Most craft essays focus on how storytelling works, but we don’t talk enough about why it works. I think the question is relevant whether you want to write stories or you just like to experience them, and it gets at the heart of not only the deeply moving effect storytelling can have but also its utility—why it’s so profoundly important storytellers keep doing what we do.
Once again, I’m inspired by my teaching experience. I previously wrote about how I see stories as arguments, and while I think it can be helpful to think of stories rhetorically, teaching or educating is another part of argumentation; if you want someone to agree with you, you have to ensure they understand and know what you do. There are many ways to do that, of course, but let’s talk about two categories of learning.
Last time, I wrote about Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals and how they can play a role in storytelling, and it got me thinking about triangles. We often express Aristotle’s appeals in triangular shape to demonstrate effective rhetoric can’t exist without all three and to express the idea that they’re connected. Triads appear in all kinds of artistic theory, from the color wheel to the building blocks of musical chords. So what about literature? I’ve been wondering about other storytelling elements that we can visualize as triangles and how this frame of thought can help us better understand the stories we’re experiencing or telling.
I know what you’re thinking. That’s a bold claim, and what’s a fiction writer doing talking about argumentation anyway? Well, I’ll have you know I taught it at the university level, thank you very much, but that’s beside the point (actually, no, it isn’t; it speaks to ethos, which is a fancy word I’ll get to momentarily). If you disagree stories are arguments, that’s okay. How about we let that particular statement stand for the time being? If nothing else, we can use argumentation as a framework to look at storytelling through a new lens.
Aristotle, the great Greek philosopher (maybe you’ve heard of him), conceived of the rhetorical appeals (ugh, I know, booooooooring, but stick with me as I crash you through a rhetoric lesson). Those appeals are logos, ethos, and pathos. Aristotle envisioned three different modes any speaker or writer uses to appeal to an audience. He also conceived of a fourth, kairos, or the moment in which the speech or writing takes place, which can affect the speaker or writer as well as the audience. We also often refer to this concept as context, and especially in writing, we consider the context in which the writer is or was writing as well as the context in which the audience receives that writing, which can sometimes be extremely different. Aristotle also considered logos, ethos, and pathos as wisdom, virtue, and goodwill, respectively.
Got all that? Good. Now how does it apply to storytelling?
In times such as these, it’s easy to forget you need to take care of yourself, so here is a poem I wrote that I think is kind of nice. It’s about being stuck between a storm and sunshine with a dog. I hope it brings you a few moments of joy and perhaps something to think about today.
The Whole Damn World
Each moment we’re out here, sheltered in the shade of tree canopies, insistent sun baking pavement rainfall, life’s ambient anthem playing in audible particle collisions to make wing flaps, insect swells, breath drawn into arterial corridors, exhaled in pulses, stolen in atmospheric currents, gripped by leaves, channeled by branch, and sucked by root, I wish he would just pee already so we can go back inside where it’s cool and quiet, and the air is filtered, and the sounds of neighborly chats and combustion engines and lovers loving and playful children’s thunderous footsteps are muted and heavy curtains made from synthetic materials and dusted with shed skin cells reject the sun because we like to sleep through mornings and extract some peace when we think there is none to be had.
Maybe all he wants in the whole damn world is to stand beneath this oak tree paws planted in musty mulch sniffing the honeysuckle wind hearing each raindrop as it tremendously pats one of a million leaves breathing the steam and mist of a daylight storm watching cars that don’t belong pass by ensuring they pass by because, he thinks, if not for this leash, he would chase them off, and wouldn’t that be a glorious morning for everyone involved, if not for the leash?
And maybe he’s not as greedy as I am to want the whole damn world but just a piece of it, and maybe it’s the greatest gift I can give him to let him have it.
I couldn’t find a free picture of people sitting in a circle, so enjoy these doughnuts instead. Photo by Eneida Nieves on StockSnap
I want to tell you a story about how I’ve benefited from interacting with diverse people in equitable and inclusive spaces. I want to share this story because I know not everyone has experienced these benefits first-hand, and I firmly believe in and support such work. Certainly, I’ve benefited personally in countless ways—many that I probably don’t even realize—but one specific experience comes to mind.
Before we get to my tale, I think it’s important you know—in case you don’t know me and have come here from another corner of the internet—this is me:
With more hair, fewer wrinkles, and minus a beard…I need a new headshot.
I’m a straight, white, cisgender man with no disabilities from a middle class, blue-collar family that called northern suburbs and southern rural towns home. I have a master’s degree, and I have lived most of my adult life in and around the Washington, D.C., metro area.
Which is to say, in these matters, I’m a pretty typical dude who was relatively isolated for a portion of his life but who has gotten around and seen the world a bit (but not enough because it’s never enough).
Now, our story begins in my first year of grad school. Ah, I remember it like yesterday (so I’m probably forgetting or misremembering things, but stick with me anyway).
Recently, my wife and I finished watching the second season of Shrinking, and while the credits rolled, I leaned in, wrapped my arms around her, and just stayed there for a while because I cherish her so damn much.
For me, it was a moment of pure storytelling magic. While stories can have myriad effects on us, depending on the story and the audience, Shrinking is a show about cherishing loved ones and growing by facing personal challenges together. It’s therapeutic and only natural that my response to it is an outpouring of love. Other responses also are perfectly natural or reasonable, though, if it makes you feel violent, you might want to talk to someone about that. I found myself profoundly moved.
When I taught literature to undergrads, I distinguished between fact and truth with my students. One appealing aspect of nonfiction storytelling is it’s built on facts. We tend to call them “true stories,” but I wish we’d call them “factual stories” because there’s a larger truth to factual stories that goes beyond the facts. We watch a documentary about Bernie Madoff and think, “yeah, he had a really good life for a while, but when the hammer came down, they even took his underwear. Maybe stealing from people isn’t worth it.” We read a biography about a great political figure and walk away with a perspective of hope. We watch a 30-second clip on the Internet of a guy rescuing a doe from a frozen lake, and our faith in humanity is restored.
Fictional stories access these same larger truths even though they may be based on fabrications and fantasy. Fiction, despite being totally made up, contains truth or truths.
We fiction writers are notorious for being reclusive dwellers of wilderness-isolated cabins, but these days, being a fiction writer necessitates engaging with people (ew, gross) online. Like any social setting, it takes a particular set of skills.
(I will not be posting a Liam Neeson meme at this time.)
The trouble for me is I don’t think I’ve ever had those skills, nor have I been able to develop them. Moreover, the state of the Internet and media these days is not just about finding ways to cut through the noise. It’s about being so noisy your noise overwhelms the other noise and, in what seems to me like a paradox, steals attention before some other noise muscles yours out or an algorithm decides you’re not worth anyone’s time because you’re not giving the tech bros enough engagement, or whatever.
I’ve written before about how I’ve found the need for fiction writers to be terminally online has had significant impacts on my mental health. Moreover, most of the people who own the media we have to use are now in the American oligarchy, so I can’t in good conscience continue to support that. To boot, I’m a real person (apologies if this comes as a shock), and some things have changed in my real life that have necessitated I re-evaluate the energy I’m putting into these things.
So, I’m altering how I tell the world about what I’m up to with my writing. If you want to keep following my fiction writing, keep reading. If not, you’ll probably miss out on news, blogs, reviews, bonus content, and more goodies, and I’m sure that will just cut you to the bone. (This is sarcasm because I know it won’t.)
It’s become fashionable for writers to end the year with a look back at their favorite books, movies, shows, etc. I like that, but I’m going to spare you a big list and just give you my favorites from each category.
Book
Sleepwalk by Dan Chaon—Chaon’s latest novel reads a bit like The Big Lebowski if it were written by Hunter S. Thompson. It’s a wild road-tripping novel, but it has a zen-like demeanor that makes it a comfortable read even when circumstances are dire. I think there’s something of a masterclass here in balancing tension and levity with the way conflicts come to bear on a character who’s calm, cool, and hilarious in even the most tense of moments. I’ve seen other writers try such characters and fail because the levity ruins the tension and they forget to make their characters human. Billy, the main character and narrator in Sleepwalk, is complex and satisfyingly self-aware, and while I was analyzing him, he was reflecting on his own past and behavior in interesting ways that never undermined my own thoughts about him. Other characters in the novel are similarly intriguing, and Chaon doesn’t neglect the plot (which is driven by a bizarre conspiracy with twists and mysteries around every corner) or the world building (which describes a society on the verge of collapse, and it bleeds through the storytelling in really satisfying ways). Highly recommended, as I do all of Dan Chaon’s work.
Film
Inside Out 2—Maybe it’s weird for my favorite movie of the year to be a Pixar animated film, especially given I don’t have children and tend to write about horrible stuff, but Pixar’s storytelling is top notch, and game recognizes game. While I saw some really good films this year, the ones that move me emotionally stick with me, and what better film to do that than a story that’s literally about emotions? I don’t think the sequel is as good as the original because it retreads some territory and doesn’t use the opportunity to tell a meaningful story with the characters who do that. That said, the broader film tells a wonderfully moving story about growing up and maturing through the turbulent time that is puberty and young adulthood, and it does so in a way that resonates with anyone who knows what it is to be human, regardless of what age they are. For me, these movies are something like therapy sessions. I can take thrilling action sequences, jump scares, gore, and anything else you want to throw at me, but if you’re not telling me a meaningful and moving story, I’m just not going to care or remember it. Inside Out 2 didn’t put me on the edge of my seat or make me peer through parted fingers, but it did turn me into a puddle of tears, and I’m still thinking about it. That’s what matters most, as far as I’m concerned. That’s what makes the stories that stick with you.
TV Series
Dark Matter—One of my favorite novels is now one of my favorite TV shows. Blake Crouch, who wrote the novel, was heavily involved in the production of this series, and it’s apparent. It isn’t as word-for-word, scene-for-scene faithful as you might think. Crouch changed and added to the storytelling for the TV series in ways that I think were generally positive while maintaining the qualities that make the novel great. Chief among them is the intimate love story and the theme of legacy at the plot’s core, but the series is, in many ways, actually more complex than the novel, utilizing the third-person perspective to more deeply explore character narratives beyond the primary protagonist. I loved this adaptation for giving us a moving story built on interesting characters and relationships but supercharging the narrative with a continually moving, perfectly balanced plot. If you’re interested in studying popular storytelling, reading this novel and watching the series adaptation will provide deep insight, even if you aren’t particularly keen on the genre details. If you aren’t studying storytelling, per se, I think it’ll move you in ways that will surprise you. This one moved me and stuck with me, too. (Also, no, it had no influence on my title of this Substacky thing.)
Video Game
Cyberpunk 2077—I don’t like the cyberpunk genre, but I didn’t particularly like fantasy before I played The Witcher 3 either. Polish video game developer CD Project Red is doing amazing things in the industry, and the company stands out because, while it chases technological and gameplay innovation, its games rest on a foundation of storytelling. While this game launched in 2020, I waited until this year to check it out because it reportedly had a rough go of it with bugs, glitches, and underdeveloped features. The developer stuck with it, however, and now it’s legitimately one of the best interactive storytelling experiences I’ve ever had. The story of V, a mercenary in Night City who seeks to save their own life and do the right thing for those they love, is going to stick with me for a long time. To boot, it features what might just be Keanu Reeves’ best, most-nuanced performances as rock-star-turned-terrorist Johnny Silverhand. Easy to get lost in, Cyberpunk 2077 is a perfect example of video games’ uniquely immersive storytelling potential, and I think any storytelling lover is missing out by disregarding them.
Thanks for reading!
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When I started my Substacky thing a year ago, I had big ideas and no expectations. It was wonderful.
Things didn’t really go as I’d hoped, and that seems to have been a main theme of 2024. As a result, I haven’t sent a Substacky thing in a while. I do apologize.
Though 2024 began as a year of potential and promise, I had to take some time away from the fiction writing game. My sabbatical turned out to be longer than I would have liked. I delayed this Substacky thing further because, when it was clear I was away long enough that I was going to have to restart the thing, I wanted to have something prepared to address it all. I wanted to write about the endless rejection we writers face and how to deal with it. I wanted to write about how the whole universe seems to discourage you from doing the thing you love and were born to do and how to fight against that. I wanted to write about the spiraling depression that comes when you begin to realize you can’t. I wanted to write about the devastating blow America took right in the nuts last month. And, I wanted to do it all in a way that would be useful. The last thing I want to do in any space is whine. I don’t totally lack perspective. I know millions of people have it much worse than me.
But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?
I’m getting off track again. I’ve been getting off track a lot lately. Please forgive me. I’m getting old, but I think it’s more attributable to these turbulent times and how utterly confounding they can be for writers. I’ve seen many of my peers write about how to write during times like these, and I simply haven’t been able to. There’s your holiday 2024 update. The end.
I’ve been playing the fiction writing game long enough to have learned I can’t write during times of great change. I’ve also learned I can’t write during times of sadness and grief and darkness. So much of my writing is about precisely those things, so when I’m experiencing them, I need to experience them. Writing about them is for later. For me, 2024 was a year of great change and a year of grief.
Apologies for being cryptic. I hate it when people are cryptic. It’s like, do you want me to know what’s bothering you or not? In this case, I want you to know some things were bothering me and preventing me from writing, and let’s leave it at that.
Maybe you noticed I wasn’t sending my Substacky things out, and maybe you didn’t. If you follow me on social media, maybe you noticed I haven’t been there either, and maybe you didn’t. I’ve been keeping to myself a lot this year because I’ve needed that. I haven’t sent a Substacky thing because I needed to not do that.
New Year’s is a double-edged sword for me this time. In one sense, I’m looking forward to the restart, hoping 2025 is the later when I’ll be able to write about the change and grief of 2024. However, I’m also wont to say I’m afraid of the future, so I write about it and hope I’m wrong. I think the future looks dark, indeed, especially so for many vulnerable people, but I hope I’m wrong.
As the future of my Substacky thing goes, I’m evaluating that. 2024 was supposed to be a trial run of sorts. I wanted to send one useful piece out each month and see where that took me, but I couldn’t follow through. For a fiction writer these days, being able to send emails to readers is a fundamental need, and Substack is, I think, the only free option (fiction writers don’t make any money) that is also practical, but I’m not sure what I’m doing here is working. I’ll be thinking about adjustments for next year, so stay tuned.
I won’t say ‘farewell.’ I’ll say ‘more to come.’
While the future of Dark Matters (I won’t write “Substacky thing” again, promise) is uncertain, you can count on me continuing to write. I simply cannot not write. Maybe throw some good juju my way that something pans out and a door opens. If that happens, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I hope you have an amazing holiday season and happy new year!
I got to see President Barack Obama and German Chancellor Angela Merkel in conversation last night in DC, and I want to share some thoughts I took away.
Be generous with your curiosity.
Obama and Merkel discussed at length the parallels between Germany’s divisions (literally, in the case of the Berlin Wall, which Merkel grew up on the eastern side of) and America’s. We’re in a time of great division across many lines, but in Merkel’s experience where her country was cleaved in two and then put back together, she found earnest curiosity for the experiences of people who have lived very different lives is the key to understanding and unity. Obama iterated on that idea with regard to the United States where we’re divided across race, class, religion, region, urban vs. rural, and so much more. They both agreed curiosity is the first ingredient in unity, and while it’s very difficult in the face of indifference and hostility, and especially so when it isn’t reciprocated, it’s necessary for good faith public discourse.
Freedom is a responsibility.
This one was more Merkel, but while the sentiment might feel familiar to us, I think it’s somewhat more complex. Merkel said people in democracies tend to interpret their freedom as the ability to do whatever they want, but she said, having lived in a dictatorship and then having effectively led the free world (my words, not hers, but she did), her perspective of freedom is a bit different than ours. She actually said living in a dictatorship wasn’t all that bad. She had a happy childhood, and she and her family had a decent life. However, with the state providing so much to and demanding so much from her, she noticed a void when that authority was gone. Freedom, to her, is the responsibility to build a decent society in the absence of an authoritarian state doing it for you. Freedom, she said, is a responsibility because, if you don’t tend to and nurture it, if you don’t help keep your society thriving, people will lose faith in it, and when people lose faith in their society, that’s when they invite dictators and authoritarians to come and relieve them of the responsibility of fixing their own problems using the systems and resources they have available to them.
The antidote for despair is action.
This one is classic Obama, but Merkel was on board in her own way. Obama said, when he was in office, he would tell his staff, “better is good.” He hinted at the nirvana fallacy in which people tend to despair and reject a solution if it isn’t perfect. Merkel added that, sometimes, when you want to solve a problem, it can be discouraging to find the answer is more difficult and less effective than you expected. They both suggested that, even if we can push toward an ideal solution slightly, improvements are good work. Sometimes, they said, a massive challenge with dire implications, such as climate change—which is stressing global economies and pushing migrants and asylum seekers away from the equator around the world, making it more difficult for people to enjoy the freedoms they may take for granted, and is only getting worse and tempting an invitation for an authoritarian or dictator to solve those problems—can all seem desperate but, with action, maybe we can make something better, and better is good.
