As a child, I learned that I could theoretically ask “why?” until the explanations reached the end of the universe and all that remained was another “why?” without an answer. Of course, my parents’ patience never reached that far. People have busy lives, and while our curiosity is endless, our patience is not. Add to that the usual (if ineffective) focus of communication on having said our part rather than reaching a common understanding, and eventually we stop asking. But our brains don’t. To make sense of all the things we encounter in life that are unexpected, unusual, unknown, or uncomfortable, it tells us stories.

As a child, I learned that I could theoretically ask “why?” until the explanations reached the end of the universe and all that remained was another “why?” without an answer. Of course, my parents’ patience never reached that far. People have busy lives, and while our curiosity is endless, our patience is not. Add to that the usual (if ineffective) focus of communication on having said our part rather than reaching a common understanding, and eventually we stop asking. But our brains don’t. To make sense of all the things we encounter in life that are unexpected, unusual, unknown, or uncomfortable, it tells us stories.

In just two months, the Left Party in Germany went from being virtually written off for this election to winning 8.8%. In the news, the success is described as “unexpected”, a “surprise” or even a “miracle”¹. Speculation is rife as to how they did it. I won’t argue with any of the theories, but I will add my own: The Left Party did an excellent job of storytelling.

In fact, the Left Party did such a good job that I kept their flyer (which happened to be the only direct campaign advertisement I received) as an example.

While writing the blog article that was supposed to be next, I noticed that I keep using the phrase “stupid” question. Why? Because everyone knows what I mean when I say it. But the question I am referring to is not a stupid question, which is why I use parentheses or add the adjective “so-called”. Problem solved, right? No.

Our memory likes things it has seen before. The phrase “stupid question” is well known, which is why I found myself using it. But with each encounter, we make it stronger. Which is a useful quality for a phrase, unless it is offensive and counterproductive like this one.

We need to stop leaving our audience stranded. Especially if we care about democracy.

That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say. You can go back to whatever you were doing, unless it involves leaving your audience stranded. Then please just stop.

Here’s an explanation so you have something else to do.

The Stranded Audience

First, we need to get the unpleasant business out of the way of actually looking at how to leave our audience helpless. The thing we shouldn’t do¹.

Getting your message right is hard. Even experienced companies can mess up like Apple demonstrated recently with their ad “Crush!”.

It features a giant press that crushes a display of objects related to art such as musical instruments, a bookshelf containing books, a sculpture, paint, games and even a desk light that looks like Pixar’s Luxo Jr. The only object that survives this ordeal is the new iPad Pro. The voice-over announces it as stronger and thinner than anything before.

Democracy is a symbol of freedom, human rights, and the empowerment of people, in stark contrast to the oppression, tyranny, and powerlessness of people living under authoritarian regimes.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where so-called democratic countries have undermined its values and retained little more than the label of democracy, while countries that are still democratic are denied that label by their own citizens. Today, there are people in democratic countries who argue that the political system they live in deprives them of their freedom and rights and makes them feel powerless. They feel that it is up to them to save democracy.

I recently came across an interview with a politician who addressed the issue of communicating with the public in the following way:

People want us to do a good job and they want to understand where we’re going as a government.

When asked why different parties in government say different things, the politician said:

We are all saying the right thing, just from a different angle.

What I understand are three things, none of which will increase my confidence:

In just two months, the Left Party in Germany went from being virtually written off for this election to winning 8.8%. In the news, the success is described as “unexpected”, a “surprise” or even a “miracle”¹. Speculation is rife as to how they did it. I won’t argue with any of the theories, but I will add my own: The Left Party did an excellent job of storytelling.

In fact, the Left Party did such a good job that I kept their flyer (which happened to be the only direct campaign advertisement I received) as an example.

We need to stop leaving our audience stranded. Especially if we care about democracy.

That’s it, that’s all I wanted to say. You can go back to whatever you were doing, unless it involves leaving your audience stranded. Then please just stop.

Here’s an explanation so you have something else to do.

The Stranded Audience

First, we need to get the unpleasant business out of the way of actually looking at how to leave our audience helpless. The thing we shouldn’t do¹.

Lexical hedges are an essential part of good scientific writing, but for writers they are tripwires that need to be removed unless a writer wants to get rid of their readers. For a long time this was a conflict I did not know how to approach.

Phrases like “seems to” and “may” are valued by scientists as expressions of uncertainty in an environment that contains varying degrees of uncertainty but is almost never free of it. In writing, the same phrases are spurned as useless clutter that disrupts the flow of reading. Does this mean that scientists, like writers, need to avoid hedging if they want their writing to be accessible and engaging for all readers?

Oppenheimer and Barbie are great examples of how (not) to tell a story. But what really intrigued me was how it parallels the world of scientific discourse. In my opinion, contrary to what I expected, Barbie makes for a better scientist.

I grew up around physicists and the story of Oppenheimer intrigued me. I didn’t expect anything special, just a good movie with a chance of being great. I was disappointed. The storytelling in Oppenheimer is so bad that it undermines the whole movie.

Suffering from writer’s block is misery. Whether it is the result or the process of writing that we care about, writer’s block keeps us from achieving it. And that feels terrible.

But what if writer’s block, haunting as it is, offers an opportunity?

I’m not saying it’s not hard. It is. Even though there are countless guides on how to deal with it, and I’m sure that at least the writer has benefited from their approach. Just as there are countless people who’ve never experienced it telling us that it’s all in our heads (of course it is¹) and that we should just write again to get rid of it (for sure). Advice like that feels a lot like being told to just be happy again while suffering from depression. What I would like to offer is a different perspective.

When I was a child, I dreamed of having my own library. A place to retreat to and read a book in peace and quiet. One shelf filled with my own published novels…

Dreams change.

Now, I carry my books in my pocket wherever I go. I do not want or need a private room dedicated to books and reading.

Yet, as I begin this blog, I find myself thinking back to that image of a library. A place of knowledge and creativity. Art and science. Carefully wrapped in text to make the content accessible to as many people and generations as possible. To share, to learn, to enjoy. That is what this blog is about.

Suffering from writer’s block is misery. Whether it is the result or the process of writing that we care about, writer’s block keeps us from achieving it. And that feels terrible.

But what if writer’s block, haunting as it is, offers an opportunity?

I’m not saying it’s not hard. It is. Even though there are countless guides on how to deal with it, and I’m sure that at least the writer has benefited from their approach. Just as there are countless people who’ve never experienced it telling us that it’s all in our heads (of course it is¹) and that we should just write again to get rid of it (for sure). Advice like that feels a lot like being told to just be happy again while suffering from depression. What I would like to offer is a different perspective.

While writing the blog article that was supposed to be next, I noticed that I keep using the phrase “stupid” question. Why? Because everyone knows what I mean when I say it. But the question I am referring to is not a stupid question, which is why I use parentheses or add the adjective “so-called”. Problem solved, right? No.

Our memory likes things it has seen before. The phrase “stupid question” is well known, which is why I found myself using it. But with each encounter, we make it stronger. Which is a useful quality for a phrase, unless it is offensive and counterproductive like this one.

Lexical hedges are an essential part of good scientific writing, but for writers they are tripwires that need to be removed unless a writer wants to get rid of their readers. For a long time this was a conflict I did not know how to approach.

Phrases like “seems to” and “may” are valued by scientists as expressions of uncertainty in an environment that contains varying degrees of uncertainty but is almost never free of it. In writing, the same phrases are spurned as useless clutter that disrupts the flow of reading. Does this mean that scientists, like writers, need to avoid hedging if they want their writing to be accessible and engaging for all readers?

Oppenheimer and Barbie are great examples of how (not) to tell a story. But what really intrigued me was how it parallels the world of scientific discourse. In my opinion, contrary to what I expected, Barbie makes for a better scientist.

I grew up around physicists and the story of Oppenheimer intrigued me. I didn’t expect anything special, just a good movie with a chance of being great. I was disappointed. The storytelling in Oppenheimer is so bad that it undermines the whole movie.

Oppenheimer and Barbie are great examples of how (not) to tell a story. But what really intrigued me was how it parallels the world of scientific discourse. In my opinion, contrary to what I expected, Barbie makes for a better scientist.

I grew up around physicists and the story of Oppenheimer intrigued me. I didn’t expect anything special, just a good movie with a chance of being great. I was disappointed. The storytelling in Oppenheimer is so bad that it undermines the whole movie.

In the first part of this quest to define story, we’ve talked about actors, events, and plot. In the second part we looked at empathy and conflict, both of which in combination create suspense and carry the audience through the story. This creates an experience that makes the story feel personal and relevant to the audience and allows them to internalize what is happening.

Both empathy and conflict serve another purpose that we haven’t discussed yet: They help to convey a message.

We began this journey by taking a look at the story definitions provided by dictionaries. These definitions introduced us to actors who are defined by their ability to choose and perform an action, not by being a human character. We’ve talked about events, which are things that happen to these actors, or things that happen because of their actions. And we’ve talked about creating a plot by arranging these events in a logical order.

Think of a handful of stories.

Was that hard? Probably not. But have you ever thought about what a story actually is? It is not a book. A book can contain a story like a canvas holds a painting. Paint strokes can tell stories just as melodies and words do. But they are not stories. They only form them, when put in the right order. Woven like images created from colored threads.