One True Sentence, A Leap of the Soul, A Pause of the Mind
What makes a story linger?
Is it the weight of truth, plainly told?
A line that stirs the soul like leaves caught in a storm?
Or the quiet ripple in a still pond when a stone breaks its surface?
For me, it’s all of these. I keep returning to the works of three very different writers — Hemingway, Rumi, and Bashō — each a master of distilling life into language. Their styles span continents and centuries, but their impact is the same: they stay with you, shaping how you listen and observe.
Hemingway: The Art of Saying Only What Must Be Said
Ernest Hemingway famously advised,
“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”
His prose is like a shot of black coffee — no sugar, no foam, just truth. In a world often cluttered with words, Hemingway reminds us that brevity can be brutal, beautiful, and enough.
“There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.”
His stories aren’t embroidered with morals. They’re snapshots — quiet moments of desperation, dignity, or loss. He believed in the iceberg theory: what’s unsaid carries more weight than what’s spoken.
Lesson from Hemingway: Don’t explain. Show. Say only what must be said.
During my MFA, I sought feedback from a volunteer who, while trying to help, told me my language was incorrect and that I should “show, not tell.” I was still learning to take constructive criticism, but the comment stung — not for its advice, but for its lack of insight into the story’s heart.
To say I was dejected wouldn’t be untrue. Yet, I persisted. Two years later, my progress felt small, but my love for storytelling remained deeply intact.
Rumi: The Mystic Who Spoke in Flames and Honey
Where Hemingway pares down, Rumi overflows — yet never preaches. His words feel like a conversation with the divine: playful, sobering, and achingly honest.
“Don’t you know yet? It is your Light that lights the worlds.”
Rumi’s stories are less about plot and more about presence. He draws you inward — and before you know it, you’ve changed. Unlike many mystics, he doesn’t instruct — he dances with your questions.
“Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.”
Lesson from Rumi: Great storytelling doesn’t demand understanding — it offers belonging.
I’ve just begun reading Rumi’s Book of Fables in English translation. Often, I find that translations struggle to capture the original essence. During my time as a Project Coordinator managing English-to-Asian-language translations, I learned that perfect equivalence rarely exists. A simple English line might require more words — or fewer — to retain its spirit in another tongue.
It taught me that translation is not just a skill but a listening act — much like storytelling.
Bashō: The Haiku That Echoes in Silence
Then there’s Bashō, the haiku master. He doesn’t use a hundred words when three will do — yet what emerges is the entire world.
“An old silent pond…
A frog jumps into the pond—
Splash! Silence again.”
In one haiku, there’s motion, stillness, sound, and silence — all perfectly balanced. When I read Bashō, I’m reminded that storytelling isn’t always linear or loud. Sometimes, it’s the quiet leap between two images that awakens something within us.
Lesson from Bashō: The spaces between words matter as much as the words themselves.
In the summer of 2000, I was fascinated by haiku. I wrote several attempts — most were clumsy and lacked the surprise Bashō mastered. Still, I kept at it.
Years later, writing Call of the Moon, a collection of 30 villanelles plus one invocatory villanelle, I found space to experiment and grow. It may not be my best work, but it offered me a path into the world of poetry. Poetry, to me, is storytelling — not always with plot, but with feeling.
Though my self-published collection may lack conventional narrative, it remains one of my most satisfying achievements. I’m still learning. Recognition may be far away, but the journey is mine.
Three Writers, One Truth: Be Present
Whether it’s Hemingway’s hard-earned honesty, Rumi’s soul-stirring metaphors, or Bashō’s silent clarity — they all share a quiet, invisible thread: presence. They are fully alive in their words, and they invite us to be, too.
Perhaps great storytelling isn’t about teaching or entertaining, but about seeing — truly — even if only for a moment.
My Understanding of Storytelling
The lessons I’ve gathered from Hemingway, Rumi, and Bashō are worth more than gold. While I still struggle to embody them in my own work, exploring their styles keeps me anchored. I’ve learned that imitating the popular won’t help me find my own voice.
Each writing session feels like a quiet battle — not with the world, but with myself. Yet every effort, no matter how small, feels like a step forward.
Storytelling, I’ve come to believe, isn’t about performance. It’s about presence. And more than anything, about listening — not as a creator, but as a witness.
If I could borrow from all three:
- I’d start with one true sentence (Hemingway),
- infuse it with a dancing soul (Rumi),
- and end with a still, clear image (Bashō).
Maybe that’s all we ever need to tell a story worth telling.
Source: Polished by Sarvas (AI Powered ChatGPT)
Itinerant Storyteller 