I’m trying to write something for my Substack, which I haven’t updated in months, and it’s got me realising how much I still have to learn about the business of writing.

I’m reading Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales and thinking about the art of story-telling.

As you probably know, The Canterbury Tales is a collection of stories, framed as tales told by a bunch of pilgrims to entertain each other as they travel to Canterbury.

Chaucer was, of course, one of the greatest writers of all time, so it’s not surprising he knows how to make these stories riveting and memorable. It’s made me realise that there’s at least two things you have to do when writing a story: take your time but don’t be boring.

Take your time because however long or short your story is, you mustn’t rush past any details that might make the story more enjoyable for your reader. One of my favourite writers is Lydia Davis, who famously writes very short stories indeed, but I would argue even she follows this rule. To make a short story truly good, the reader shouldn’t feel that anything is missing from it. The author didn’t rush the job, but took her time making sure the story is told as well as it needs to be.

I suppose it’s a bit like the art of writing haiku: the authors of these little poems take their time making sure that every relevant sensation is captured in just a few lines.

And I suppose the other rule is obvious: when making sure to paint a full picture for your reader, it can be easy to include unnecessary details, and your readers’ attention will start to wander.

There’s obviously a bit of a balance to be struck if you’re going to follow both rules at once.

One of the ways Chaucer achieves this balance, holding the readers’ attention while filling out his stories with vivid detail, is by making his characters so interesting, by which I mean in his descriptions of the people who tell the stories. The General Prologue gives a little portrait of each one, and when it comes time to tell their tale, we can see why they in particular have chosen to tell it. For example, the Miller tells his own bawdy tale of adultery as a kind of rebuttal to the knight’s tale of courtly love.

So maybe there’s another rule that underlies the two I’ve already mentioned: write with purpose. Each narrator in The Canterbury Tales knows exactly why they’re telling the tale they’ve chosen to tell, and this is what makes sure they take the time and find enjoyment in telling their tale as it needs to be told.