Are You Chasing the Wrong Olympic Gold?

This skater didn't win an Olympic medal, and I'm obsessed with him.

I watched Cha Jun-Hwan’s figure skating routine last week in the Olympic men’s short program competition. I never finished watching that competition—I was busy rewinding Jun-Hwan’s routine to watch him over and over again.

I filmed my TV screen on my phone and watched it again while I sat in the courthouse on jury duty. I gushed about it to friends and family. I’ve been listening to the song he skated to on loop for a week.

Jun-Hwan didn’t win a medal. He placed fourth, just off the podium. But his skate has stuck in my mind like no other skater’s has throughout this entire Olympics.

There is no Olympic gold medal for literature.

Still, most writers I work with are chasing their own version of Olympic gold. You’re reaching for lofty achievements: to sign an agent, to get a book deal, to land on the endcaps of Barnes and Noble, maybe even to rise up in the bestseller lists.

Which, on the one hand, is fantastic. As I’m sure every Olympic athlete knows, it’s so incredibly satisfying and rewarding to push the limits of your potential, to set a high bar and then become the person who can surpass it.

But on the other hand, it’s a hidden trap. Because the achievements we compete for are merely proxies for what we actually want. The agents, the deals, the bookstores, the lists are simply stand-ins for excellence and validation and engagement with readers who love what we write.

Which means that it’s possible to win the agents and the deals without reaching excellence and connecting with readers. And it’s possible to lose the agents and the accolades, and still attain the excellence and engagement we most want.

So in this episode, I’m raving about Cha Jun-Hwan.

Not because he medaled, or he was expected to medal but didn’t, or he was part of any figure skating drama. He was simply there, skating a great skate—one that lives on in my mind and on my phone and in my Youtube history.

And I’m unpacking why.

What magic did his skate hold that surpassed any other?

What am I measuring besides Olympic gold?

And how can writers weave that magic, too?

Links mentioned in the episode:

• Watch Cha Jun-Hwan’s short program

Transcript

0:00

There is no Olympic gold medal for literature. Writers may also be athletes, but they're not athletes because they're writers. There's no speed typing competition or first draft endurance race. Still, most writers that I work with are chasing your own version of Olympic gold. You're reaching for lofty achievements to sign an agent, to get a book deal to land on the end caps of Barnes and Noble, maybe even to rise up in the bestseller list. Your writing may never take you to the Olympics, but there's no shortage of ways to compete against yourself and other writers. Which on the one hand is fantastic. It is so incredibly satisfying and rewarding to push the limits of your creative potential to set a high bar and then become the person who can surpass it. But on the other hand, it's a hidden trap because the achievements we compete for are merely proxies for what we actually want. The agents, the deals, the bookstores, the lists are simply stand-ins for excellence and validation and engagement with readers who love what we write, Which means that it's possible to win the agents and the deals without reaching excellence and connecting with readers. And it's possible to lose the agents into the accolades and still attain the excellence and engagement that we most want. So I'm about to rave about an Olympic figure skate. He's probably not any of the ones that you're thinking of. He wasn't standing on the podium at the end of the event, nor is everyone talking about him because he was expected to stand on the podium, but didn't. There was a lot of drama at the Milano, Cortina Olympic men's figure skating, and this skater wasn't any part of it. He was just also there. Skating a great skate. And yet his skate is the one that I've watched and rewatched most of all, and the one I'll remember long after this Olympics ends. Let me show you why and what I'm measuring besides Olympic gold. Welcome to your next draft. I am obsessed with Cha June one's short figure skating routine. I know nothing about figure skating, but like any good fan who cares about sports for exactly as long as the Olympics are running and then goes back to ignoring sports for two years, I am thoroughly enjoying watching the figure skating. If you too have been watching the men's figure skating, I am almost certainly not going to talk about what you'd expect. This is not about Ilia, melanin or really any of the men's free skate. I'm taking you all the way back to Tuesday, February 10th, 2026. the men's single short program. I am a complete outsider when it comes to figure skating. I know absolutely nothing to me. Every single skate was super fun to watch. Every skater made incredible feats of skill and athleticism look easy unless someone outright fell. I couldn't tell when anybody messed up. It all looked fantastic to me. For the most part, I depended on Tara Lipinski and Johnny Weir's commentary to explain to me what was great and what was merely fine. Where one triple axle was a quarter under rotated or where a skater hadn't placed his weight firmly on one side or the other of his skate. Don't ask me what that means. I still don't know, and I'm probably not describing it right, despite having looked up pictures and diagrams of figure skates. The skater did lose some technical points for it though, which I do know enough to know. That's a bummer. During one routine, Johnny observed that while the skater might like to listen to the song that he'd chosen, his skating wasn't connected to the music, and the song didn't really feel like a fit for his personality or self-expression on the ice. I did not notice that until Johnny said it. But I watched really carefully for the rest of the routine, and I could see what he was saying. While the moves were technically correct and matched to the rhythm of the music, the skater was in some intangible, hard to define way, not skating big enough to fit the song. It was subtle, the sort of nuance. Only someone who has deeply studied skating could identify, but I felt it without even realizing it before Johnny said it. And then there was cha Juan Cha. Juan is 24 years old and skating for South Korea. He skated to rain in your black eyes by Zi Oso. Coincidentally, I've been playing this song on Loop for the past week. This is an epically beautiful short program. Johnny said as June Juan began to skate. One of the most artistic skaters in the world and at times the best jumper, but he can be very hot and cold. Watch the beauty of this quad ssw. If he hits it, he hid it. He hid it so elegantly that even I a knower of nothing could tell. It was out outstanding. In that moment, I felt I was in the hands of a master. and when the technical score popped up on screen, it confirmed it. He'd earned more than three bonus points for how well he'd executed that jump. The routine continued, jump, jump, spin, jump. I'm sure all the figure skaters who are listening are just absolutely loving my description of this, but I watched in awe as he nailed every single one. He is a complete skater though Tara said as he finished his last jump and entered his step sequence. You see it in his spins, his steps. He just glides this milky quality across the ice, and I could see that too. There are two steps that he takes at the beginning of his step sequence. Literally just steps almost like he's walking on regular ground that I've watched back over and over to admire how elegant and smooth and musical they are. I imagine that there's some of the easiest movements of the entire program, and yet even they shout his expertise, the music builds and so does his step sequence. He pops up in the air with perfect musicality As the tempo increases, he walks, then runs, then sprints across the ice, and then he spins the music and his posture equally triumphant. In his penultimate spin, his right leg and arm are stretched out like a star, but I can't take my eyes off of his left hand, which he slowly reaches towards the sky. And then with a final crash of piano keys, his knees hit the ice and he ends his program. Exquisite. I was in awe before Johnny and Tara could share their opinions. I was rewinding to watch it again and again and again. Eventually, I let it play long enough to hear what the commentators thought. Oh my goodness. That was a good short program. Quality skating all around. You have to be reminded. It's the technical score mixed with the component score, the artistic score, and he is the complete package, which is why he was fifth at the last Olympics. Tara said, you have to have both to really challenge in this sport, and there's always a conversation of are the quads too much? Are they taking away from the beauty that makes our sport special? Everyone that competes at a high level has to be able to do both. Johnny said his next comment though is my favorite. Jo Juan is a beautiful atmospheric skater. Really takes you on a journey with him, and when you feel involved in the performance, it makes it that much more special. You know, the judges are deciding people's futures and medals and all that stuff, but at the end of the day, they're just the first row of the audience and they're gonna love that. Which brings me, of course, back to books. Four thoughts are now rolling around Rent Free in my mind first. Oh my goodness. That was a good short program. Good. Good. That stunning display of athleticism and artistry, which earned a score so high that Jo Juan immediately shot to number one in the short program competition. the best word Tara could find to describe it was good. good. Seems so inadequate. So poultry, it seems dismissive, quotidian, unremarkable table stakes. The bare necessity being good is the price of entry for any competition, much less the Olympics. And yet I feel the same limits of language that Tara has reached. I have spent the last few months or years, or perhaps a decade trying to define what it is that I help writers create. I don't specialize in a specific genre, something that would be easy or easier, at least to categorize. I specialize in good books in taking something that's okay and making it good, or something that's good and making it great. What is that? What separates the table stakes from the exceptional? It's so palpable, so real and at the same time, so effervescent as to defy language and leave us with such banal words as good. So yes, Tara. I agree that was a good short program and I help writers refine good books. Second, it's the technical score mixed with the component score, the artistic score. The technical score is relatively easy for me to understand. Every element of the routine has a base value that reflects its difficulty. Skaters can earn points in addition to that base value for executing elements very well, or deduct points from that base value for elements that they execute poorly, Basically execute and move well according to a predetermined set of objective, measurable standards. And you earn points land to jump a few degrees short of a complete rotation and you'll lose points and the TV will show me a still image of the landing annotated with lines and arrows that highlight the exact degrees, mist. It's very measurable. The program component score though is fuzzier. There are no angles to draw on the screen to quantify it. Yet I can see how hard the International Skating Union is trying to make this too objective and measurable. This score judges three aspects. First composition, or how the program is designed in relation to the music. Second presentation or how the program is performed. And third skating skills. There's a whole list of criteria within each of those categories. Things like connection between elements, expressiveness, flow, and body control. Yes, we can tell the difference between someone moving with body control and someone without it in a binary form has versus has not is clear, but how does one measure degrees of expressiveness? How does one quantify flow? I asked the internet whether the program component score, the PCS is subjective, and I found this Reddit thread one user asks and they just rank how much they liked your program or is there anything that influences the PCS? And another re user replies, ha ha ha, ha ha. That is a whole long discussion, and there is so much depending on the skater, the judges, the country of the skater, the competition, et cetera. If you search old threads, you can find details about PCS and why it's so tricky. The best bet would be to read the IJS rules that have been linked in other comments here to understand how it's supposed to work. I will be honest. I'm a little scared to investigate deeper because I feel like even asking the question or whispering the S word subjectivity might be akin to kicking a hive of bees, and I'm in no way critiquing the figure skating scoring system. I absolutely do not know enough to do that. Really, I am simply observing that figure skating faces the same challenge of every creative medium, including books. How do we measure artistry? How do we distill Tara's good into something clear, concrete, and definable? What actually is good? What are we trying to measure? After all, there is a massive technical component to it. There is real objective, quantifiable skill. Measurable in degrees and angles and lines and revolutions. Quadruple axles are far more challenging than a single toe loop. Completing a full rotation is more technically excellent than landing a quarter turn short, and yet there's something soft, almost ethereal about it too. When June Juan popped into the air in perfect time with the music, I gasped, that was timing precision. It was also an artistic choice to decide that that specific bright piano beat called for a hop, or that the softer, longer notes a few moments before needed two smooth gliding steps and a pull of the arms. It's the nuance, the tiniest details of not only choosing what moves to perform, but how to perform them to create a specific experience. As far as I could tell the skater whose song choice didn't align, had skated technically, well, he'd performed complicated moves according to their criteria, but the artistic choice that he'd made for the song was ill-fitting to the way he moved. It was a perfectly legal song choice, and he had performed the components of his routine in a logical way within that song. Yet it was missing a certain liveliness and elegance and alignment. His technical score could have been perfect and the routine would still have been missing a little bit of heart. I believe books are like this too. There are a massive number of technical skills that go into telling a great story really, really well. But if we measure only on the technicalities, we overlook the heart. As Johnny said, you have to have both to really challenge in this sport. And there's always a conversation of, are the quads too much? Are they taking away from the beauty that makes our sport special? But everyone that competes at a high level has to be able to do both Quadruple axles and musical sensitivity and expressiveness, technically excellent story structure and artistic heart. third June one. Take takes you on a journey with him. You feel involved in the performance? I felt this. I felt it from June one's very first jump in some intangible way. I was immersed in his routine in a way I hadn't experienced from any previous skater, and I'll be honest, that I have not yet experienced again in the rest of the skates that I've seen so far. I wasn't simply watching from the sidelines, rooting for his jumps to land. I wasn't thinking of all the personal and political context that brought him there to that moment and what it would mean for him to win or lose. I have never really enjoyed sports because I don't like watching people get injured or being constantly stressed that they might get injured. I literally turn my back on football so that I don't have to see people slamming into each other. I spent the Super Bowl watching Olympic curling. I have sometimes chosen not to watch figure skating or gymnastics or ski jumping because I could not stomach it if they fell. I have not watched Lindsay Vaughn's downhill ski crash during this routine. I forgot to worry about whether Jo Juan would fall from his first movements. I felt such deep trust in him as an athlete and an artist that I could only wait awestruck to see where he would take me next. I felt emotional highs and lows during every other skater's performance because of their context After all, who could be unmoved by Maxine Mov skating in memory of his parents whose heart wouldn't be in their throat at his slightest wobble, who wouldn't celebrate every landing? He stuck. I felt emotional highs and lows during Jo Juan's routine because of the performance itself. It felt like a story. He was inviting me into a mystical trek through an enchanted forest with a triumphant conclusion. It felt as though the routine itself had a narrative and I was participating and experiencing it emerging. A changed person on the other side. I believe above all that is what we craft people of good books are trying to create for our reader. We are cultivating an emotional experience, a participatory journey. We are bringing the audience inside of the story with us so that they flow effortlessly through the highs and lows we've designed for them. Feeling those emotions as deeply as we do ourselves When we have done our job really, really well, the readers forget we are there, not because they don't care about you, the author. But because they trust you so deeply that they allow themselves to slip completely into the journey you've created for them, they allow the alternate reality that you've built to be more real to them than the chair they're sitting on. What is good? How do we measure it? What sets the truly exquisite apart from the merely technically correct. I have spent years pondering this question. Right now, at this very moment in February of 2026, I believe that it's this, the excellent, the exquisite, the most powerful, greatest good, creates an emotional experience for the audience. The author chooses what emotional experience they wish to create for their reader. And then they pour everything they've got every iota of technical precision, every brush of artistry, every beat of living heart into crafting a piece of art that can guide another human being Through that emotional experience, and when the right audience member encounters the right piece of art, they are immersed so deeply in that emotional experience That they're able to forget they're not living in it themselves after all. Isn't that why we come to read books ourselves? Isn't that what we want to create for our readers? And fourth didn't get here alone. The Olympics are an exhibition of the impact of coaching on the ice. Each skater competes alone. It's just the athlete. In the center of the arena, the sole figure on an Olympic sized rink, all eyes of the judges and spectators focused on them, but no skater gets to the rink alone and no skater leaves alone. As soon as they step off the ice, they're met by their coaches, and then the coach and athlete sit together in the kiss and cry area to wait for the results. I don't know how Jo Juan chose his song or choreographed his routine, but I do know he didn't do it in a vacuum. I imagine he did it with support, with close collaboration from a coaching choreographer, experts who could help him blend his technique and his artistry into a routine that exhibited his unique strengths. I'm sure he did not teach himself triple axles by watching YouTube videos alone in his living room, or even alone on the ice. I'm sure that during each training session, he didn't sit alone in a mire of self-critique, trying to puzzle out where things are going wrong without outside feedback. at every step, at every stage. His coach, Chi Ung was right there with him pointing out what was working and how to make minute adjustments to improve. right before he stepped on Olympic ice. She was there with him giving him final grounding, encouragement, and as soon as he stepped off the ice, she was beside him again, hugging him, walking him to the kiss and cry, patting his back as they waited for the results. His coach will help him interpret the results and decide what to do with them. His coach will give him feedback on every moment of his performance and build a customized plan to level him up for the next competition. Swap the feed to any other sport and it's the same. Behind every Olympic athlete is a coach guiding them to greatness. Why should storytelling be any different? In order to achieve excellence in any skill, we need master coaching, someone to show us the way, to give us precise feedback on exactly the nuances we're missing. We cannot fix what we cannot see, and while building basic skills from YouTube, videos can take us pretty far. Eventually we'll reach a plateau where we need someone who knows what they're talking about to show us what to adjust and refine. I'll admit I have learned how to pronounce all of these Korean names via YouTube videos. So you are hearing what it looks like when someone learns from YouTube when without master coaching. And that knows what they're talking about. Part of where you get feedback from is really important because I am far from the only person who's pontificating about figure skating this week. But Cha Gen Juan will almost certainly not hear this, which is appropriate because he does not need my feedback. My amateur observations are not relevant to him. I can tell him what I liked and didn't like, but I have no idea what goes into good figure skating. I don't know what's going on or what to watch for. I just know what looks pretty to me with no context in writing. There is also no shortage of amateur feedback, Writers groups and beta reads are full of it, but if your book doesn't make your readers feel the way that I feel watching Ji Juan's routine, you want to, or a Tara Lipinski of books to be the person who shows you why. not an amateur pontificating from the sidelines. And so we come to the end of this story. The 2026 Milano Cortina Olympic men's figure skating competition is complete. The results are in In the end, cha Wan placed six in the short program. He held onto that top spot for a little while, but then five other skaters overtook him, and then he did fall in the free skate sliding across the ice to hit the boards. he recovered impressively. I thought so and so did Johnny Weir, which was very affirming in my ability to tell when the recovery is impressive. And he finished his routine, but he placed forth overall, so he didn't make the podium. And the main story from the night was that Ilia melanin favorite for gold, shocked the world with multiple falls and missed rotations. His eighth place finish overshadowed Mikhail OVS Gold Medal win. But the point isn't whether Jun won, won a medal or who else did instead. The point is what he said in an interview after his short program Today, my biggest goal was to enjoy skating and skate with my heart. I think I achieved that goal, and I think I truly did my very best. I gave it everything I have. I'm very grateful and happy, especially today in the venue. The audience was really cheering for the skaters. That was really powerful for us to react on that energy and give it back. It made us feel really grateful. I was very happy that I could skate here today. The point is that I was obsessed with this short program and still am a week later. The point is that it made me feel, it invited me into a journey. A story, a transformation that culminated in emotional catharsis and awe. It was technical mastery combined with artistic heart and soul. As Tara Lipinski said, it was good. I am obsessed with Cha Juan's figure skating routine, And I think you'd probably like your readers to be obsessed with your book. Until next time, happy editing.