Though some of us are better at it than others, we are all
experienced storytellers. Narrative is
how we make sense of experience. But why
are some stories we hear more compelling that others? The answer lies in structure.
Breakfast to Bed Stories: The Problem with Simple Chronology
The basic problem to solve in telling a good story is
simple: What to put in and what to leave
out? How do we decide this? We often
sidestep these questions by simply telling stories chronologically. First this happened, then that happened, and
then that, and so on. The premise behind
this approach is that the storyteller is merely trying to tell an audience
“exactly what happened,” and chronology is often how we experience things. But
this approach immediately runs into problems for audiences because there’s no
way of knowing what information is important.
Every event, scene, or explanation has equal meaning. Consequently, many
“breakfast to bed stories” like this are uninteresting—they lack a clear
purpose and sense of emphasis. It’s
unclear what they are about other than the obvious: to simply document what happened to the
narrator. Usually, we don’t find such stories very interesting.
The Significant Event or Inciting Incident
Most stories are organized around a significant even or
inciting incident—one part of the
larger story that is particularly important to the narrator. But why?
What is it about this event that makes it significant? Typically, it is an event that threw the
narrator out of balance, that disrupted his or her world in some way, or
challenged certain assumptions or beliefs.
While this might be a dramatic or symbolic event—an unexpected death,
the moment a friendship ended, sudden violence, or some symbolic rite of
passage like first love—a significant event or inciting incident need not
earth-shattering. It could be a
relatively ordinary moment—a comment from a friend, the disruption of a daily
routine, or unexpected encounter. Significant events are usual categories of experience that most of us
recognize: coming of age, the attachment
to place, the complications of loss, a test of courage, and so on. The key is that whatever happened—whether
it’s dramatic or ordinary-- is unsettling to narrators in ways that surprise them. The puzzle is what caused the event and its
potential consequences for the narrator.
Stories are about untangling that mystery.
Exploring Causal Mysteries
Identifying what is the significant event isn’t always
easy. Writers often have to spend
considerable time exploring their experiences to locate the moment or event
that stands out in the chronology of what happened to them. But once narrators find it, the story arises
from what was until then just another situation. What makes a story a story is that it
explores reasons and consequences that might explain the meanings of a
significant event: Why did a narrator
feel, think, or act that way? How has the
event changed things? What might it all
mean? This is how we decide what to
include in a story and what to leave out.
Does the information help illuminate how and why the significant event
happened or does it explain or show its consequences for the narrator? Everything else is irrelevant.
Assuming for a moment that we’re telling a story about a
single experience, let’s review what we’ve discussed so far. First, from the many things that happened,
we’ve chosen one that seems especially significant. We’ll structure the story around this,
emphasizing either the story of why this event might have been significant
(reasons) or how it changed things for the narrator (consequences), or both.
Two Languages and Two Narrators
This
last bit about commentary is really important.
Unlike fiction, true stories both show and tell. In other words, we
don’t just render experience—trying to capture what exactly happened—but we
also explain what we think of what
happened, particularly what it helps us to see and understand about ourselves
and our world. The language of rendering
is usually very concrete and specific, like this description of my father when
I was a teenager.
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The language of thought is little more general and expository, like this:
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We more naturally tell true stories in both the language of
rendering and the language of thought when we imagine that while there is
obviously only one person telling the story, there are actually two narrators, each separated by
time. The first, the then-narrator, tells the story of what
happened, trying to recreate the world as it was. The other is the now-narrator, who comments from the present. This narrator can look back on what happened
with an understanding that the then-narrator did not possess.
Here’s another way of thinking about these two
narrators: The journey metaphor is
commonly used to describe storytelling; narrators describe their quests to
resolve the mystery of how and why their lives were thrown out of balance in an
attempt to get things back to normal.
This involves describing two kinds of actions: external and internal. External actions describe events that the
narrator experienced during the journey.
Internal action captures what the narrator was thinking when these
events occurred and looking back at
them now.
So What?
These two narrators collaborate to address the question that
all true stories must address: so what?
Why should anyone else care about what happened to us and what we think
about it? Since most people are already
hesitant to share stories about themselves with a wider audience, these
questions can intimidate many from speaking at all. But answering the “so what?” question is why
stories are a source of discovery from both writer and audience, particularly
if they help illuminate, in some small way, the things we all share about being
human. A story about someone’s
compulsive shoe-buying is also a story about what drives us all to acquire
things. A story about one drunk father is a story about living with drunk
fathers. In other words, we tell stories
not just about what happened but what
happens. Identifying what category of experience best describes our
significant event helps us to ferret out the larger themes in our story that we
might want to say something about.
Three Act Structure
We have a motive for telling a true story: To unravel the mystery of the causes and/or
consequences of a significant event in our lives. In doing so, we hope to discover something,
however modest, that will speak in some small way to the lives of others. The method of discovery is to deploy two
narrators, a remembered self and a remembering self, one that recreates what
happened and one that looks back with the understanding that wasn’t available
then.
Let’s return now to structure. How might we order the events that make up
the story we’re telling?
To state the obvious, stories typically have beginnings,
middles, and ends. In drama, we often describe these as Acts 1, 2, and 3. However, that doesn’t really help us at all
unless we describe the purposes of
each Act. Since the beginning of a story
needs to establish the narrator’s purpose in telling the story, then Act 1
frames “the trouble” the narrator hopes to resolve. This might include the significant event—I
suddenly realized one day that I buy shoes I don’t need and want—and the stakes
involved for the narrator (and audience):
What does this say about me (and us)?
Act 1 should dramatically establish the mystery the story hopes to
resolve and the narrator’s motives for resolving it. How was the narrator’s
life thrown out of balance? Naturally, Act 2 describes the action—internal and
external—as the narrator goes about establishing how things got to be this way
and what he or she is trying to do about it.
This usually involves confronting obstacles—experiences or information
that complicate things—as well as moments that push the story forward towards
resolution, which of course is the domain of Act 3. By the end of the story, narrators should be
prepared to say what they understand now that they didn’t understand when the
story began. How has the narrator
changed, if at all? Resolutions are rarely neat or complete. Mystery often
remains.
The Importance of Being Honest
The
difference between a dull story and an interesting one comes down to writers’
motives: Do they just want to tell what
happened or do they seek to explore the mystery of why something significant
happened and what it means? In the absence of mystery—and the possibility of
discovery for both narrator and audience—a personal story is nothing more than
a situation: this happened to me. But
good stories need something else, too, and that’s honesty.[i]
The most appealing stories are told by narrators who are more aware of
what they don’t know than by what they do.
This is what guides a writer towards the most promising material. We
tell true stories to better understand our experiences; it makes little sense,
then, to tell a story whose meaning we have already figured out, which often
comes off as just a performance meant to impress. The reward of discovery is
insight, which however modest, should seem earned.
Most of us love reading true stories where we sense that the narrator has
tried hard to understand something. This is more likely if two conditions are
met: the material the writer chooses
raises questions that aren’t easily answered, and the writer is willing to
suspend judgment long enough to get at some small truths. The best true stories, then, begin with the
choice of material—itchy subjects that make their writers a little
uncomfortable.