Posted in Essay There Are No Experts in Fiction A Novelist on the Limits of Craft and the Many Paths to Unlocking a Book’s Magic Click to share on X (Opens in new window) X It's not possible to be an expert in how fiction works, especially when it comes to ones own projects. The glimmers of mystery are the very magic itself, writes novelist Benedict Nguyễn. Credit: Jon McCormack Fiction can render elaborate worldviews that move readers, but it is not a technology for empathy. Since the 2010s, a decade animated by civic protest against structural inequality, much popular discourse has cited studies finding that fiction deepens empathy for the Other. The idea has been used to argue for greater diversity in the kinds of stories being published, as well as for the importance of deep reading amid accelerating web technology. Both are obviously worthwhile principles. And yet, this utilitarian view of fiction has always felt grimy to me. It’s affirmed by a platitude of writing craft that suggests the greater a story’s specificity, the better it can connect a reader to some abstract notion of a universal, relatable truth and understand some unfamiliar, underrepresented Other. In a time of polarized politics, the idea of shared humanity is comforting. But framing fiction through the breadth of empathy can create paradoxically constrained lenses for interpretation. The link from the expertise of one story to some grander universality becomes a flimsy and flawed metonym for relatability and likability. The particular is not universal. There isn’t some threshold of pages one can imbibe to become a “good” person. My recently published debut Hot Girls with Balls, like any novel, is just one narrow slice of impossibly vast worlds—in this case, men’s pro indoor volleyball, anonymous internet fandoms, and a long-term relationship between two protagonists, Six and Green, both Asian American trans women. I wasn’t compelled to write this work from some desire to detail or defend the humanity of people of this identity for voyeuristic consumption. My book represents characters of certain identities, but these characters are not meant to be representative of those identities. In fact, the story shows how machines of capital, labor, and performance use identity to flatten Six and Green’s humanity. And yet, through the game, they can both access some autonomy, even as they’re still doing labor. To relay these larger, global dynamics through the characters’ individual, sensory experiences of the sport, I drew from my own physical practices as well as new research. Before writing this book, I hadn’t played much volleyball, but my life as a dancer shaped how I would translate my fascination with the sport’s complex biomechanics onto the page. I studied lots of game tape, took a month-long volleyball clinic, and played in some clubs. I’ve watched countless spikes, but timing my own approach to reach the height of my jump, swing my arm, and hit is still a work-in-progress. I also researched the entangled apparatus of club leagues, corporate sponsors, and nation-state investments that structure the professionalization of sports. Peppered between Six and Green’s journey through this apparatus are interstitial sections narrated by anonymous online commenters. They advance the plot while jockeying to assert the best take on Six and Green. To create these polyphonic sections evoking online forums, I’d already logged too many hours doomscrolling the dramas and disputes loved by every platform’s algorithm. But as I wrote I scrolled more, and read about the evolving surveillance coding that tracks our every swipe and curates virality. Fiction can render elaborate worldviews that move readers, but it is not a technology for empathy. Acquiring this knowledge was central to my writing process. But I wrote a novel, not a reference guide. I wanted to convey rich feeling and a spiky point of view. I imbued the haptics of my newly beloved sport with deliberate romanticism, frustration, and attitudes that can’t be arrayed on a linear spectrum of emotion. To create the book’s carefully constructed online chaos, I blurred hyperbolic adulation and hateful critique to leave the reader with an unstable portrait of the protagonists. And still, this statement of intent is just my own interpretation of the sequence of sentences that comprise my novel. Between author and reader, novels can take on many varied meanings. I thought I knew what I admired about one of my recent favorite books until I talked about it with a friend and was completely awestruck at her surprising interpretation. A single work yields infinite readings. I hope writers have some expertise in the compositional choices and content of their stories, even if those choices aren’t immediately digestible to my sensibilities. Plotting that may seem uneven, or milieux that may feel insufficiently rendered, can actually pique my curiosity. I read novels to engage with a writer’s stylishly arranged set of attitudes. I might form an interpretation that diverges widely from what an author thought their work of fiction was about. Over the 20th century, the academy has codified the art of fiction into tenets about craft that have evolved into truisms about what makes for good and bad storytelling. I’ve incorporated some of them in my own writing and revision to shape sentences that better convey my intended meaning. But ultimately, even expert application of these steadily inculcated standards cannot ensure a compelling story. As a reader and a writer, I may not be able to evaluate whether something “worked,” but I am usually appreciative when a novel leaves an impression. I don’t think it’s possible to be an expert in how fiction (or any art form) works, especially when it comes to one’s own projects. The glimmers of mystery are the very magic itself. Benedict Nguyễn is a dancer and creative producer. She is the author of nasty notes (2022), an epistolary zine on freelance labor, and the novel Hot Girls with Balls (2025), an American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick and USA Today national bestseller. BUY THE BOOK What does it mean to be an expert? In a new series , Zócalo publishes essays by and about experts—exploring the things they know, the reasons people seek their input, the ways they matter (and don’t), and their shifting place in the world today. Primary editor: Sarah Rothbard | Secondary editor: Eryn Brown RELATED Can We Criticize Experts and Keep Taking Their Advice? In a “Post-Truth” Age, a Political Scientist Argues That We Need to Defend Institutions But Be Open to Change Expertise has long been said to be in crisis. Now its opponents seem to be winning. In the U.S., experts… Source: https://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/there-are-no-experts-in-fiction/