What John Cena taught me about my novel

It was Wrestlemania XL (40 to you non-Roman fanboy types) this year, and as a latecomer to most things, including the appeal of what is clearly scripted but is nonetheless real for participants and spectators alike, I’d be embarrassed to admit that as A Man Of A Certain Age I’ve only paid attention to the WWE for the last 10 years or so.

That’s mainly because I grew up in a church that wasn’t quite a cult, but was certainly cult-adjacent.

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Which means we didn’t wear robes, but we also didn’t have a TV in the house. And when I could get around a TV, at the grandparents or a friend’s, wrestling wasn’t usually on the schedule.

I was aware enough of the then-WWF to hold a conversation about it (hello, masking!), but was more into airplanes as a kid(hello, special interest!) than what was happening in the ring.

Until an episode of ID10T with Chris Hardwick (RIP the podcast, not Hardwick) and John Cena, and they were talking about the story element of what was happening in the ring.

That was the first time I’d heard a non-kayfabe interview with anyone in wrestling, and like the first time I read On Writing (quiet, fanboys) and Save The Cat! (quiet, haters), it was a lightbulb moment, and here are things they taught me about writing.

Sidebar: note that I didn’t say they made my writing any better, because “better” is such an arbitrary term based on a combination of sleep, nutrition, and whatever Mercury’s doing that day.

What’s the problem?

No one cares about my characters.

Unless.

They have a problem they need to solve.

In the ring, it’s fairly straightforward: who’s going to win? Or how are they going to escape a hold? Or come back from what looks like a devastating finishing move?

And when I’m writing anything, whether it’s a blog post or a short story, or part of a novel (yes, I have one of those, and it’s been 85% done for nearly 3 years now), the fact is, if there isn’t a problem there, no one’s going to pay attention.

Giving my characters a problem I care about, at least, because if I don’t care about whatever The Muse is trying to ship through my fingers, my readers won’t, either.

So I ask questions like:

• What’s the problem?
• Can they solve it?
• Would not solving it make a better story?

Why should I care?

Even if I’m vested in whatever’s happening in the ring, whether it’s Rhea Ripley vs. Becky Lynch in a generational batter, or Sami Zayne taking on Gunther to end the latter’s title reign, no matter how amazing their moves are, if I’m not vested in those characters before they step foot on the apron, doesn’t matter who wins or loses.

As a writer, that means crafting enough backstory that readers are interested in what’s happening. Tricky bit?

Show, don’t tell.

Avoid the exposition dump at all costs.

But give my readers a reason to care, or whether they hope the character finds a way to be in the backseat of the car in Thelma and Louise.

Save The Cat! (again, shush, haters) recommends having your main character do something we can get behind, like…saving a cat stuck in a tree.

I could dazzle you with turns of phrases all I want, but if I haven’t figured out why this character should matter, it’s going nowhere.

When should this end?

In the wrestling world, match length is dictated by the booking schedule, TV limitations, and, well, the script.

It’s easy for me as a numbers-centric writer to think that everything needs to fit a formula.

• 25% is Act I
• 50% is Act II
• 25% is Act III

These numbers exist because they work, and because readers are used to seeing things packaged that way.

But sometimes?

A match/scene is going so well and is going to pull everyone in as it unfolds, that the rules bend a little. Sometimes a lot.

I’d submit that this is a call someone other than me as the writer should make.

Because, well, all the darlings.

This isn’t permission for me to write 180,000 words and then complain when no one wants to read my book.

But it is permission for me to know that sometimes I need to write more.

Usually less, because no one wants to see a match/scene go on longer than it should.

Get in the ring

I’ve spent…decades…in the cheap seats.

As a fan, sure, but mostly as a critic, of other people’s art.

Because that’s easy.

It’s safe.

It’s my ego’s way of protecting me from the pain that comes with my own work being evaluated.

Not that I’ve stayed completely out of the arena, but most times, it’s been on the fringes.

Dabbling in safe things, behind pseudonyms (like now), writing what I know.

Right now? Here? On this page?

I’m in the arena.

Fighting the fight against The Resistance, as Pressfield puts it.

There might not be a belt in my future, but it’s not about that.

It’s about climbing through the ropes.

Taking the bumps.

Telling stories, both true and otherwise.