An Essay by Zandile Moyo
Is it the pacing? The rhythm? Tension? Relatable characters?
What is it about a story that makes it interesting?
What is it that makes a story interesting to me?
I could try to answer this from an “academic-y” approach. I could try to find all the little golden nuggets that experts say sum up an amazing story. This would probably be the better approach.
But if I were to ask the version of myself who isn’t influenced by what’s widely considered the right formula for a great story… I wouldn’t really know.
A story could have all the right ingredients, with the recipe followed to a tee, and it still wouldn’t “click” for me.
Perhaps stories, like people, carry a unique essence, a certain frequency with which we either resonate or fail to harmonise. Maybe that essence or frequency is the life the writer pours into the story. It is said that you can taste when something is cooked with love. Maybe the same is true for stories.
So, what is it really?
Perhaps I seek stories that can engage all of my senses so that I can hear, smell, taste, and see what is happening in the world the writer has invited me into.
But above all, what I seek is a feeling. Something that evokes the same anticipation as when a child senses the car’s final turn before arriving home. Even fast asleep, something within them recognises the familiar journey and the safety waiting at its end.
I seek an epiphany. A profound moment that doesn’t just make me stop and think, but slows down the world around me as I try to savour the feeling of a door unlocking somewhere in my mind.
I suppose, then, that what makes a story interesting to me is how well it communicates something within me that I hadn’t realised could be expressed in words. It’s a recognition of one’s inner turmoil, allowing that loneliness to dissipate. There is a special kind of healing in finding that someone else has put into words what only your soul has felt.
I seek stories where the writer trusts the reader to understand what is being conveyed without relying on too many words or over-explaining. There is a thrill in witnessing the story unravel before you, never entirely knowing where the next page will take you. Whether what you feel is anticipation or dread, you know you are in a safe place, and you trust the writer to deliver on their promise.
Stories that allow you to become a part of them, digging their roots into your mind and into your psyche until you struggle to know where the story ends and where you begin.
Stories that stick with you long after the last sentence has been read, the last scene has played out. They creep into your dreams because an entire section of your mind is still dissecting, still mapping the course of events, convinced that hidden treasure, some deeper meaning, is still waiting to be discovered.
Stories that introduce a fact which seems random at first but turns out to be incredibly important. Foreshadowing. Easter eggs. Little details that mean you are not just a bystander, but an active participant in an expedition, an investigation. No rigid barriers, just the freedom to explore every nook and cranny of the world the writer has presented to you. Whether the clues are subtle or explicit, you feel grateful that you’ve been invited into this game of hide-and-seek.
Or maybe it’s the comfort and simplicity of life that some stories can portray. Yet whenever you revisit the story, it feels like the first time, because it always reveals something new — not just about the reality within the story, but also about an aspect of yourself that you hadn’t noticed during your initial reading.
Stories that convey wisdom and global truths, staying with you forever and quietly rewiring the way you think about something.
Stories that hold up a mirror to humanity, revealing its monstrous and insidious nature, demonstrating how easily, for example, a nation can descend into dystopia. They expose the existence of those symptoms in our reality today, leaving you with a chill because, indeed, “fact is often scarier than fiction.”
Perhaps it’s stories that you can recall reading as a child and that stick with you into your adult years because of a handy quote that you continue to use. Much like an old favourite T-shirt, although you’ve outgrown it, you keep it around not only because it serves as a great pyjama top but also because it anchors you to a time when life felt a little simpler.
As soon as my brain could turn letters into words, I’ve loved reading… no, rather, consuming stories. Perhaps it was because, within the boundaries of a universe created on a page, I felt like I didn’t have to try so hard to fit in. I could just be. It wasn’t just a place to escape into, but somewhere I could rest, renew my strength, and replenish my soul, so that when I re-entered the real world, I could see it through the lens of an enriched inner world.
It is between the pages of many books that I have always felt I truly belonged. I’m sure the same is true for many avid readers.
What is it that makes a story interesting to me?
All I know is, if it stirs the same feeling as when a child feels the shadows of the neighbourhood trees wash over their face through the car window on the way home, I’ll be there.
And perhaps that is all it is.
Not its pacing. Not its rhythm. Not even the tension or its characters.
Maybe it's simply that, somehow, it feels like sanctuary.
An Editorial Note.
Zandile’s essay forms part of our first Open Call for Submissions cycle, exploring the theme: “What Makes a Story Interesting to You?”
What we loved about her essay is how it reminded us of a question explored in Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: how do we recognise “quality”, and why is it so difficult to define?
Zandile reminds us that there is something ineffable and mysterious about a good story that resists exact description and measurement. You can’t always predict it, force it, cajole it or pressure it into being. But you know it when you’re experiencing it. A story draws you into its world, and suddenly you’ve lost track of time.
Read alongside Andrea’s essay, also selected for publication in this cycle, her piece helps create a whole. Writing is equal parts technique and mystery. We engage our whole bodies in the process: thinking, feeling, sensing and imagining. And through that process, we can create an experience for someone else that reminds them that this life we’re living is mysterious, wild and full of wonder.
If you enjoyed Zandile’s essay as much as we did, join our community chat and let her know.
And if you’d like to submit your own writing, keep a lookout for our next open call. We invite submissions every 6–8 weeks. If your writing is selected, you’ll receive a full editorial response, a story development workshop, 1:1 coaching and an author fee.
