brain science is in our DNA.
“We think in story,” writes Cron. “It’s hardwired into our brain. It’s how we make strategic sense of the otherwise overwhelming world around us.”
And that’s good. Especially if you think, “Oh man, I have to go to school to learn how to tell a story.”
Nahhhh.
Think about it. Your BF calls. She’s all about the drama in her life. She tells you a few stories. Guys do this, too. Hell, everyone gets a little dramatic now and then. We share politics, history, who got murdered, and how, or why that local politician is taking bribes, who hates you, and who likely wants you dead (because they unfriended you on social media. Not us, we swear!). And don’t forget all that reminiscing about the time you ran away from a herd of wild poisonous pigs and survived.
We tell stories. It’s what we do.
In a way, we’ve already defined what story means—something that’s told or revealed. We can also say a story is an account of something that’s happened, or is happening before our eyes. Newscasters like to tell stories in real time if they can find a juicy car chase or dramatic shooting filmed from helicopters high above the scene. Radio announcers do the same thing. Ever hear the way they dramatically call a game in real time?
Stories can be about the past, present, or future. Every TV show, film, novel, memoir, short story, poem, history book, diary, text message is a form of story. Those forms can be experimental, like a novel written with hidden notes, or a film like Boyhood shot over twelve years. Did you see that one? Boyhood was a part of writer-director Richard Linklater’s DNA. He conceived of the 2014 film way back in the nineties. It was eating at him. “It happened in stages,” he told Time in 2014. “I felt like I wanted to tell a story about childhood. I had been a parent for a while . . .” So, it just came out of him as he was doing what people do, raising kids, being a dad. Awesome!
There was a real risk for him to tell the story he was somehow wired to tell. That’s because the film was such a huge experiment. No one had written a story like that before. Piecemeal over more than a decade and shot little by little as the actors aged. Was the story told that way because of his storyteller DNA? Starting to see how knowing you’re wired for story can help you as a filmmaker? Those urges in you grab you. They want you to be creative, and they want you to tell stories that come from a natural place in your core. This is incredible to know! Even if your story is about an alien octopus that time travels!
But what makes a story worth telling? You share an account of Cousin Larry who works in a county office of boring cubicle dwellers. As it unravels, you desperately want your audience to be riveted to the story. You tell it as if you were there. You explain all the harrowing details. You’re that dramatic. The last thing you want is to be boring, but everyone walks away, because, well, in hindsight, you only told a story about a boring office worker checking his email while the boss isn’t around. Good luck keeping anyone awake with that riveting tale of corporate nothingness. Couldn’t Larry have at least gotten fired by email?
You have to have plot. You have to have style. Take Tarantino for example. When GQ interviewed him about how his film idea for The Hateful Eight creatively emerged, he was already building on a past project, Django Unchained. He told the magazine in a December 2015 article:
I liked the idea of creating a new pop-culture, folkloric hero character that I created with Django, that I think’s gonna last for a long time. And I think as the generations go on and everything, you know, my hope is it can be a rite of passage for black fathers and their sons. Like, when are they old enough to watch Django Unchained? And when they get old enough—14 or 15 or something like that—then maybe it’s something that they do with their fathers, and it’s a cool thing. And then Django becomes their cowboy hero. And so I like the idea of maybe like a series of paperbacks coming out, Further Adventures of Django, and so I was really kind of into that idea. And then I started writing it as a book, as prose. And that’s what ended up turning into The Hateful Eight.
Wow! Multiple layers of stories! Tarantino had some real motivation behind The Hateful Eight! It was a novel that was a sequel to a film where he wanted to create pop-culture heroes for kids to share with their dads! He was wired for story and found an awesome connection! A real meaningful one! Take that Cousin Larry!
In comparison, the story about Cousin Larry just isn’t riveting. It doesn’t even come from a good place. Those kinds of story wires are crossed. They leave everyone unfulfilled. They don’t come from the core of you. They’re just lip service without meaning. Re-read what Tarantino said to GQ. Why was he writing? He had something to say! And he wanted to really affect people for a long time.
Here’s another example of boringus americanus:
You think you’re a wiz because you thought up this great story about an American family. A dad who works at a bank. A wife who stays at home. And two children. So you start writing, imagining the tale unfold. The story opens with the father being late for work. The mother argues with her kids who need to head off to school. The mother feels stressed. So does the father. End of opening scene.
What’s wrong with that? Everyone arguing and late for work and school? “Wasn’t that tension-filled?” you ask.
Um, no. BORING. SNOOZEFEST. FLATLINE. LAMESAUCE. Wake us up in the afterlife. You just captured every single boring account of American life all wrapped into one.
Why isn’t that story riveting?
It’s far too common. Meaning, there’s nothing unique about it. We all know it and live it. On top of that, nothing happens.
Going to work or to school isn’t a story. It’s as bad as telling the story of the teenage boy watching videos on YouTube. People stare. So what? BORING.
When you’re wired for story, you have to find some kind of meaning, one that’s unique, one that connects with people and makes them want to know what happens next. We all know what happens in the boring story about American life. Kids go to school. Parents go to work. Snooze.
So once again, everyone walks away while you’re telling your snore-worthy account of the most boring family on the planet. Doesn’t even matter how dramatic you tell it. Now throw your brain onto hot coals. Watch the grey matter bubble and cook. Trust us. It will be more exciting than your Cousin Larry and stressed family tales.
Okay. Before you pop your lid, let’s see if we can salvage anything here.
How about a Godzilla shows up to the next cubicle while Cousin Larry’s checking his email? Godzilla, who is talking real fast, just landed this telemarketing job and doesn’t want to come off wrong when explaining to people how to login to their new fancy computer tablets. And since Cousin Larry’s just been fired over email, all hell is about to break loose because he’s about to tell Godzilla to shut up. Yup. Yup. Conflict. Tension. And, in that other story about the family, what if while the parents are arguing, the TV news shows a meteor hurtling toward earth? And what if—at the same time—the dad has found out his best friend is part of the scientific conspiracy to hide the idea that the meteor can be destroyed? Yep.
Suddenly the stakes are upped. The audience is interested in the motivation. They want to know why the family is acting normal when they might be about to die. Do they not see the meteor on the TV? Do they know about the impending obliteration of everything and don’t care? Why is the son wearing an “I Love Meteor Day” t-shirt? Now everyone wants to know what happens next! They want to know the motivations of the characters in the cubicle, too. Why does Godzilla need this job? Who is the co-worker? Why is she staring at her monitor? Does she really hate Godzilla
