Part 3: Advanced Dao of Worldmaking
Congratulations, 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 Whateverland 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:
- Deletion
- Supplementation
- Deformation
Simple 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 Technique
In 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 Whateverland:
- Unnecessary Characters: That stick-keeper who gives cryptic advice and vanishes? Gu.
- Pointless Subplots: A magical stick sister’s irrelevant side quest? Gu.
- Overexplained Worldbuilding: Five pages on Stickland’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 Deletion
In 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:
- Stickland’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 Masterpiece
Deleting 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 State
Quiet 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 Meridian
Channel 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 Ritual
Like a cultivator expelling black 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 Qi
Once you’ve deleted, assess what’s missing. Replace 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 bland, robotic mess.
Goodman warns: deletion requires balance. 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 bland 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 Technique
Goodman’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 black 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 Works
1. 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 lack 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. Balancing the Flow
Misdirected Qi destabilizes cultivation—sometimes explosively.
In writing, poorly distributed additions bloat the story, wrecking pacing and clarity. Balance is key: enrich without overloading.
The Cultivator’s Dilemma: Over-Supplementation
Greedy Qi absorption leads to disaster: overloading the dantian triggers backlash—meridians explode, golden cores shatter, and protagonists plummet three realms down the cultivation ladder.
Overloading a narrative works the same way.
The Overloaded Narrative:
- Unnecessary subplots added for "more."
- Over-explaining 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 backlash. Keep it lean.
The Qi of Supplementation in Action
Here’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 flashback—Alice’s late 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 lacks 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 collapses 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 layers—moments that deepen motivations, hint at backstory, or spark relationships. Readers care about people, even fictional ones.
- Worldbuilding: Weave in cultural, historical, or societal details that breathe life into your setting instead of flat-packing it from Ikea.
- Plot: Toss in conflicts, twists, or stakes, but make sure they actually matter.
Like a Qi cultivator avoiding messy backlash, a writer must balance 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?
Balance. 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 revelations, I hate to break it to you: you’ve fallen into a cultivation riddled 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 glamorous 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 Editing
That’s right, dear writer-cultivator. You’ve been walking the
Dao of Editing this whole time. All that talk about
purging flaws 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, flawed 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, plain 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.)
Congratulations—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 tribulation? 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, laugh at the trap. Grab your holy water (or your coffee—same thing, really), and get back to work.
Part 4: Actual Dao Of Worldmaking
Deformation, 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 bland 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 bland, 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 laughable absurdities.
- Shatter the framework, and the void it hid is laid 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 balance. 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 landscape. Deformation teaches us to strip away noise, leaving space for imagination. Don’t over-explain 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 last.
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 plague. “The vinyl your coworkers have been cleaning for three days? It’s ready.”
I glance 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 placeholders 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.
The End (?)
