Day 107 – Six fundamental principles of writing

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The Chekhovian Blueprint: 6 Principles for Crafting a Masterpiece

When it comes to the art of storytelling, few names command as much respect as Anton Chekhov. A master of the short story and the stage, Chekhov didn’t just write fiction; he dissected the human condition with the precision of a surgeon.

While Chekhov never penned a rigid “how-to” manual, his letters to fellow writers and his own body of work reveal a distinct philosophy. He believed that to create a truly great story, a writer must adhere to six fundamental principles. If you’re looking to elevate your prose, here is the Chekhovian blueprint for narrative excellence.

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1. Objectivity

Chekhov famously argued that a writer should be an objective observer rather than a moral judge. He believed that the author’s job is to present the truth of a situation, not to lecture the reader on what is “right” or “wrong.”

• The Significance: By removing your personal judgment from the narrative, you allow the reader to draw their own conclusions, making the story feel more authentic and less like a sermon.

2. Truthful Descriptions of Persons and Objects

Chekhov had a disdain for flowery, abstract language. He believed that the world should be described through concrete details. Instead of telling the reader that a character is sad, he would describe the way the moonlight glinted off the neck of a broken bottle.

• The Significance: Specificity anchors the reader in the story. It transforms a vague concept into a visceral experience, forcing the reader to see and feel the world you’ve constructed.

3. Extreme Brevity

If you’ve ever heard the advice, “If you can say it in one word, don’t use two,” you are hearing an echo of Chekhov. He was a master of concision, stripping away every unnecessary adjective and redundant sentence until only the essential remained.

• The Significance: Brevity respects the reader’s time and intelligence. It sharpens the impact of your prose, ensuring that every word performs a specific function within the story.

4. Bold and Honest Declarations

Chekhov loathed “literary” language—the affectations and clichés that writers often use to sound clever. He advocated for honest, direct language that cut straight to the heart of the matter.

• The Significance: Honesty creates trust. When a writer speaks plainly and boldly, the reader feels they are in the hands of someone who isn’t hiding behind a mask of artifice. It creates an immediate, intimate connection.

5. Spontaneity (Nature)

Chekhov believed that a story should feel like it grew naturally, rather than being forced into a rigid mould. He advocated for a sense of “spontaneity,” where the narrative flows organically from the characters rather than being puppet-mastered by the author.

• The Significance: When a story feels forced or overly engineered, the reader notices the “gears” turning. Spontaneity preserves the magic; it makes the story feel like a discovery rather than a lecture.

6. The Absence of Falsehood and Rottenness

By “rottenness,” Chekhov meant the artificiality of sentimentality and forced happy endings. He insisted that writers should avoid the temptation to provide easy answers or sugar-coat the complexities of life.

• The Significance: Real life is messy, often unresolved, and frequently bittersweet. By avoiding “rotten” shortcuts, you honour the complexity of the human experience. A story that ends on a note of ambiguous truth is always more powerful than one that ties every loose end in a neat, dishonest bow.

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The Takeaway

Anton Chekhov’s principles are not just technical rules; they are a call to emotional honesty. He teaches us that the greatest power of a writer lies in the ability to observe the world clearly, describe it concisely, and let the characters live their own lives without interference.

The next time you sit down to write, ask yourself: Am I judging the characters, or showing them? Are these words necessary, or just pretty? Is this ending earned, or is it a shortcut?

Follow the Chekhovian path, and you won’t just be writing a story—you’ll be capturing a piece of life itself.

Day 106 – Writing to please yourself

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Writing for an Audience of One: The Radical Liberation of Margaret Cavendish

In the 17th century, a woman’s writing was typically expected to be a pursuit of piety, domestic instruction, or perhaps a modest contribution to poetry. Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle, cared little for such boundaries. Surrounded by the rigid social expectations of the Restoration era, she penned a mantra that remains one of the most liberating declarations in literary history: “I write to please myself.”

While this might sound like a simple statement of personal preference, in the context of Cavendish’s time—and perhaps even in our own era of algorithm-driven content—it is a profoundly radical act.

The Rebellion Against Approval

When we write today, it is rarely “for ourselves.” We write for engagement, for likes, for professional advancement, or to satisfy the perceived expectations of a target demographic. We curate our voices to fit into boxes that make us palatable to publishers, platforms, and peers.

Margaret Cavendish understood something that many modern creatives have forgotten: as soon as you write to please an audience, you are no longer the author of your own work; you are merely a performer of their desires.

By declaring that her primary audience was her own intellect and imagination, Cavendish reclaimed the authority of the artist. She did not seek the validation of the male-dominated literary circles of the 1600s; instead, she explored science fiction, philosophy, and poetry with a wild, unbridled curiosity. She didn’t seek to be “correct”—she sought to be honest to her own fascinations.

When “Pleasing Yourself” Becomes Art

There is a common misconception that writing for oneself is synonymous with vanity or poor quality. Critics of Cavendish often labelled her as eccentric or “mad.” However, history has revealed that her refusal to bend to contemporary tastes allowed her to write The Blazing World—one of the earliest examples of science fiction.

She was free to experiment because she wasn’t tethered to the fear of being misunderstood.

When you write to please yourself, you strip away the filters of “what will people think?” and “is this marketable?” The result is a voice that is sharper, more distinct, and more authentic. Even if the work never reaches a wide audience, the process of documenting one’s own mind is an act of self-discovery that no amount of external praise can replicate.

How to Adopt the Cavendish Mindset

How can we reclaim this philosophy in a world that demands we be “content creators” rather than artists?

1. Lower the Stakes: Write something that you never intend to publish. Let it be messy, odd, or purely indulgent. If no one else is reading it, you are free to explore your most “unmarketable” ideas.
2. Define Your Curiosity: What do you actually want to write about, regardless of trends? Whether it’s 17th-century philosophy or a niche hobby, lean into the subjects that make your own brain light up.
3. Detach from the Metric: Focus on the satisfaction of the prose, the clarity of the thought, or the joy of the narrative. If the writing process itself brings you pleasure, the goal has been achieved.

Final Thoughts

Margaret Cavendish was an outcast in her time because she refused to perform modesty. Today, we can see her for what she truly was: a visionary who realized that the only person you are guaranteed to be writing for for the rest of your life is yourself.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t ask, “Will this resonate?” Ask, “Does this thrill me?” Because when you write to please yourself, you create something that is authentic—and that is the only kind of writing that truly stands the test of time.

Day 106 – Writing to please yourself

…

Writing for an Audience of One: The Radical Liberation of Margaret Cavendish

In the 17th century, a woman’s writing was typically expected to be a pursuit of piety, domestic instruction, or perhaps a modest contribution to poetry. Margaret Cavendish, the Duchess of Newcastle, cared little for such boundaries. Surrounded by the rigid social expectations of the Restoration era, she penned a mantra that remains one of the most liberating declarations in literary history: “I write to please myself.”

While this might sound like a simple statement of personal preference, in the context of Cavendish’s time—and perhaps even in our own era of algorithm-driven content—it is a profoundly radical act.

The Rebellion Against Approval

When we write today, it is rarely “for ourselves.” We write for engagement, for likes, for professional advancement, or to satisfy the perceived expectations of a target demographic. We curate our voices to fit into boxes that make us palatable to publishers, platforms, and peers.

Margaret Cavendish understood something that many modern creatives have forgotten: as soon as you write to please an audience, you are no longer the author of your own work; you are merely a performer of their desires.

By declaring that her primary audience was her own intellect and imagination, Cavendish reclaimed the authority of the artist. She did not seek the validation of the male-dominated literary circles of the 1600s; instead, she explored science fiction, philosophy, and poetry with a wild, unbridled curiosity. She didn’t seek to be “correct”—she sought to be honest to her own fascinations.

When “Pleasing Yourself” Becomes Art

There is a common misconception that writing for oneself is synonymous with vanity or poor quality. Critics of Cavendish often labelled her as eccentric or “mad.” However, history has revealed that her refusal to bend to contemporary tastes allowed her to write The Blazing World—one of the earliest examples of science fiction.

She was free to experiment because she wasn’t tethered to the fear of being misunderstood.

When you write to please yourself, you strip away the filters of “what will people think?” and “is this marketable?” The result is a voice that is sharper, more distinct, and more authentic. Even if the work never reaches a wide audience, the process of documenting one’s own mind is an act of self-discovery that no amount of external praise can replicate.

How to Adopt the Cavendish Mindset

How can we reclaim this philosophy in a world that demands we be “content creators” rather than artists?

1. Lower the Stakes: Write something that you never intend to publish. Let it be messy, odd, or purely indulgent. If no one else is reading it, you are free to explore your most “unmarketable” ideas.
2. Define Your Curiosity: What do you actually want to write about, regardless of trends? Whether it’s 17th-century philosophy or a niche hobby, lean into the subjects that make your own brain light up.
3. Detach from the Metric: Focus on the satisfaction of the prose, the clarity of the thought, or the joy of the narrative. If the writing process itself brings you pleasure, the goal has been achieved.

Final Thoughts

Margaret Cavendish was an outcast in her time because she refused to perform modesty. Today, we can see her for what she truly was: a visionary who realized that the only person you are guaranteed to be writing for for the rest of your life is yourself.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t ask, “Will this resonate?” Ask, “Does this thrill me?” Because when you write to please yourself, you create something that is authentic—and that is the only kind of writing that truly stands the test of time.