Lessons from the Narrative
Executive Producer and Writer —
Christian Butler
A Primer
You’re sitting in a room. It doesn’t matter where or the sort of room; if you’d like, you’re more than welcome to imagine a waiting room at your primary physician’s office. Maybe the lights are low and warm, it’s a totally comfortable atmosphere: easy-going, a light music playing over the PA system. Sitting on the table next to you are a pile of those Highlights magazines it seems every doctor’s office has. You’re not reading them, though. You’re busy with your phone, scrolling through Facebook or some-such.
All the other chairs are empty. You’re there with your mother who’s the one being examined. They’ve taken her in the back already and you’ve been sitting alone, now, for some fifteen minutes. Suddenly — ding-dong! — you hear the chime of the door opening. Somebody walks in. Let’s not consider whether or not you know the person. They talk with the receptionist and then sit down in the chair across from you.
Do you say something?
And if so, what do you say?
What is narrative?
Hi, I’m Christian Butler, executive producer and novelist here at empathy. I spend a lot of time thinking on the nature of scenarios like the one above. I’ve come to consider it a facet of my particular manifestation of autism. I grew up with profound and persistent difficulties and anxieties regarding interpersonal communication, so I guess it was only natural that such an obsession might develop. As a result, much of what I do regarding the expression of self manifests as something of a meditation on these considerations.
I’m always thinking about them.
Why do people communicate?
I posit that everyone who fancies themselves a storyteller would be better served to address this question. Because it seems to me that the storyteller is most effective when they know not only what they aim to say, but also why they wish to say it. Sure, the given writer can go about their business never thinking on such notions, but I feel they’d be missing out on the opportunity to really tailor their stories for simple and effective execution.
Furthermore, I don’t think you can adequately address the nature of a story without considering why it even is that people communicate. After all, depending on your school of thought, languages have their origins in ancient storytelling traditions, so story and communication are inexorably intertwined.
I say all this because in order to address the nature of narrative, we must possess some understanding of what a story is. And on this notion, there’s not a distinct, discernible consensus. Different people and sources say different things not only about what a story is but also about the relationship between narrative and story.
Much of what I have to offer in this regard results from original research. I’ve done my fair share of reading on this topic and almost in spite of that, still found myself asking some basic questions that weren’t addressed by the conventional wisdom. Just as the illustrator must develop their own methodology, so too must the writer come to their own conclusions on how to write and tell their story. Because at the end of the day, when you’re staring at the blank page, all you’re left with is you.
My aim is to share what I’ve learned because if you’re anything like me, there’s a chance I might be able to provide for your consideration an accounting of story and narrative such that it better helps you in the choosing of that first word and all the words which might follow.
Again, if you’re anything like me, if you’ve found yourself facing these struggles just as I have.
Imagine an organism
This organism in its entirety is the story. And like most other organisms, it is made up of parts: a central nervous system, skeletal and circulatory systems — you get the idea. As far as the conventional notion of the story, the best definition I’ve found that covers all possible and potential bases: “an account of people or events (real or imaginary)”. Some might add to that: “told for entertainment”, but I don’t like the qualifier, it restricts the size of our sandbox which for my tastes is never fun.
And the hallmark of these events and its characters, they’re connected. Whether by theme or motivation or by solely the passage of time, what makes a story out of an accounting of events is that said events are somehow connected. This connection makes a story what it is, defines its character.
Where does narrative fit in all this?
Well, it is the narrative which facilitates this connection, a veritable engine for your story. Without the narrative, the story is not cohesive, is merely a collection of elements which no longer work in tandem towards some common end.
Consider a joke…
Now, I’m no good at making up jokes, so we’ll simply go off the concept of a joke. I’m sure most of you understand that (most) jokes have punchlines. Well, take that punchline. Say it to yourself. It’s not funny, is it? Not on its own, at least. Why is that? Where went its impact? Well, when we say that punchline out of context, there’s nothing that makes it funny. There’s no setup.
The effective joke directs your awareness, gives you elements of considerations such that you’re thinking of a certain series of things, such that once the punchline is delivered, these considerations are given meaning — an impact is made, the status quo shifted in such a way that the listener cannot help but laugh.
The punchline isn’t the joke. The context in its entirety is the joke.
When you’re telling a joke, you basically start by telling why the punchline is funny. You’re holding your audience’s hand and showing them certain things such that the humor in your punchline can be found. As a matter of construction, it is to take a punchline and ask yourself, “How can I make this thing, this moment funny —
— how can I give it impact?”
At its core, this concept is no different than what we try to do with storytelling, in general. We’re all basically asking ourselves, “How can I give this story, this moment impact?”
This is what makes narrative important.
“I want to show you something”
Narrative is all about directing audience awareness. To some extent, this is true for all stories across all media: the storyteller wants to show you something. In a film, we have moving images. And with images, you can show multiple elements at once. So what makes visual media unique is that they can show you combinations of things simultaneously, resulting in complex narrative threads.
On the other hand, when it comes to the written word, simultaneity does not exist. The story-world of the novel and your readers’ awareness of this world unfurls word-by-word. No two things in a novel can occur for the reader all at once.
This needn’t be considered a restriction. Only, observation of this property is relevant because it directly translates to how the writer goes about the presentation of events and details.
If the writer wants to show you something and give it impact, they have to consider how best to arrange that information such that what they “show” you makes an impact. And how they do this differs drastically from what they might do as a filmmaker or illustrator.
Show AND Tell
All of this to hammer home the point that in order for any artist to be effective at their work, they must be knowledgeable of their tools, how they work, and the strengths and weaknesses of the given medium.
A story can be a complex thing, whether you tell it through words or picture. But the core elements remain the same: arrangement, juxtaposition, causation and correlation. Everything you give your audience should matter, should work towards some intended goal. That’s what narrative is all about. That’s what it means to tell your story effectively.
And that’s what we’re here to study.
Line of Continuity
Effectiveness in mind, the artist must, then, also consider their audience, the nature of the audience’s awareness and the experience of their exposure to your work. After all, the hallmark of artistic expression is to show something to your audience. What you make won’t matter if your audience doesn’t “get the joke”, per our earlier analogy.
That is: doing your entire stand-up routine in Spanish won’t net any laughs from an English-only-speaking audience, no matter how carefully considered your routine.
And for the writer, there’s no telling who might pick up our work. So the best strategy, I think, is to try and consider the broadest common ground of experience regarding the nature of the medium.
Again, the story-world of the written word unfurls a single word at a time — simultaneity does not exist. This is the common ground. We must keep this in mind because it is fundamental to the potential impact of our (hopefully) carefully chosen words, to the experience our readers will have. We lead them on a journey, word-by-word, sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, and chapter-by-chapter.
When they start that first chapter, that first paragraph, that first scene, and that first sentence, the reader has no clue as to where they are or why they’re here. They’re taking a chance with us, holding out hope that we’ve brought them here for good reason.
So by end of that first chapter, it ought to be made clear why we’ve brought them there. What we meant to show them and its impact must be realized, and it must be unequivocally understood by the reader. And once this point is made, there is no longer any reason to stick around.
To my mind, what this means is that the primary focus of any given chapter must occur at the very end of said chapter. And our goal as the writer is to drop our reader into this place and lead them to that moment.
Our narrative provides a line of continuity from start of chapter to its end, to that focal point. The more effective the narrative, the less broken this line of continuity, the less our readers feel slighted and more likely they’ll feel obliged to further follow along. And cardinal sin #1 —
— wasting your audience’s time.
A merry chase
I’ve become something of a story theorist, these past few years. But the thing of it is this: no amount of theory can tell you how to make a “good” story.
Theories are useful in telling what constitutes a thing, the nature of its making, but is it really these elements that make a thing “work”, that makes things “enjoyable” or “entertaining?”
Truthfully, no, they don’t. Not alone, at least.
Enjoyment and entertainment are subjective. If you find yourself here and you’re an aspiring writer or an enthusiast, these observations can provide a more functional understanding of the media we might consume, but when it comes down to it, when we’re facing the blank page or empty canvas, we’ve still got to make effective use of our imagination, of our creative vision.
That, I cannot teach. I can’t tell you what makes a “good” story. Speaking for myself, I aim to create the sort of work that entertains me, that I want to see out there. I don’t know how to create works that other people might enjoy. I simply cannot account for that, cannot invest my time and energy with such considerations.
But what I can do is share with you what I’ve learned. To give you an in-depth look at how these things tick and hopefully provide for you a stronger foundation upon which to stand if ever you seek to express yourself.
This is how we learn, this is how we grow:
Together.
Moving Forward
Now that we’ve gotten the housekeeping out of the way, moving forward, we’re actually going to take a look at some examples and discuss the narrative design of other works. Up next, I’m thinking the Prologue chapter to George R. R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones might be a great place to start.
Attention is valuable. I don’t take that lightly. I appreciate you’re time and I really hope you’ve found value in having invested it with me. I plan for this to be an ongoing series, so hopefully I’ll continue to produce more worthwhile content for you.
This has been Christian Butler with empathy studios,
Thanks for reading.
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