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The Myth of the Great Idea
When we think of genius, we often fall into the trap of idealising the unprecedented: that original, disruptive, and never-before-imagined idea, as if the mere possession of such a premise were the key to success. We believe that, to stand out, we need the most creative and revolutionary idea.
Yet, being a genius demands far more than simply holding something incredible in your hands. In fact, perhaps a new idea is what you need the least. If executed well, any idea can be genius.
This is a dilemma that haunts artists and writers. The eternal expectation of finding the “right idea” makes us run around in circles, discarding the current one as “insufficient” in the hope that the next insight will be better.
As the writer Brandon Sanderson said in one of his lectures: “Ideas do not make the author; authors make ideas work.” The real task is the alchemy of transforming a common premise into something alive, tangible, and unforgettable. A good premise is merely the starting point; what we do with it is what truly matters.
Kurt Vonnegut and the Unique Blend of Human and Absurd
My experience with this philosophy solidified when I read Slaughterhouse 5. I had heard of its author, Kurt Vonnegut, and the mixture of war drama with science fiction. This unusual combination thoroughly intrigued me, but who was Vonnegut, really?
He is a unique and singular writer, whose work is a beautiful blend of melancholy and black humour. His science fiction is not a space opera spectacle, but rather a dissection tool that exposes the inner workings of the human condition. It is a satirical and intimately human approach, with an accessible and philosophical prose, recalling that absurd and existential daily life we see in Simon Stålenhag’s illustrations.
For Vonnegut, the form of storytelling is just as crucial as what is being told. He is not afraid to embrace meta-narrative, breaking the fourth wall, addressing the reader directly, and even inserting himself as a character in his own works, as he does in Slaughterhouse 5.
The Subversive Structuralism of “Slaughterhouse 5”
Vonnegut had a powerful, real, and traumatic story to tell: his experience as a prisoner of war and survivor of the Dresden bombing in the Second World War. But he was wary of sensationalism. How did he approach the horror without falling into cliché? The answer was to subvert the structure.
Warning: Spoilers ahead!
The book begins with the author himself, the veteran Vonnegut, commenting on the difficulty of writing the book. From the second chapter onwards, we are introduced to Billy Pilgrim, an optometrist and soldier who survived Dresden.
To escape dramatic linearity, Billy Pilgrim finds himself “unstuck in time.” He involuntarily jumps backwards and forwards through his own life, reliving moments out of chronological order. His personal narrative is permeated by elements of fantasy, such as time travel and contact with the alien race from Tralfamadore.
Most importantly, this non-linearity is used to reinforce Vonnegut’s view on the banality of war and the futility of existence.
Billy Pilgrim: An Insect Trapped in Amber
Vonnegut’s writing takes on the tone of an intimate conversation, almost the account of an elderly gentleman. The protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, is no hero; he is passive, dragged along by the flow of events. And because he is constantly travelling through time, we, the readers, already know everything that will happen: he survives the war, he marries, his wife dies, he suffers a plane crash.
The predictability of events does not diminish the urgency of the read; instead, it intensifies it. Vonnegut transforms this certainty—that all moments, from beginning to end, exist simultaneously, “like insects trapped in the amber of that instant”—into a profound reflection on finiteness and acceptance.
Slaughterhouse 5 is the perfect example of how genius resides in the form, not the premise. A story about a traumatised war veteran who decides to tell his tale. It is not grandiose, but it is the manner in which Vonnegut uses science fiction and non-linearity to humanise the act of storytelling that elevates it.
A Quick Digression on Tralfamadore
On Tralfamadore, the view of time is four-dimensional: all moments—past, present, and future—exist simultaneously. They see death, for example, not as an end, but merely as a moment in time that will always exist. This is the philosophy they teach Billy, and which he adopts: the idea that free will is an illusion and that it is futile to fight against what is “trapped in amber.”
By accepting that the war, the marriage, and the Dresden bombing are simply eternal moments, he is freed from the burden of tragedy and the need for a linear dramatic plot. Thus, the plot does not need suspense or twists because the form has already revealed the truth: everything simply is.
With every mention of death or loss in the book, Vonnegut inserts the melancholy phrase: “So it goes.”
By employing it in moments of triviality and tragedy alike, Vonnegut reinforces the Tralfamadorian perspective, where all moments are equivalent in their eternal existence.
The Lesson of Form
Vonnegut teaches us that ideas are cheap. The expensive part is discovering the story behind the idea and the form of telling it. This is where most people fail, caught in the trap of “vague premises” that collapse upon encountering the reality of execution.
The good news is that you no longer need to wait for a bombshell idea. The form can transform a simple narrative into a masterpiece. Vonnegut only needed to add aliens to his biographical account to become a genius.
Believe me, you are already surrounded by good premises. The way stories are told can transform the mundane into the extraordinary, the tragic into the human, and make the absurd the most intimate truth.
It all depends on the narrative we choose to tell.