The essence of literature is human stubbornness. Like a musical note, stubbornness holds one thing steady Even in the midst of noise. Stubbornness is that which gives feeling its flavor.

Stubbornness is what causes humans to choose conflict When they would otherwise just take what they get. The consequence of conflict is often tragedy, Which gives them the karma that stubbornness deserves.

Sometimes it is stubbornness that lets us endure And triumph in the end, but this is rare, For probability declares that most of us lose And winners are not the ones we most love.

Why are we stubborn? Because we are children, Spoiled in some way, a rotten side, if not green. Sometimes that allows us to do the right thing; Most of the time, all it means Is that we go through a process Of conflict, conflict, till we reach absolution.

Life is not easy, and that’s no one’s fault. Life is best when we want it to be hard And stubbornness confronts, rather than avoids.

A story is a history of stubborn parties, Like molecules of gas, bouncing around. You know the straight line that parties will take When stubbornness is left alone, but not When they collide with each other, or with the wall.

Molecules exist in absolute chaos, but Individually, they follow simple laws of motion; Collectively, laws of thermodynamics. Patterns of life are not so simple, but They, too, emerge in and from chaos.

Next time you want to structure a story, Think not about templates, but what you would do If you had no choice, but made one anyway: The friction that sparks the fire.

A tiny starship traced a bluish-white line across the purple and orange sky of Kester 5, as Lysander watched its patient ascent in a state of listless curiosity. Why was it alone? he wondered. What was its purpose?

As a lowly soldier in the revolutionary militia, preparing to depart for a surprise incursion into the capital planet of Zyroth, he had no way to answer such questions. His comrades bustled around him, doing more work than he, but they were ahead of schedule and already relaxing, laughing, gossiping.

A lumbering transport hovered into view and, with a thrust of its boosters, zoomed off at surprising speed. Each transport that left meant one closer to his…

Fate. His life had been unremarkable, had it not? Growing up in a town not far from where he stood, he had labored tirelessly at various jobs to help his family put bread on the table. At night he would gaze up at the moons and their orbital docking rings and dream of interstellar trade. He was grateful for the meager opportunities he had been given, but there was always that burning side of him that felt there was something more to be had. When the revolution came to his doorstep and orators led mobs in chants of death to the Hyperion elite, he knew that this was the change that could lead him to prosperity.

Another transport was away.

But on the brink of his first deployment, something in his feelings was amiss. Why did they want new recruits like him to join the fight somewhere as important as the capital? Could it really be the decisive battle they seemed to suggest, or was it just supposed to be some kind of distraction? They had proclaimed how troops would have the opportunity to plunder Hyperion palaces and keep whatever riches they could carry, but Lysander now thought he would rather have the opportunity to learn the significance of that starship in the distance.

Another transport, away.

Some men, when out of earshot of their women comrades, would joke about bringing back beautiful Hyperion maidens and seducing them—or worse—but Lysander mentally scoffed at these ideas, not because he knew enough to deplore immorality, but because he already had a woman back home, someone he would fight for, die for, be everything he could be for. She was the fire in his heart, but the flame had turned blue when she became pensive ever since he told her of his enlistment in the militia. She had spoken of the devils on Zyroth; surely she would eventually understand why he chose to embark on this war. After all, hers was the light that gave him the strength to act on his convictions.

“You excited for this mission?” asked his comrade Benny, coming up to him and clapping his shoulder. “We’re going to see the capital! Finally getting off this hellhole of a planet. I can’t wait to cruise through those arched streets!”

“Yeah,” Lysander laughed nervously, “although I don’t think we’ll have much time to enjoy it.”

Another transport went away. While Kester 5 was not the most hospitable planet, it was his home. He did not relish the thought of leaving behind what he knew, but perhaps others did. It was almost time to board.

Someone shouted his name. He turned to find Helena, the flame, being escorted toward him, breaking into a run as he stood to face her and halting for a second before wrapping him in an embrace.

“I had to find you,” she murmured. “I was afraid you were gone.”

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m so happy to see you before I—“

“Don’t go.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to go. You have a life here. WE have a life here. I want you to stay.”

She was holding his face in her hands and breaking apart. He almost could not comprehend what she was saying with his comrades watching, but for a moment a foreboding flashed before his eyes and screamed vehemently in his ears to turn his back on the war, on his comrades, to go home with her and live in peace, or elope if necessary to flee the court martial. He held her hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” were the words that escaped his mouth. “I have to go.”

He was right, he thought, as he pulled away. Cowardice is a mortal sin. He wanted to triumph over fear and be someone worth believing in. And frankly, it was a little annoying that she still didn’t understand his cause.

“I’ll be back soon!” he called back to her weeping, solitary figure, but whether whole or in pieces, he could not say.

I fell in love with the angel whose wings were black

The mystery of unreachable dreams.

I had thought it would be something I could never get back

If I let it break apart at the seams

So I swore to myself I would find a way

Some miracle would happen, I’d be free

But trouble kept coming and led me astray

So I fought just to reclaim my sanity.

When life was hard, I could still see the angel

Weeping for me, staring blankly ahead

But once I had gone, there was no turning back

The angel, to me, was dead.

I fell in love with the person I thought I couldn’t be

But still, I fell in love with me.

An author kicking a can down the road met an artist also kicking a can down the road.

“Nice can,” said the author.

“Thanks, it’s a Campbell’s soup can,” replied the artist. “It represents a semi-ironic embrace of the commercialization of popular culture.”

“Cool,” said the author, pausing to process that information. “Why are you kicking it?”

“Because it’s not me, and it never will be,” declared the artist defiantly. “The system wants me to make art for profit, but I know what inspires me, and I know it’s not money.”

“I see,” said the author, becoming lost in thought, watching the bouncing of the artist’s can.

“What about you?” asked the artist as the distracted author stumbled. “What does your can represent, and why are you kicking it?”

The author fumbled to pick up a silvery, slightly crushed tin can. “This can is the ‘can’ that I think I can,” said the author with some pride. “In other words, someday I will know I can, but for now I only think.” The author became crestfallen at the thought.

The artist had no idea what the author had just said, but persisted with the inquiry anyway. “So why do you kick it?”

“Because I can never think I can,” whined the author, clearly dejected. “I try to write confidently, but my doubts drag me down into a pit of self-pity.”

“Ohh,” said the artist, beginning to understand. “So the can is what you can do if you put your mind to it, and you kick it because…”

“Because I can’t put my mind to anything, really.”

The artist offered words of sympathy and encouragement as the author resumed kicking the can. Ultimately though, those words were hollow, because the artist’s can was in a superior league. (It was brand name, after all.) The artist could not comprehend a can that couldn’t do, when the artist’s own can simply wouldn’t do. The artist had a choice.

“But y’know,” said the artist, “I don’t really have a choice either. It may be vanity, but I feel obliged to follow my passions.”

“I get what you mean,” replied the author with a nod. “In the end, it is passion that leads us down this road.”

For a brief moment, they basked in mutual understanding. Then they came upon a bend in the road. With a glance at each other, they made a majestic final kick to send their cans tumbling off the turn and out of sight. Then together they walked down the road, chatting about life.