In my freshman musical theatre class, our theatre director (shout out to Mr. Ruben) gave us an assignment: write a dramatic monologue and perform it in front of the class. I remember feeling so anxious, but determined. Theatre kids tend to lean towards the dramatic by default, and this felt like an opportunity to really feel something on stage. 

One of my classmates performed a monologue about devastation. She cried, screamed, and collapsed to the floor in anguish. It was intense and dramatic, in every sense of the word, but acting was only part of the assignment. When she finished, our director paused for a moment before offering what might still be the most useful piece of writing advice I have ever received. He said:

“Sure, you can write about how sad you are. But what’s the point? I’m sad too. Why should I listen to you whine?”

At the moment it felt harsh. Years later, I understand exactly what he meant. Emotion alone isn’t enough and neither is violence. That lesson extends far beyond theatre. It appears in fiction, poetry, film, and even everyday storytelling. We often assume that if a subject is painful enough, dramatic enough, or shocking enough, meaning will automatically follow. But suffering is not a substitute for insight. 

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As editors, we read many stories where terrible things happen. Each page raises the stakes: another assault, another betrayal, another tragedy. These pieces often arrive convinced that intensity itself will create emotional weight.

And sometimes, after reading them, we find ourselves asking the same question my theatre director asked years ago: 

What is the point of this piece?

I remember one submission that followed an abused child into adulthood, each scene escalating the violence until the character became increasingly brutal. Yet the story never seemed interested in what that violence meant. It accumulated trauma without ever interrogating it, as though escalation alone could create depth.

This is not to say art should avoid difficult subjects. Some of the most important works ever written are violent, disturbing, and deeply uncomfortable. Literature should challenge us. Sometimes brutality is necessary to tell the truth. But there is a difference between a story that interrogates violence and one that merely reproduces it.

What unsettled me most was not the darkness of the story itself, but the absence of reflection within it. The piece seemed convinced that depicting suffering automatically creates depth.

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Recently I found myself discussing a story with my partner that handled difficult subject matter in a way I found frustratingly shallow. When I said I did not understand what the piece was trying to say, he looked at me, confused, and replied, “They meant exactly what they said. The point was just to tell a story.”

And maybe, for some writers, that is enough. 

But I realized in that moment how differently I approach literature now than I once did. I no longer read stories solely for what happens within them. I read them for what they suggest about the world around them. Because stories are always saying something, even when the writer does not intend them to. 

I do not think every writer needs to begin with a perfectly articulated thesis. Many stories are discovered through the act of writing itself. Sometimes you only understand what your work is truly about once you reach the end of it. In that sense, writing can feel less like delivering a message and more like uncovering one. 

But once you reach the end, I think it is worth asking harder questions. 

• Why does this violence exist?
• Why does this grief escalate? 
• What emotional truth is the piece circling?
• What does this story believe about the world?

And if the answer is unclear, perhaps that is where the revision begins.

At Mouthful of Salt, we are drawn to work that risks honesty. Work that wrestles with complicated emotions and layered relationships. Work that leaves something behind in the reader after the final line. That lingering quality does not come from intensity alone.