next to nothing about and worldbuilding a place that had existed for less than ten minutes. Subconsciously, my entire conception of how to craft a story had started to shift.
The extra effort began to show immediately. Take my first 50 sentences, for example. The majority were inspired by “La Haine,” Mathieu Kassovitz’s 1995 black-and-white cult classic.
“La Haine” world builds exceptionally, better than anything I’ve ever seen. Set in the impoverished margins of Paris –– the French banlieue –– it reveals a world completely cut off from the city it technically belongs to, and the one that’s supposed to support it. Though less than 30 miles apart, Kassovitz makes the banlieue and Paris feel like opposite planets. The characters don’t just live outside Paris — they’re not allowed to belong to it. It’s an entirely different world.
That first assignment, which gestated into my first novel, much of the action occurs in a decrepit town, inspired by the French banlieue. Now, it isn’t exactly the same — you can’t do that! Neither is it a “change my homework so it doesn’t look like I copied you” situation. But the bones are similar.
A similar pattern is revealed with my main character, a witty, intelligent, yet disillusioned protagonist who lacks any direction. He blends elements of each main character: the humor of one, the sharpness of another and the detachment of the last.
I tend not to feel guilty about using this process. Replication flattens voice and originality, but drawing inspiration fosters growth. Once I stopped trying to be McCarthy and embodied my own voice, my writing was punchier and funnier in ways I hadn’t expected. Looking back, if I’d tried to build that protagonist from scratch, I would have failed.
I strongly believe this goes beyond craft. Writing isn’t like math; there are no tidy solutions, no right answers and definitely no formula that always works. Once I stopped thinking like a calculator, my characters started bleeding in ways McCarthy might’ve restrained, becoming more than simply cheap knock-offs. And no, before you ask, I still don’t understand the unit circle. So there’s that.
Otto Fritton PZ ’27 is an avid Peanuts fan. He finds Charles M. Schulz’s portrayal of Charlie Brown and the Little Red-Haired Girl fantastic; the perfect example of unrequited love. He wonders if Charlie will ever truly succeed, and suspects that’s exactly the point.
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