The Psychology of What Makes a Great Story

The Psychology of What Makes a Great Story

ÔÇ£The great writerÔÇÖs gift to a reader is to make him a better writer.ÔÇØ

By Maria Popova

ÔÇ£Stories,ÔÇØ Neil Gaiman asserted in his wonderful lecture on what makes stories last, ÔÇ£are genuinely symbiotic organisms that we live with, that allow human beings to advance.ÔÇØ But what is the natural selection of these organisms ÔÇö what makes the ones that endure fit for survival? What, in other words, makes a great story?

ThatÔÇÖs what the great Harvard psychologist Jerome Bruner (b. October 1, 1915), who revolutionized cognitive psychology and pioneered the modern study of creativity in the 1960s, explores in his 1986 essay collection Actual Minds, Possible Worlds (public library).

In an immensely insightful piece titled ÔÇ£Two Modes of Thought,ÔÇØ Bruner writes:

There are two modes of cognitive functioning, two modes of thought, each providing distinctive ways of ordering experience, of constructing reality. The two (though complementary) are irreducible to one another. Efforts to reduce one mode to the other or to ignore one at the expense of the other inevitably fail to capture the rich diversity of thought.

Each of the ways of knowing, moreover, has operating principles of its own and its own criteria of well-formedness. They differ radically in their procedures for verification. A good story and a well-formed argument are different natural kinds. Both can be used as means for convincing another. Yet what they convince of is fundamentally different: arguments convince one of their truth, stories of their lifelikeness. The one verifies by eventual appeal to procedures for establishing formal and empirical proof. The other establishes not truth but verisimilitude.

A story (allegedly true or allegedly fictional) is judged for its goodness as a story by criteria that are of a different kind from those used to judge a logical argument as adequate or correct.

Art by Tove Jansson for a special edition of AliceÔÇÖs Adventures in Wonderland

Bruner notes that the Western scientific and philosophical worldview has been largely concerned with the question of how to know truth, whereas storytellers are concerned with the question of how to endow experience with meaning ÔÇö a dichotomy Hannah Arendt addressed brilliantly more than a decade earlier in her 1973 Gifford Lecture on thinking vs. knowing and the crucial difference between truth and meaning. One could go even further and argue, after Walter Benjamin, that the product of the analytical mode is information, whereas the product of storytelling is wisdom.

Bruner calls these two contrasting modes the paradigmatic or logico-scientific, characterized by a mathematical framework of analysis and explanation, and the narrative. Each, he argues, is animated by a different kind of imagination:

The imaginative application of the paradigmatic mode leads to good theory, tight analysis, logical proof, sound argument, and empirical discovery guided by reasoned hypothesis. But paradigmatic ÔÇ£imaginationÔÇØ (or intuition) is not the same as the imagination of the novelist or poet. Rather, it is the ability to see possible formal connections before one is able to prove them in any formal way.

The imaginative application of the narrative mode leads instead to good stories, gripping drama, believable (though not necessarily ÔÇ£trueÔÇØ) historical accounts. It deals in human or human-like intention and action and the vicissitudes and consequences that mark their course. It strives to put its timeless miracles into the particulars of experience, and to locate the experience in time and place.

In contrast to our vast knowledge of how science and logical reasoning proceed, we know precious little in any formal sense about how to make good stories.

Perhaps one of the reasons for this is that story must construct two landscapes simultaneously. One is the landscape of action, where the constituents are the arguments of action: agent, intention or goal, situation, instrument, something corresponding to a ÔÇ£story grammar.ÔÇØ The other landscape is the landscape of consciousness: what those involved in the action know, think, or feel, or do not know, think, or feel.Illustration by Dasha Tolstikova from The Jacket by Kirsten Hall

Bruner considers the singular landscape of narrative:

Narrative deals with the vicissitudes of human intentions. And since there are myriad intentions and endless ways for them to run into trouble ÔÇö or so it would seem ÔÇö there should be endless kinds of stories. But, surprisingly, this seems not to be the case.

We would do well with as loose fitting a constraint as we can manage concerning what a story must ÔÇ£beÔÇØ to be a story. And the one that strikes me as most serviceable is the one with which we began: narrative deals with the vicissitudes of intention.

But this matter of intention remains forever mediated by the readerÔÇÖs interpretation. What young Sylvia Plath observed of poetry ÔÇö ÔÇ£Once a poem is made available to the public,ÔÇØ she told her mother, ÔÇ£the right of interpretation belongs to the reader.ÔÇØ ÔÇö is true of all art and storytelling, whatever the medium. Bruner considers how the psychology of this interpretation factors into the question of what makes a great story:

It will always be a moot question whether and how well a readers interpretation maps on an actual story, does justice to the writers intention in telling the story, or conforms to the repertory of a culture. But in any case, the authors act of creating a narrative of a particular kind and in a particular form is not to evoke a standard reaction but to recruit whatever is most appropriate and emotionally lively in the readers repertory. So great storytelling, inevitably, is about compelling human plights that are accessible to readers. But at the same time, the plights must be set forth with sufficient subjunctivity to allow them to be rewritten by the reader, rewritten so as to allow play for the readers imagination. One cannot hope to explain the processes involved in such rewriting in any but an interpretive way, surely no more precisely, say, than an anthropologist explains what the Balinese cockfight means to those who bet on it All that one can hope for is to interpret a readers interpretation in as detailed and rich a way as psychologically possible.

Art by Maurice Sendak for The Big Green Book by Robert Graves

This essential ÔÇ£subjunctivityÔÇØ is the act of designating a mood for the story. ÔÇ£To be in the subjunctive mode,ÔÇØ Bruner explains, means ÔÇ£to be trafficking in human possibilities rather than in settled certainties.ÔÇØ Out of this drive toward unsettled possibilities arises the ultimate question of ÔÇ£how a reader makes a strange text his own,ÔÇØ a question of ÔÇ£assimilating strange tales into the familiar dramas of our own lives, even more than transmuting our own dramas in the processÔÇØ ÔÇö something Bruner illustrates brilliantly with an exchange between Marco Polo and Kublai Khan from Italo CalvinoÔÇÖs masterwork Invisible Cities, which takes place after Marco Polo describes a bridge stone by stone:

ÔÇ£But which is the stone that supports the bridge?ÔÇØ Kublai Khan asks.

ÔÇ£The bridge is not supported by one stone or another,ÔÇØ Marco answers, ÔÇ£but by the line of the arch that they form.ÔÇØ

Kublai Khan remains silent, reflecting. Then he adds: ÔÇ£Why do you speak to me of the stones? It is only the arch that matters to me.ÔÇØ

Polo answers: ÔÇ£Without stones there is no arch.ÔÇØ

Bruner extracts from this an allegory of the key to great storytelling:

But still, it is not quite the arch. It is, rather, what arches are for in all the senses in which an arch is for something ÔÇö for their beautiful form, for the chasms they safely bridge, for coming out on the other side of crossings, for a chance to see oneself reflected upside down yet right side up. So a reader goes from stones to arches to the significance of arches is some broader reality ÔÇö goes back and forth between them in attempting finally to construct a sense of the story, its form, its meaning.

As our readers read, as they begin to construct a virtual text of their own, it is as if they were embarking on a journey without maps ÔÇö and yet, they possess a stock of maps that might give hints, and besides, they know a lot about journeys and about mapmaking. First impressions of the new terrain are, of course, based on older journeys already taken. In time, the new journey becomes a thing in itself, however much its initial shape was borrowed from the past. The virtual text becomes a story of its own, its very strangeness only a contrast with the readerÔÇÖs sense of the ordinary. The fictional landscape, finally, must be given a ÔÇ£realityÔÇØ of its own ÔÇö the ontological step. It is then that the reader asks that crucial interpretive question, ÔÇ£WhatÔÇÖs it all about?ÔÇØ But what ÔÇ£itÔÇØ is, of course, is not the actual text ÔÇö however great its literary power ÔÇö but the text that the reader has constructed under its sway. And that is why the actual text needs the subjunctivity that makes it possible for a reader to create a world of his own.

Bruner concurs with BarthesÔÇÖs conviction that the writerÔÇÖs greatest gift to the reader is to help her become a writer, then revises it to clarify and amplify its ambition:

The great writerÔÇÖs gift to a reader is to make him a better writer.

Actual Minds, Possible Worlds is a remarkable read in its totality, exploring the psychological realities of language, thought and emotion, and the self. Complement this particular portion with Susan Sontag on the task of storytelling, Oliver Sacks on its curious psychology, and Martha Nussbaum on how it remaps our interior lives, then revisit Bruner on creative wholeness, art as a mode of knowing, and the six essential conditions for creativity.