I have two great loves in my life: writing and cooking. I have spent decades honing both skills, constantly endeavoring to learn more about each craft and dedicate hours every day to practicing them. There have been successes and failures in both fields. Both amazement and disappointment have been part of the process. As time passes, the successes come more often. The failures fade. My confidence grows as one amazing meal, or another incredible story, takes shape under my hands. Then, I try something totally new. Something incredibly risky. And sometimes, it is awful. But I learn from it and grow. Next time, I know I will do better.

The learning curves of both writing and cooking are eerily similar. I suppose one might say that of any artistic endeavor, but these are the two I have explored the longest and come the furthest with. Brandon Sanderson discussed the concept of the cook versus the chef in a lecture, saying that writers should aspire to be chefs. He said that cooks know what a tool is and how it should be used, but a chef knows why the tools work where they do, then combines them in different ways to create something new.

As writers, we all should hope to create something new.

The cynics will argue that every story has been told, there’s “nothing new under the sun”, and so on. They’re not wrong, but they’re also not seeing the potential to shake things up. They’re looking at the ingredients, but not considering new ways to combine them.

Consider for a moment if you will: Jambalaya. We all are likely familiar with this dish. Any cook knows the basic building blocks: rice, chicken stock, tomatoes, and the Cajun “holy trinity” of onion, celery, and green peppers. It may have chicken, sausage, shrimp, or some combination of the three. Some other veggies might even show up, especially okra. And of course, Cajun seasoning.

There were a few key words in there. It may have various meats, and other veggies might show up. While the building blocks remain the same and are what makes jambalaya what it is—and not Jollof or Pelau or some other rice dish—no two jambalaya recipes are the same.

Making those choices between chicken or sausage and whether to add okra or something else are the beginning steps on the path to becoming a chef. And in writing, the first steps are selecting what elements to incorporate in our stories.

We know what our tools are and what ingredients we have to work with. The cookbooks showed us that our plot needs to have structure and our characters depth, we need a climax and arcs, we need resolution and payoffs. The tools are all laid out, and we know how to mix the basic ingredients. From reading countless books to see the results in practice, we know what a good story tastes like. But is that enough?

A cook takes all those tools and combines them into a forgettable narrative that brings nothing new or exciting to the table. The results might not be awful. It might even be good. But it doesn’t break new ground. Just like that Jambalaya recipe you found on Delish, it’s just okay. 

The chef, on the other hand, will study the recipe for a Victorian drama, then set out to do something new with it. They check the spice rack and add a pinch of the occult and a dash of mental illness. From the pantry, a scoop of murder mystery. They take the first-person narrative and shift it to a side character instead of the protagonist, taking something familiar to the contemporary audience and using it in an entirely new way. This all simmers together, and the chef creates Sherlock Holmes.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wasn’t a genius because he created some new idea to add to the literary world. He didn’t invent the detective, murder, mental health issues. He wasn’t the first to write stories that dabbled occasionally with the occult. Using first person narrative in the 1880s was commonplace. But he blended these elements artfully, changed them in subtle ways, and created something that has been renowned and loved for almost a hundred and fifty years.

Next time you make Jambalaya, mix things up. Start with the basics. Make sure the holy trinity and rice are there so it has a foundation of familiar elements. Instead of using a Cajun seasoning blend, make your own. Turn up the heat with more cayenne or the hit of herbs with more oregano. Pull some inspiration from Pelau and brown your chicken in brown sugar. Draw from Jollof and make a tomato puree with scotch bonnets instead. Add in some curry powder from both. In the end, you will have something entirely new, and it might be amazing.

Likewise, pull inspiration from various sources for your next writing project. Start with a foundation; let’s say epic fantasy. We know there might be a war in there. While swords and dragons can be fun, what about the actual cost of war? Watch military documentaries and read combat memoirs. Talk to veterans. Instead of the magnificent spectacle of dragons flying over the battlefield, explore just how terrifying it would be to the troops on the ground, trapped in the mud and surrounded by flames. Suddenly, your epic fantasy romp has become an exploration of post-traumatic stress in combat veterans. Both have been done before, but combined, they might offer something new.

There may be no new ingredients, but it’s our job to find new ways to use them. 

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