PrologueIt was an ordinary Thursday. The print must flow, the day job must "day job," and writing creativity was getting unceremoniously sucked into the purgatory called real life. As usual, I found myself shoving acrylic sheets into the UV printer with a mild sense of time efficiency. You know, just another typical day—perfect for analyzing something arbitrary. Naturally, I did, wedging this act of intellectual escape between shoving yet another sheet into the machine and muttering curses at colleagues who couldn’t be bothered to close the doors behind them.

  While pondering which lens to view the situation through, I remembered Goodman. Saul Goodman. Surely, Google would know who I meant even without his full name; he is, after all, a famous fictional character. So, I simply typed in “Goodman.”

  But thanks to some eldritch twist in the algorithm, I wasn’t directed to Saul. Instead, I stumbled upon a real-life old man named Nelson Goodman, who had been dead for 26 years. Intrigued—and with plenty of boredom to spare—I began looking into him, all while repcing the n+1th sheet on the printer. What I didn’t anticipate was that his philosophy—or at least the principles he used to "know" the world—would feel eerily akin to how I approach writing on a good day. A good day, that is, when I’m free of the relentless demands of the UV printer. Little did I know, Nelson Goodman’s obsession with world-construction would become the accidental blueprint for crafting isekai worlds about overpowered protagonists.

  So, you may ask: “Who’s this Nelson, and why does he share a surname with Jimmy McGill, aka Saul Goodman?”

  Gd you asked, dear metaphysical reader. Let me introduce you to his world.

  Part 1: A Good Man Called Nelson GoodmanOnce upon a time, back when disco was hot and people were seriously into modernism—or ironically into postmodernism—there was a man named Nelson Goodman. He was pretentious. He was a professor. And he was (probably) a good family man. (Full disclosure: I didn’t research that hard into his personal life because it’s irrelevant to this guide.)

  What really matters is this: Goodman was “known for his work on counterfactuals, mereology, the problem of induction, irrealism, and aesthetics.”

  Now, as webnovel writers and readers, our immediate reaction to this list might be to shrug and say, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” But is it? What does this have to do with webnovels? Everything, unfortunately.

  The one piece of his work that might pique your interest—cue the drumroll—is The Ways of Worldmaking. It tackles brainy topics with a simplicity that feels almost suspicious.

  “But wait,” you protest, “isn’t this the kind of highbrow drivel beloved only by tweedy professors back in its Harvard heyday?”

  Correct. I wouldn’t have heard of it either if Google hadn’t shoved it in my face. But here’s the kicker: it’s 2024. AI summarizers, niche blogs, and GPTs bursting with pre-digested philosophy mean you can learn about any pre-21st-century thinker without so much as gncing at their actual books.

  Shocking, I know—the future is here. Universities, once gatekeepers of knowledge, now sit helpless as information floods the streets for free.

  At its heart, The Ways of Worldmaking poses a simple yet profound question:

  How do humans turn their messy experiences into tidy, understandable systems?

  Goodman suggests the world isn’t something we merely observe but something we actively create—using symbols like nguage, art, and science to piece it together.

  And here’s the twist: writing webnovels (or fiction in general) is just another form of this world-organizing ritual. Or, as I like to put it, “mashing words together until they vaguely resemble something coherent.”

  At first gnce, this guide seems like random chatter—a dull job, Saul Goodman, and a wink at you. But it’s not. These symbols (mundane work, a pop culture nod, and yes, you) build a tiny “world” on the page.

  As you read, you're crafting that world in your mind, piecing it together from my symbols—just as Goodman (Nelson, not Saul) meant.

  Goodman’s Core Argument: We Don’t “Find” Worlds—We Build Them

  Goodman argued that humans don’t passively interpret one objective reality; we actively construct multiple, overpping ones through symbols, categories, and context.

  What we—proud members of the “lowbrow collective”—dismiss as “cringe webnovel writing” is, in Goodman’s terms, worldmaking: the deliberate creation of a reality, no matter how absurd or fantastical.

  With that, I leave you to your own worldmaking while I return to appeasing the ever-hungry UV printer.

  Part 2: The Dao of WorldmakingNelson Goodman’s philosophy of worldmaking, applied to the "humble" art of webnovel writing—or any creative endeavor, really—is about more than cobbling ideas together. It’s a meticulous act of shaping a world through rules, symbols, and frameworks.

  When you isekai yet another hapless loser (symbol) into a fantasy realm (framework) and hand him absurdly OP powers (rules), you’re not just rehashing tropes—you’re building a "world." Beautiful, isn’t it? Every narrative, system, or setting emerges from a process of selection, organization, and representation. It’s profound yet mundane—a practice so natural we barely notice we’re doing it.

  Let’s break down Goodman’s philosophy into actionable tools for webnovel writers. These principles—despite sounding like over-complicated academic jargon—are really just fancy ways to describe what you’re already doing. Stick with me, and I promise you’ll see how to use them to turn your chaotic ideas into a cohesive narrative.

  Principles of the Dao of WorldmakingLet’s get straight to the point. Goodman ys out the following key principles:

  Composition and DecompositionWeightingOrderingDeletion and SupplementationDeformationIf you're a seasoned writer, you probably get this instinctively. New? Congrats—you've just walked into my trap. Let’s dive in.

  Composition and Decomposition: Or, "Make and Break" Body Refinement TechniqueGoodman’s first principle is all about building a world only to gleefully tear it apart. In webnovel writing, this means structuring your narrative with the precision of a clockmaker—then giving the gears a good whack to see if the whole contraption can handle it.

  We grab a motley crew of ideas—characters, settings, themes—and attempt to weave them into something resembling coherence. (Or at least something that won’t immediately colpse like a poorly banced Jenga tower.) On the flip side, we take tropes, concepts, and clichés, rip them to shreds, and reassemble the pieces into something fresh—or Frankensteinian, depending on skill.

  In essence: How does your world stack up when it’s built, and can it survive the mess when it’s broken down?

  Goodman’s acid test for worldmaking is simple and ruthless: If your world can’t survive dissection, it’s not worth building.

  Building from ScratchWhether you’re me, you, or some high schooler in the Philippines dreaming up yet another edgelord in an edgeworld, it all starts the same: bnk page, quiet panic, and then—words. Bit by bit, you cobble together a "rich, immersive world."

  Example? Sure. Meet Bob: master of stick-poking, hero of a medieval world on the brink of disaster. Groundbreaking.

  Breaking the FamiliarHere’s where things get interesting. As jaded writers or readers who’ve “seen it all,” we look at the "building from scratch" crowd and ask:

  Why is the protagonist such a loser?Why does he have overpowered stick-poking powers?Why is it always a medieval world in peril?And why doesn’t he have a snarky blue screen hovering nearby?From these questions, we dismantle the familiar and forge something new.

  Example: Meet Alice. She has stick-poking powers that only work under absurdly specific conditions. Drop her into a modern, peaceful world where her skills are even less useful, then toss in an unhelpful RPG system just for ughs.

  Fun fact: We do this all the time. Humans love tearing things down to build something shinier—or at least more entertaining. Goodman might ask:

  Can your world survive scrutiny?Will its structure hold or colpse into incoherence?If it holds, congrats! You’ve built a “good” world. But don’t get smug—there are still five principles to go.

  Weighting, or "Everything Is Not Equal" Qi Breathing TechniqueIn Goodman’s framework, weighting means prioritizing certain elements over others—because, shockingly, not everything in a story is equally important. Goodman (and, apparently, I) must spell this out, so here we are.

  Weighting asks: What matters? In Alice’s case—the isekai’d stick-poker extraordinaire—it’s her sadness and quest for connection.

  Let’s say Alice is lonely. One day, she wakes up in a world where everyone owns a magic talking blue box. The box gives her a purpose: poke things with a stick. Begrudgingly, she starts. Stick-poking earns her fame, respect, and friends. Through the stick, the box, and the world, Alice grows.

  Goodman’s question is: What carries the most weight here? Answering this crifies your narrative’s values and guides the reader’s focus. For Alice, the weight is on her loneliness and connection.

  Now, toss in body horror, girls’ love, or zombies. Do they enrich the story? Nope. They scatter focus and dilute impact. Weighting ensures you stick to what matters.

  Bob and Alice ck narrative weight because their worlds ck focus. Bob’s story crumbles under vague intent, while Alice’s stale characterization and unclear stakes (“working in specific conditions”?) sap her symbols of meaning, leaving her world equally fragile. Unfocused elements, like purposeless RPG mechanics, drown the narrative.

  In Alice’s revised story, the stick symbolizes her isotion and growth, carrying the narrative's weight. It’s not just a tool but a metaphor anchoring her journey. Without it, she’s another overpowered protagonist filing through a flimsy fantasy. With it, she’s...well, slightly less cringe. The modern world gains significance by contrasting Alice’s internal conflict.

  Goodman’s philosophy reminds us that narrative weight comes from emphasis, not the symbols themselves. It’s not that symbols are inherently “cringe”; it’s their misuse that bloats a story. Proper weighting refines and sharpens, turning a chaotic tale into something coherent and impactful.

  In short: Not everything in your story matters equally. Weighting helps you decide what deserves the spotlight—and what’s just clutter.

  Once you’ve decided what matters, it’s time to stack the dominoes in a way that doesn’t colpse like Bob’s isekai plot.

  Ordering, or "The Narrative Path" Mind Cultivation MethodOrdering is just a fancy way of saying, “How do you stack your narrative dominoes—temporally, spatially, and causally?” Goodman’s big point? Sequence and hierarchy make the magic happen. Transtion: what happens when, where, and why matters.

  The Big Questions:How do you arrange your story’s symbols (characters, events, ideas)?What comes first, what follows, and what gets the grand finale spot?This is narrative flow—the art of arranging stuff (MCs, worlds, vilins, action) so it interacts in a way that packs a punch. Ordering isn’t just neatness; it’s what shapes how your audience experiences and interprets your story.

  Why Sequence Matters:Drop the world-shattering twist too early? Congratutions, you’ve written a plot that hobbles awkwardly to its doom.Save your best bits for after everyone’s asleep? Readers will ditch your story faster than beta testers fleeing Bob’s Bnd Isekai Adventure.Reordering Alice: The Same Symbols, New StoriesLet’s revisit Alice and see how changing the order of events transforms her story.

  Version 1: Slice of LifeAlice, a lonely girl, wakes in a strange world where everyone has a magical talking blue box. Her box becomes her only friend, urging her to poke things with a stick. Reluctantly, she does. Over time, her stick-poking gains her fame, respect, and friends. With her box and stick, Alice transforms into a happier, connected person.

  Version 2: TragedyAlice wakes in a world where everyone owns a magical blue box. Her only companion is her box, which insists she poke things with a stick. Though lonely, she complies. Her relentless poking angers someone powerful, and she loses her life.

  Version 3: ThrillerAlice’s box urged her to poke things with a stick, and she obeyed until it cost her life. Then, she woke in a world where everyone had a magical blue box—except her. Observing these new boxes, she realized they discouraged poking. Slowly, it dawned on her: her original box was the vilin all along.

  Reorder your narrative, and a quirky slice-of-life tale morphs into tragedy—or a thriller. Goodman would demand:

  Does the sequence enhance coherence and believability?Does it make sense? Keep the audience hooked?Does it alter the meaning?The order of events doesn’t just tell the story—it shapes it. Shift the sequence, and you don’t just move scenes; you redefine the audience’s emotional and intellectual journey. Timing changes everything.

  Why? Because storytelling isn’t just about what happens—it’s about how humans process it. We’re wired to:

  Expect cause and effect.Crave payoffs.Connect the dots.Nail the order, and you manipute their minds, building tension, release, and satisfaction. Get it wrong, and your story’s just a chaotic stew of randomness. Sequence transforms chaos into meaning.

  Temporal, Spatial, and Causal OrderingOrdering isn’t just for events—it’s the backbone of everything. Let’s dissect:

  Temporal OrderingHow events py out over time. Fshbacks? In medias res? Straight-line narrative? Pick your poison.Example: Do you start at the beginning, or toss readers into chaos and rewind ter?

  Spatial OrderingWhere events happen and their spatial retionships. Proximity or distance shifts how readers prioritize them.Example: Are events unfolding side-by-side or an ocean apart? Geography changes impact.

  Causal OrderingWhy things happen. Do actions flow logically, or does the story scream, “Because plot!”?Example: Does the hero’s cleverness topple the vilin, or does random luck save the day?

  The order of your story—whether through time jumps, spatial shifts, or cause-and-effect chains—sets its rhythm, flow, and sense.

  Put simply: if Alice’s tale hooks readers, they won’t obsess over your narrative tricks; they’ll just keep turning pages.

  Or, as Gabe Newell (paraphrased with fir) put it: “Boredom isn’t about problematic symbols; it’s about bad ordering.”

  Storytelling isn’t just spinning a yarn—it’s grasping why stories matter and how they grip us. Timing, sequence, and causality turn a dull list of events into something unforgettable.

  It’s not just what you say; it’s when and how you say it.

  World Within The WorldsIf you haven’t noticed, the first three principles—composition and decomposition, weighting, and ordering—build a "world." While we've used Alice as an example, these tools apply to any symbol, not just characters. They're universal.

  Goodman’s idea of multiple "worlds" coexisting? That’s your pyground. Apply these principles to your setting, vilins, mechanics, or even character descriptions, and you’ll create yered realities. These "worlds" don’t just coexist; they interact like symbols in a narrative.

  The kicker? You’re already doing this. Humans naturally order, weigh, and compose symbols every day. The key is to do it consciously in your writing. Don’t let the big words fool you—Goodman’s principles are just fancy bels for stuff every writer does. Think of them as tools to help you tame your chaotic ideas, whether you’re juggling stick-poking protagonists or crafting a gaxy-spanning epic.

  Every Story Begins with an IdeaEvery story starts with an idea—or, in Bob’s case, a zy shrug. Bob, our hero, wields OP stick-poking powers because the gods (probably us) were feeling stingy. He’s a walking cliché, a tired nod to every bnd isekai lead who stumbles into greatness. Bob isn’t original; he’s proof you don’t need creativity, just a stick and low standards.

  Here’s the brutal truth: Not all ideas are equal.

  Bob is intentionally dull—a pceholder to prove a point. An undeveloped concept isn’t a story; it’s just noise. A premise or character is only a starting point. Without refinement, it’s the narrative equivalent of raw dough: useless and unbaked.

  Enter Alice, our upgraded stick-poker. She’s not just Bob in a wig; she’s a test subject for Goodman’s composition and decomposition principles.

  By breaking Bob down—deconstructing his tired tropes—and reassembling the parts, Alice is born. She’s Bob 2.0: slightly more interesting but still incomplete. Creativity thrives in this breaking and rebuilding, turning the stale into something new.

  Goodman’s weighting principle then asks, “What matters?” Enter Alice, the purposeful stick-wielder. Her stick and her actions now mean something. The narrative shifts focus, and her choices gain significance.

  This is where most writers fail: If everything matters, nothing does. A good story is about choices—symbols, themes, and events that carry weight. Without focus, you’re just chucking spaghetti at the wall, praying it sticks. With focus—read: effort—you craft depth and resonance instead of the soggy narrative equivalent of a wet napkin.

  Alice, now sharpened and weighted, evolves into Coherent Alice: a character who wields a stick and a story worth reading.

  Rearranging Alice: The Power of OrderingGoodman’s ordering principle is the ultimate narrative cheat code: the sequence defines the impact.

  Reorder Alice’s story, and you shift genres: a slice-of-life about personal growth becomes a tragedy, then a thriller. Timing doesn’t just shape events; it transforms the emotional resonance of the narrative. Change the order, and you don’t just shuffle scenes—you rewrite the story itself. She’s no longer just coherent; she’s Alice in Whatevernd.

  The lesson? It’s not what happens; it’s when and how it happens. Rearrange your narrative Legos, and you build either a masterpiece or a mess. The order of events doesn’t just tell the story—it is the story.

  Goodman’s painfully simple, often overlooked insight: Py with order. Timing maniputes tone, pacing, and resonance.

  I started with a cliché: Bob, the loser with overpowered stick-poking powers. I ended with Alice in Whatevernd, crafted through composition, weighting, and timing—without even touching Goodman’s final principles of deletion, supplementation, or deformation.

  The takeaway? Writers and readers already know this:

  Make it coherent.Make it matter.Make it work.Of course, worldmaking doesn’t stop at building and weighting—it also involves cleaning up the mess you’ve made.

  Now that you’ve built your world and given it meaning, it’s time for the hardest part: cleaning up your mess. Goodman’s final principles—Deletion, Supplementation, and Deformation—will help you refine your story, whether you’re sshing subplots or twisting tropes. Ready to ascend to the next level? Let’s tackle deletion and supplementation.

  Part 3: Advanced Dao of WorldmakingCongratutions, Worldmaker!

  You’ve officially earned the title. Sure, your worlds (aka webnovels) might still scream “cringe,” but at least they’re yours—crafted with sweat and intent. You’ve got the baseline. You’re Alice in Whatevernd now—endless choices, infinite potential.

  So, what’s next?

  Cultivate.

  Yes, like a xianxia protagonist. Strip out the impurities, level up, and chase immortality—not with swords, but with words. Didn’t see that coming? Well, buckle up, because we’re diving into the final three principles of narrative ascension:

  DeletionSupplementationDeformationSimple in theory, ruthless in execution. These techniques are about precision: cutting the clutter, adding the gold, and twisting the mundane into something extraordinary. With the chaos of composition, weighting, and ordering still swirling around, mastering these will demand finesse.

  Let’s dive deeper into the art of chaos-taming and world-perfecting.

  Deletion, or Gu Purifying TechniqueIn Goodman’s philosophy of worldmaking, deletion is as much about absence as presence. A story—or a world—is shaped as much by what’s not there as by what remains. But don’t mistake deletion for wild hacking; it’s about creating space for vital elements to breathe.

  Think of it like pruning a bonsai. Cut too much, and it’s a sad stick in a pot. Cut too little, and it’s just a bush shrieking, “I have no idea what I’m doing!”

  Now, imagine yourself not as a mere writer tweaking a draft, but as a cultivator in an overblown fantasy novel. You sit cross-legged atop your metaphorical mountain, surrounded by the chaotic energy of your first draft—a swirling storm of unnecessary subplots, redundant characters, and lore so bloated it has its own gravitational pull. These impurities are the gu festering in your literary dantian, holding you back from Narrative Immortality.

  As you purge, Goodman stands at the peak of this imaginary mountain, resplendent in his philosophical tweed robes. He nods as you channel the Qi of Deletion with theatrical determination.

  “Focus your essence,” he intones, “and transcend the mundane.”

  What Is Gu in Writing?In cultivation novels, gu embodies toxins, impurities, and inner demons. In writing, gu is the excess that drags your story down. Take Alice in Whatevernd:

  Unnecessary Characters: That stick-keeper who gives cryptic advice and vanishes? Gu.Pointless Subplots: A magical stick sister’s irrelevant side quest? Gu.Overexpined Worldbuilding: Five pages on Sticknd’s geopolitics? Definitely gu.Purple Prose: Three paragraphs on a sunrise when 'the sun rose like fire' suffices? Gu.Your task, like the cultivator’s, is to purge impurities until only your story’s essence remains.

  The Painful Art of DeletionIn cultivation novels, purging impurities is a violent spectacle—vomiting, sweating, screaming. Writing isn’t much different.

  Cutting your beloved lore dump about the Stick Wars? Excruciating.Realizing your three-chapter subplot leads nowhere? Soul-crushing.

  But pain is the price of progress. Without it, your story will never ascend to its sleeker, stronger form.

  Take Alice’s stick-poking saga:

  Sticknd’s political upheavals? Axed.The tragic Great Stick Rebellion? Gone.A full chapter on the Stick-Poker Guild’s initiation rites? Obliterated.Sure, it’s worldbuilding, but does the reader care? No.

  Purging this narrative gu feels like tearing out your heart, but what remains is a story that’s sharper, cleaner—and undeniably better.

  How to Delete Without Destroying Your MasterpieceDeleting effectively requires calm ruthlessness. Ask yourself:

  Does this element move the story forward?If not, cut it. No regrets.

  Does it deepen a theme or character?If the answer’s no, wave goodbye.

  Does the reader need this now?Timing is everything. Dumping Stick Wars lore in Chapter 1 when it’s irrelevant until Chapter 30? That’s a pacing self-own.

  Now, harness the Qi of Deletion with these steps:

  Enter the Narrative Meditation StateQuiet your mind (and ego). View your story as a detached observer. This way, you’ll see the gu—the narrative gunk—as a barrier to ascension.

  Activate Your Inner Goodman MeridianChannel Goodman’s principle of symbolic weight: “Does this add meaning, or is it clutter?” If it’s clutter, delete it. No mercy.

  Perform the Purging RitualLike a cultivator expelling bck goo, purge your story of impurities. Nix bloated scenes, irrelevant characters, and redundant dialogue. This isn’t just cutting words; it’s removing dead weight from your masterpiece’s wings.

  Replenish with Pure QiOnce you’ve deleted, assess what’s missing. Repce the gu with pure narrative energy—stronger, sharper elements that elevate the story. But tread lightly—new gu loves sneaking in.

  In cultivation novels, over-purging wrecks a cultivator’s meridians, leaving them weak and stuck. In writing, excessive cuts drain the soul, leaving only a lifeless skeleton.

  Strip Alice’s world of detail:

  No hints about the stick’s magic.No quirky side characters.No cultural context.What remains? A bnd, robotic mess.

  Goodman warns: deletion requires bance. You’re not erasing meaning; you’re shaping space for it to shine.

  In its lean form, Alice’s tale thrives:

  The stick mirrors her growth.The world is vivid, not overwhelming.Every subplot feeds the main theme.Alice ascends, leaving Bob—the bnd stick-poker of old—in the dust. Now she’s a true legend.

  Refining your story—or your body—is an act of painful subtraction, but it reveals untapped potential. Deletion hurts, but the result shows.

  So, writers, breathe deep, summon your Qi, and delete with intent. Goodman, and every fictional master who bled for a breakthrough, would nod in approval. The road to Narrative Immortality is paved with cut words. Embrace it.

  Supplementation, or Qi Absorption TechniqueGoodman’s worldmaking idea boils down to this: we craft worlds using symbols, meaningful only within the frameworks we build. Supplementation fills the gaps in those frameworks, ensuring every piece of the world, story, or argument connects seamlessly.

  The art? Knowing which gaps to fill and which to leave tantalizingly open.

  Supplementation isn’t about stuffing your narrative with fluff. It’s about making the machine hum. Every gear must turn, every wire must connect, and nothing should feel like a spare part tossed in for show.

  In cultivation, supplementation follows the purge—a violent cleansing of impurities (think of it as deleting narrative gu). With the clutter gone, the body—or story—is ready to absorb spiritual energy (Qi) and evolve into something leaner, stronger, and inexplicably irresistible to mysterious sect leaders.

  In storytelling, supplementation restores what ruthless cutting stripped bare. The goal isn’t to dump random Qi (or lore) into the void but to strategically infuse the story with exactly what it needs to thrive.

  Picture supplementation as the moment a gutted narrative transforms into a powerhouse. Without it, you’re left with a protagonist who’s purged three chapters’ worth of bck goo but hasn’t absorbed the Qi to fuel their next move.

  No one likes that.

  In cultivation, Qi isn’t just energy—it’s the stuff of growth, soul-strengthening, and epic ultimate moves. In storytelling, supplementation serves the same purpose: it sharpens themes, fuels characters’ motivations, and breathes life into the world.

  Done right, it’s not just a fix; it’s a power-up.

  How Supplementation Works1. Identifying the Void

  In cultivation, purging gu leaves the body hollow. The cultivator must pinpoint where Qi is needed most—meridians, dantian, or soul.

  In storytelling, identify what feels “hollow” after cuts. Ask:

  Where are the gaps?Is the emotional arc thin?Does the world ck depth?Is the pacing uneven?2. Absorbing Pure Qi

  Skilled cultivators don’t grab just any Qi—they seek pure, compatible energy aligned with their path.

  In writing, this means purposeful supplementation. Add elements that enhance the narrative rather than padding it with fluff.

  Example: Alice’s stick, central to her identity, loses emotional weight after a deletion. Supplement by showing how the stick symbolizes her bond with a mentor who taught her its deeper purpose.

  3. Bancing the Flow

  Misdirected Qi destabilizes cultivation—sometimes explosively.

  In writing, poorly distributed additions bloat the story, wrecking pacing and crity. Bance is key: enrich without overloading.

  The Cultivator’s Dilemma: Over-SupplementationGreedy Qi absorption leads to disaster: overloading the dantian triggers backsh—meridians explode, golden cores shatter, and protagonists plummet three realms down the cultivation dder.

  Overloading a narrative works the same way.

  The Overloaded Narrative:Unnecessary subplots added for "more."Over-expining mechanics, burying readers in lore.Creating new characters to patch gaps instead of deepening existing ones.Picture Alice and her stick-poking prowess. Now imagine the story crammed with a subplot about a cosmic Stick-Oracle revealing the stick’s ancient prophecy. Sure, it could add depth, but it bloats the plot and steals focus. Alice’s emotional journey derails, overshadowed by the Stick-Oracle’s tragic backstory.

  Result? The narrative destabilizes, and your story suffers an epic Qi backsh. Keep it lean.

  The Qi of Supplementation in ActionHere’s how supplementation can strengthen Alice’s stick-poking journey step by step:

  Emotional Resonance:Post-deletion, Alice’s connection to the stick feels hollow.Fix: Add a fshback—Alice’s te grandfather gave her the stick, teaching her that even small things hold great potential.Result: The stick now carries emotional weight, enriching her growth arc.

  Worldbuilding Depth:Why does stick-poking matter in a modern world?Fix: Make it a lost martial art. Alice’s skill bridges the mundane and a hidden practitioner community.Result: A richer world with depth, no lore overload required.

  Narrative Stakes:The journey cks tension.Fix: Introduce a conflict—a secret organization fears her growing power.Result: Elevated stakes and engagement without derailing the pace.

  Cultivating Narratives: Channeling Story Qi

  In cultivation, Qi flows through meridians, pooling in key points like the dantian. In writing, narrative Qi flows through four vital meridians: theme, character, worldbuilding, and plot. If you want a story that resonates rather than colpses under its own weight, here’s your guide to channeling supplementation wisely:

  Theme: Insert scenes or symbols that reinforce your core idea—without smashing the reader over the head.Character: Add yers—moments that deepen motivations, hint at backstory, or spark retionships. Readers care about people, even fictional ones.Worldbuilding: Weave in cultural, historical, or societal details that breathe life into your setting instead of ft-packing it from Ikea.Plot: Toss in conflicts, twists, or stakes, but make sure they actually matter.Like a Qi cultivator avoiding messy backsh, a writer must bance these elements to avoid story bloat. Quality trumps quantity every time.

  Supplementation: A Writer’s Exercise in Restraint

  Pick a Scene: Find that anemic chapter gasping for relevance.Ask Questions: What’s missing—emotional heft? Context? Actual stakes?Add Just One Thing: A single line, detail, or beat. Step back. Does it breathe life into the story? If not, delete it like an embarrassing text.Refine and Repeat: Only expand what works. Leave the rest on the cutting room floor.The Endgame: Qi Refinement for Storytelling

  In cultivation novels, refining Qi leads to breakthroughs—ascension to glowing realms of power. In writing, successful supplementation makes your narrative cohesive, resonant, and alive.

  Take Alice’s tale. Once just a quirky stick-poker, her story now pulses with emotional Qi (she cares about her pokes), worldbuilding Qi (her world reveres stick-pokers), and narrative Qi (her poking matters). Her stick isn’t a stick; it’s her growth, her connection, her catalyst. She’s not poking anymore—she’s wielding.

  The secret? Bance. Add what matters, skip the rest. Even the best story can crumble under the weight of unnecessary fluff. Mastery lies in knowing when to stop.

  Go forth, writer-cultivator. Build your narrative Qi—but remember: even the greatest Golden Core can shatter if overloaded.

  If you think “deletion” and “supplementation” are profound revetions, I hate to break it to you: you’ve fallen into a cultivation trope trap. Sorry to shatter your world, but these two steps? They’re just fancy words for editing.

  Don’t start crawling on the ceiling like the girl from The Exorcist—come back down. Yes, editing. The least gmorous but most essential part of writing. No one dreams of rewriting the same chapter eight times, but here we are, dressing it up with lofty terms like “purging impurities” and “absorbing coherence” to make it feel mystical. It is important—just not nearly as magical as we’d like.

  Let’s face it: the whole “refining the gu of unnecessary words while absorbing the Qi of coherence”? It’s editing. You’ve known it all along, though you’ve been too polite to call it what it is.

  The Dao of EditingThat’s right, dear writer-cultivator. You’ve been walking the Dao of Editing this whole time. All that talk about purging fws and refining brilliance? Just editing, wearing a shiny metaphorical robe.

  Why the Metaphors?Simple: editing is where the magic happens, but it doesn’t feel magical. Writing the first draft? That’s creative chaos. Editing? That’s slogging back into the battlefield to clean up your own mess. No wonder we dress it up as “refining the narrative dantian”—it makes it sound heroic.

  Think of it this way: in cultivation novels, the hero doesn’t ascend by lounging around with their original, fwed power level. They grind. They train. They meditate. They occasionally cough up blood. That’s editing: narrative cultivation. You’re not just polishing words; you’re transforming them, turning a raw draft into its most radiant, powerful form.

  Editing gets no love because it’s invisible. Nobody finishes a story and says, “Wow, look at all the stuff they deleted!” or “Amazing how chapter three got just enough context.”

  A polished story feels effortless because the work is hidden. But here’s the truth: editing is the unsung hero of every great narrative.

  First drafts don’t win readers—editing does. It’s the slog of cutting, adding, rearranging, and refining that brings a story to life. Without it, there’s no final, readable form. Deletion? Supplementation? That’s editing, pin and simple.

  Unsexy. Critical. Transformative. Editing takes your chaotic draft and turns it into something coherent, meaningful, and worth reading. No magic Qi required—just time, effort, and a ruthless willingness to murder your darlings.

  And here’s the twist: calling it “editing” doesn’t diminish its importance. It’s the art of worldmaking, the alchemy of raw words into connection.

  Once you embrace that all editing boils down to deleting what doesn’t belong and adding what’s missing, it’s less intimidating. No philosopher’s stone needed. Just ask:

  What’s wrong? (Fix it.)What’s missing? (Add it.)

  Congratutions—you’ve mastered the Dao of Editing. Go forth and Edit with Purpose.

  Call it deletion, supplementation, or narrative cultivation if it helps you sleep at night. At its core, editing is the simple, profound act of making your story the best version of itself.

  Editing isn’t just refining a story—it’s reshaping a symbolic world. But here’s the existential puzzle: Does the story exist before the edits, or do the edits create the story? I’ll leave you to chew on that one for a while. We'll answer that question at the end.

  Editing IS the cultivation journey. The demons? Real. The breakthroughs? Painful. The lightning tribution? Just a deadline bearing down like a vengeful god. You thought you were ascending to greatness, but here you are, locked in a room with a possessed 12-year-old of a manuscript, trying to convince her—and yourself—that this chaotic mess can be saved.

  And the kicker? It can. But only if you embrace the absurdity. So, ugh at the trap. Grab your holy water (or your coffee—same thing, really), and get back to work.

  Part 4: Actual Dao Of WorldmakingDeformation, as Nelson Goodman defines it, reshapes symbols or systems to reveal new meanings or test their resilience. Guess what? We’ve been doing it all along. The UV printer metaphor? Deformation. Bob’s bnd isekai into Alice’s stick saga? Deformation. Editing as a Qi-purging ritual? Bingo.

  This phase isn’t novel—it’s the ghost in the machine, the force behind every trope we reassemble and cliché we reframe. Deformation isn’t a step; it’s the process. It’s why Bob now exists in a stick-poking madhouse instead of the void of mediocrity.

  Bob began as a bnd, predictable story nobody cared about. Through the Dao of Deformation, he was broken, reshaped, and reborn as Alice, a stick-wielding master of meaning. This is deformation: nothing sacred, everything malleable, change eternal.

  The Dao doesn’t cling to rigid forms. It flows like water, reshaping rocks, roots, and reader expectations. Deformation isn’t destruction; it’s liberation. It frees a story from stale structures, letting it bend, twist, and breathe until it reflects the world it seeks to convey.

  Dismantle the overpowered protagonist, and you’ll find the frail human beneath.Distort a trope to reveal hidden truths—or ughable absurdities.Shatter the framework, and the void it hid is id bare.Writers don’t fear the void; we embrace it. From chaos, stories emerge—fractured, messy, alive.

  Deformation isn’t new. The world itself is one big distortion. Mountains erode. Rivers twist. Stories evolve. Goodman knew it. So did the Daoists. Creation isn’t force; it’s flow. You’re not crafting worlds but nudging chaos into coherence and pretending it was intentional.

  In the beginning, there was nothing. Then, because nothing is boring, something emerged—a messy spark of existence clinging to coherence. That’s your story: an unrefined blob of potential waiting for you to wield the Dao and shape it.

  But beware: to create is to destroy, and to destroy is to create. Stories are distortions of the void, torn apart and reshaped by your hand. The Dao of Deformation embraces this paradox. Let the narrative breathe. That over-engineered twist? Drop it. Let your characters stumble into disasters and accidents. Revel in the weird.

  From the shards of a broken story, new forms emerge—not perfect, but alive. No symbol is sacred; everything can bend, twist, and transform.

  The stick isn’t just a stick—it’s a weapon, a symbol, a punchline.The protagonist isn’t just a hero—they’re a mirror, reflecting fears and desires.The world isn’t just a backdrop—it’s the stage, the script, and the actor all at once.The Daoist writer lets the story reshape itself, trusting symbols to find bance. Alice didn’t need the stick to save the world. She just needed to poke her own expectations.

  A good story isn’t bloated exposition or endless subplots. It’s a crisp stream winding through a vast ndscape. Deformation teaches us to strip away noise, leaving space for imagination. Don’t over-expin the Stick-Oracle. A cryptic line—“The stick chooses whom it pokes”—does the job.

  Stories are contradictions in motion: fixed on the page, alive in the mind. Every element is itself and something else. Alice’s stick isn’t just wood; it’s her growth, her burden, her weapon. Deformation reveals these contradictions—and asks you to revel in them.

  Does a story exist before the edits, or do edits create it? The Dao says: both. Worldmaking is Dao. To write is to distort the infinite into the finite, sacrificing essence for coherence. Knowledge sharpens this process, bridging imagination and reality. Dao is worldmaking. You’re already walking its path.

  Nelson Goodman, Laozi, Gabe Newell, and even Saul Goodman are part of the Dao. So are you, humble webnovel writer. No story is ever finished. Deformation is creation; creation is destruction; destruction is a new beginning. The cycle is eternal.

  Release your grip. Let the world breathe. Stories cling to nothing. The Dao flows onward, carrying your creation to readers, who will deform it anew.

  You’ve reshaped tropes, ideas, and expectations. Now you stand at the edge of the void, staring at the story that’s deformed you as much as you’ve deformed it. Goodman, perched on a metaphorical mountaintop, might not approve of this twist on his philosophy. But the Dao doesn’t care.

  Go forth, writer. Deform, reform, and let your story become the nameless thing it was meant to be. When it pokes you back, smile—you’ve walked the Way.

  Epilogue:As I slide the final acrylic sheet onto the UV printer, I exhale—a slow, deliberate gesture that fools no one, least of all me. One order down, an infinite queue to go. The printer hums with something disturbingly close to satisfaction, its monstrous appetite temporarily sated.

  But the mountain of work remains. Packaging, defect reprints, shipping—an endless grind masquerading as routine. I steal a moment’s peace, leaning back, daring to exist outside the chaos. Naturally, it doesn’t st.

  The door swings open. Smartphone in hand, the manager strides in, face bereft of anything resembling holiday cheer. “You’re on transfer tape duty,” they announce, as though delivering news of a pgue. “The vinyl your coworkers have been cleaning for three days? It’s ready.”

  I gnce at the clock. December, that cruel, mocking specter, looms in the corner of the screen. Double workloads, triple expectations—'tis the season of endless grind. Christmas? New Year? Just pceholders on a calendar, marking time in a workshop that never stops devouring. No angels singing, no miracles descending. Just work.

  I want to scream. To rail against the machine, the season, the existential absurdity of transfer tape. But what’s the point? The printer doesn’t care. The vinyl doesn’t care. Even the Dao, that grand, flowing cosmic principle, couldn’t care less about UV ink or cut vinyl or Bob’s stick-wielding saga. It flows, dragging us along, indifferent to our protests.

  So, I shrug. Not in apathy but in recognition of inevitability. The shrug is all we have—a hollow, inevitable gesture, as rote as the grind itself. The stories we tell—the Dao, the heroes, the metaphors—might soften the edges, but they don’t stop the gears.

  And yet, there’s comfort in that. The grind doesn’t stop. The stories don’t end. Even when they seem to, the next chapter is always waiting. Not symbolic. Not profound. Just life: a slog through vinyl scraps, acrylic sheets, and the occasional flicker of creativity that makes it all feel a little less absurd.

  I pick up the first roll of transfer tape, peel back the corner, and press it to the vinyl with care that borders on reverence. Not because it matters to the Dao, or to Goodman, or to some cosmic spectator, but because it matters to me, in this moment.

  That’s deformation: not always creating meaning, but creating momentum.

  The vinyl will get taped. The stories will keep flowing. The Dao doesn’t stop, even when it stumbles over a stick-wielding protagonist. And me? I’ll keep going too, reshaping absurdities into something resembling coherence.

  Because in the end, there is no end. Just this: another chapter, absurd and imperfect, waiting to be written.