Let’s start with the premise that the more we know about the world, the better equipped we are to create worlds of our own. Or in my case, I know nothing, which is a great place to start.
Every evening for the past few weeks, I’ve been settling in with a 30-minute lecture from The Great Courses. I’m researching the American Revolution for my contribution to the upcoming HERitage Anthology Volume 3, and I thought I knew this era pretty well. I’ve read everything I can get my hands on about Adams and Jefferson. I’m a devoted fan of the musical 1776 and a complete addict of the Hamilton soundtrack. I can quote both at length.
Turns out, I knew almost nothing.
Or rather—and this is the more accurate way to put it—the more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know. And that realization? That’s not humbling. That’s exhilarating.
The Dunning-Kruger Reversal
Like most people, over the years I’ve been inundated with catalogs from The Great Courses. Up until now, I threw them in the trash and moved on. But when I knew I needed to learn much more about the revolution, I bit the bullet and signed up for a 16-week lecture on the subject. It’s become an absolute treat in my daily post dinner wind down. Sure, I love to watch a new episode of The Morning Show or drool over the latest entry in the Great British Bakeoff, but first, I watch a 30-minute lecture and feed my brain.
November 2025: The Things They Carry
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Explore how characters' interactions with objects can deepen your story. Learn to use props and "bits of business" to enhance characterization, add subtext, and propel your plot forward. Suitable for fiction writers of all levels and genres.
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Here’s what I love about The Great Courses experience: I don’t feel like I’m being talked down to at a sixth-grade level, which seems to be the norm in so much contemporary content. Instead, I have to use my brain. I have to stretch my cognitive thinking abilities. I actually have to… learn something.
The lecturer doesn’t pause to define every term. They assume I can keep up, or that I’m willing to hit pause and look something up if I need to. They present competing historical theories without dumbing them down into easy answers. They trust me to handle complexity, nuance, and ambiguity.
And you know what? That trust makes me work harder. It makes me more engaged. It makes the learning stick.
This is the Dunning-Kruger effect in reverse: the more you genuinely know about a subject, the more you understand the vastness of what you don’t know. True expertise doesn’t breed confidence—it breeds curiosity. It reveals infinite complexity where you once saw simple answers.
Why This Matters for Writers
My story for the third HERitage anthology isn’t just “American Revolution adventure tale.” Because I’m doing this deep dive—learning about economic tensions I didn’t understand, religious divisions I’d oversimplified, social hierarchies I’d glossed over—the world I’m building is richer. The characters’ choices carry more weight. The conflicts feel more real.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t need to know most of this to write a serviceable story. I could have sketched in some period details, thrown in a few famous names, and called it historical fiction.
But serviceable isn’t the goal. Rich, layered, authentic storytelling is the goal. And you can’t achieve that by staying on the surface.
When you engage with material that challenges you—that makes you pause, rewind, think, question—you’re not just learning facts. You’re training your brain to see complexity, to hold multiple ideas in tension, to recognize that most interesting questions don’t have simple answers.
That’s exactly the skill set great storytelling requires.
The Sixth-Grade Problem
Somewhere along the line, entertainment became synonymous with easy. We’re told that audiences won’t stick with anything that requires effort, that attention spans have shrunk, that nobody wants to think anymore.
I don’t believe that’s true. I think it’s lazy.
Look at the success of complex series like The Wire, Breaking Bad, or Succession. Look at the devoted audiences for dense literary fiction, for Christopher Nolan films that demand multiple viewings, for podcasts that deep-dive into scientific or historical topics for hours at a time.
People will engage with complexity when the complexity serves a purpose—when it enriches the experience rather than obscuring it. The problem isn’t that audiences are too dumb. The problem is that too much content assumes they are.
As writers, we should be aiming higher. Not to show off our intelligence, but to trust our readers’ and viewers’ intelligence. To give them credit for being curious, thoughtful, capable people who crave substance alongside their entertainment.
What to Watch, Read, and Learn This October
Here are some recommendations for content that rewards active engagement—the kind of storytelling and learning that will stretch your brain and, by extension, improve your writing:
The Great Courses (or similar platforms): Pick a subject you know nothing about, or one you think you know well. Let an expert guide you deeper. The Great Courses, MasterClass, and a slew of other platforms offer access to university-level learning on everything from ancient civilizations to modern physics. Your next story idea might be hiding in a lecture about Roman engineering or quantum mechanics.
And don’t forget the PBS Passport Library is extraordinary and for $5, you can access shows like NOVA that will take you to new places and share new ideas.
Complex Television Worth Multiple Viewings: Andor (for its political sophistication and moral complexity), Severance (for its layered metaphors and sustained mystery), The Bear (for its character depth and kitchen-as-pressure-cooker storytelling). While we’re at it, don’t forget the most recent Emmy winner: The Pitt for its ability to walk you through multiple storylines at once while boldy revealing what goes on in the pressure cooker that is an ER department. These shows don’t insult your intelligence—they demand you keep up.
Literary Fiction That Trusts You: Dive into something dense—Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall trilogy, Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad, Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See. These authors don’t hold your hand. They assume you’re smart enough to follow.
Documentaries That Go Deep: Ken Burns is the gold standard, but also explore The Civil War (CNN), The Vietnam War, or newer series like 1971: The Year That Music Changed Everything. Watch how these filmmakers layer archival footage, expert interviews, and narrative structure to create stories that educate and entertain simultaneously.
Scripts That Sing on the Page: Thanks to ScriptSlug, you can easily access scripts like Aaron Sorkin’s The Social Network, Taylor Sheridan’s Hell or High Water, or Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag scripts. Notice how their word choices create voice, how their structure builds momentum, how they trust the reader to fill in gaps.
The Writer’s Challenge: Learn Something Unrelated
Here’s my challenge for you this October: What are you learning that has absolutely nothing to do with your current project?
Because that’s often where the best inspiration hides.
I didn’t start researching the American Revolution thinking “this will make me a better writer.” I started because I was curious. But the deeper I go, the more I see storytelling everywhere—in the way historical narratives get constructed, in the competing accounts of the same events, in the human dramas playing out against the backdrop of massive political change.
Your next great character might emerge from a biography of someone you’ve never heard of. Your next plot twist might be inspired by a scientific principle that has nothing to do with your genre. Your next thematic breakthrough might come from a philosophy lecture that challenges assumptions you didn’t even know you were making.
Learning—real, rigorous, challenging learning—doesn’t just give you material. It gives you depth. It gives you the ability to see connections others miss. It gives you a richer palette to paint with.
The True Purpose of Story Consumption
We don’t watch great films and read great books just to enjoy ourselves (though that’s a worthy goal). We consume stories to understand what’s possible, to see how other creators solved problems similar to ours, to apprentice ourselves to masters of the craft.
But we should also be consuming knowledge—not just stories, but information, perspectives, expertise. Because the more we know about the world, the better equipped we are to create worlds of our own.
Learning is a key part of living, right alongside eating, loving, and reading or watching great stories. It’s not separate from the creative process—it’s the fuel that makes the creative process possible.
So this month, challenge yourself. Pick up something that makes you work for it. Watch something that doesn’t explain everything. Read something that assumes you’re smart enough to keep up.
Your brain—and your writing—will thank you for it.
Join me this November for “The Power of Props and Setting in Storytelling,” where we’ll explore how to make every detail in your stories earn its place. Tuesdays, November 4, 11, 18, 25 at 7PM ET via Zoom. Register at Pennwriters. Members pay $75, non-members $100.