How do you define a story?

sto⋅ry: noun, plural -ries, verb, -ried, -ry⋅ing.

1. a narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader; tale.
2. a fictitious tale, shorter and less elaborate than a novel.
3. such narratives or tales as a branch of literature: song and story.
4. the plot or succession of incidents of a novel, poem, drama, etc.: The characterizations were good, but the story was weak.
5. a narration of an incident or a series of events or an example of these that is or may be narrated, as an anecdote, joke, etc.
6. a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration: the story of medicine; the story of his life.
7. a report or account of a matter; statement or allegation: The story goes that he rejected the offer.
8. news story.
9. a lie or fabrication: What he said about himself turned out to be a story.

Recently, there has been some discussion on one of the lists to which I belong surrounding the controversial topic of stories.  I hadn’t thought this to be a topic open to debate, but much like the art -vs- craft issue facing those who produce creative handmade goods, it seems that there are battle lines demarcated and ammunition being stockpiled by those on each side of this literary battle.

One fervent believer argued that poetry is glimpses, not a story; that without a well defined plot, there is no story.  Another replied that as long as you met with progress throughout the piece, such as the development of a character’s personality, then it would indeed be a story. They fired a volley of frantic messages between them, many of us merely observing from the sideline.  Others joined in, tossing their own choice grenades into the fray, comments like, “if it doesn’t have a clear beginning, middle and end, it isn’t a story,” and, “you can’t define a story unless you know the context you’ll be defining it in.”

As the messages continued to roll in, first five, then twelve, thirty now, I tried my best to ignore them.  I sent most to the trash without reading them, but couldn’t help seeing words in the mail preview as I hit delete.  And it left me wondering.

Why all the fuss?  Why not just write?

There are things in life that we’ll never be able to explain, never be able to quantify or pigeonhole.  Things that are subjective, like beauty, pleasant scents, and apparently what the definition of a story is.  So, as they continued their debate, I continued to write, adding another 5,000 words to the work in progress.