The Cornerstone:

Before I can (attempt to) define something like “The New Literature” I think we need to examine some of the basic tenants of storytelling.

Long ago, [subject] lived in a [context] with her mother and father. [subject] occupied the highest room in the entire [context], and therein practised her [distinguishing characteristic].

The skeleton of a story is easy enough to build, and significant details give flesh to that frame. Language arts can be applied to give cadence and poetry to the story, and through crafty alignment of these elements, the reader’s interest is snatched, and they start on their path through the story.

[subject] had become very good at [distinguishing characteristic] and villagers travelled for days and weeks to listen to her play.

Now, the “story” (such as it is) is not actually very interesting, just yet. As it stands, little [subject] will continue on being awesome, and frankly nothing more needs to be said about her, or her family. The End. You could have figured that out on your own without my help, and thus, I have failed to do my job as a wordsmith.

But.

If I can give you (the reader) even a moment of doubt, then your attention is mine for at least a little longer.

A conflict appears,

Now, it was common knowledge that [subject]’s Mother (the Queen) was a jealous person. But one year, the Queen went so far as to conspire a plot to steal her daughter’s [distinguishing characteristic], and use it for herself.

Ah-ha! As trouble rears its ugly head, a gnawing need sensation is awoken in the reader, and until this conflict is resolved (one way, or the other) they remain interested in our character’s plight:

But [subject] was just as crafty as her villainous Mother, and on the night of the [climax], the Queen entered the [context]’s highest chamber - but [subject] was already there, waiting for her.
“I see you have come to steal my [distinguishing characteristic]” [subject] remarked, candidly.
“I have,” said the Queen, “so that I will be more beloved than you.”
“Then go ahead and try!” [subject] suddenly performed [significant action!] and the Queen fell many storeys, out of the [context]’s highest window.

The apex of action, followed by (here, literally) a falling action, might seem to be the most logical story-end, but there is traditionally a denouement, or re-framing of the story to provide catharsis and resolution.

The next morning, [subject] told her father (the King) what happened, and the King praised [subject] for her [significant action!]; saying,
“It was something I could never do.” The [context] was refitted, to be not so dangerously tall, and [subject] continued to practise her [distinguishing characteristic] until nothing in the world could compete with her melody and grace. [The End.]

There. The story is done, and we as readers have been edified (hopefully somehow) by its existence. Sometimes there is a moral or lesson at the conclusion, sometimes there’s just a feeling.

But most usually, a story is a recount. It is a sequence of events that once upon a time happened, and has now been re-presented for the reader’s contemporary edification.

This will be significant later, but that’s enough to start with.