STORIES WE’VE HEARD, STORIES WE’VE TOLD

Stories We’ve Heard, Stories We’ve Told

LIFE-CHANGING NARRATIVES IN THERAPY AND
EVERYDAY LIFE

Jeffrey A. Kottler
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Contents
Preface and Personal Introduction
Acknowledgments
About the Author

1. Storytelling in Therapy—and Everyday Life

2. The Power and Influence of Stories
3. The Storied Brain
4. Cultural Visions and Variations of Storytelling
5. Stories of Change in Media, Entertainment, and Everyday Life
6. Personal Narratives and Storied Identities
7. Disordered Stories in Trauma and Emotional Struggles
8. Therapeutic Value of Stories in Creating Change
9. Types of Stories in Therapeutic Relationships
10. Between Truth and Lies in the Stories That People Share
11. Creating More Powerful Stories
12. Beyond Stories
REFERENCES
INDEX
Preface and Personal Introduction
I’D LIKE TO tell you a story. The action begins at a point in my life, and my career,
when I felt empty. I had nothing left to give. I was bored with my work, feeling
that after so many decades I was just reliving the same experiences over and
over again. I felt like I wasn’t learning anything new. I was tired of being
assailed with supposedly new improvements in therapeutic technique,
admonished to abandon whatever I thought was working to try the next best
thing. I was frustrated with the way the field had been evolving over the years,
moving on from those aspects of therapeutic work that I cherished the most in
favor of supposedly new, groundbreaking, evidence-based, empirically validated
treatments. Sure, I was grateful for advances in diagnostic accuracy and
precision in matching best practices, but it felt like therapy had lost its soul.
I originally got into this field, like so many others, because I most value
relational factors in helping and healing. As a teenager, my life was floundering
and I was frequently depressed and anxious. It was my school counselor who
“saved” me, largely as a result of her mentoring relationship. In college, it was
more of the same: I felt lost and discouraged, wondering whether I would ever
climb out of my despair. Again it was through a relationship with a therapist on
campus that helped me through this difficult time.
As I look back on my experiences as a student, a supervisee, and a client in
therapy, what I remember about the professionals who influenced me the most
were the stories they told. I can’t remember what my school counselor looked
like, but I vividly recall her talking about her own struggles with taking tests (at
the time I was in jeopardy of flunking out of school). I think about the half dozen
different therapists I’ve consulted during my life, and although I can’t remember
much about their offices, their appearances, their advice, or their
admonishments, I do remember a few of their seminal stories. In fact, I still tell
some of them to others.
After writing dozens of books about therapy during the past 35 years,
covering almost every nuance of the craft, including a focus on ethical issues,
group settings, relational factors, difficult clients, interpersonal conflicts,
emotional overload, secrets and paradoxes, serendipitous change, unfulfilled
desire, passion and commitment, social justice and advocacy, failures and
negative outcomes, successes and triumphs, unusual cases, self-supervision,
indigenous healing, reciprocal influence, creative breakthroughs, deception and
lies, burnout and self-care, expertise and mastery, I justifiably wondered what
could possibly be left to cover. I felt particularly stumped because as much
investigation, research, and writing that I’d done about therapy, I still hadn’t
found the essential element of what we do as therapists that appears to make the
most difference.
I was thinking about all of this, and my frustration with the Holy Grail still
eluding me, when I decided to get back to my reading. Even with my busy
schedule and compulsive productivity, I still manage to read a novel each week,
most of them in the genre of escape fiction. I am totally transported into different
worlds, forgetting about whatever else that is going on in my life.
The particular book resting on my lap had been skeptically borrowed from a
friend; it was a best-selling thriller about a zombie apocalypse, but with a subtext
of political commentary (I suppose I’m being a little defensive). I completely
and totally entered this imagined future in which a virus had wiped out most of
the human race, changing them into voracious, brainless monsters whose only
goal was to feed on the few living survivors. It was a world so vividly created
and described that I found myself living there during idle moments and dreams,
imagining how I would function with all the challenges and obstacles I would
likely face. While I imagined myself as a protagonist in the story, I wondered
whether I would have the fortitude and resilience, not to mention the skills, to
survive in such a dangerous world.
When I finished the last of the pages, delighted with the whole rollercoaster
ride, I decided to go for a run outside to get some exercise. As I was just finding
my stride, reliving one of the more memorable scenes from the tense finale of
the book, I noticed another runner coming toward me. As the guy approached
me with a huge grin, the runner offered his hand as a high five, one runner to
another, as if to say, “Way to go.” Runners are notorious for their introspective,
pained faces, so it was especially surprising to find someone gregarious and
overtly friendly.
“Beautiful day!” I answered as I slapped hands while we passed one another. I
thought to myself that such interactions on a run almost never happen, and I
wondered why people couldn’t be friendlier to one another. But then I started
thinking to myself, “What if...?”
“No,” I interrupted the thought. “That’s just crazy.” And so I continued along
my way.
“But what if...?”
Against my will I found myself thinking, “I know this is really weird and all,
but what if this guy has some kind of virus and he is deliberately passing it on to
people? What if when I touched his hand he gave me some kind of disease?”
As I considered the idea, I realized how ridiculous it sounded. Here was one
of those rare times when someone was being nice and all I could do was imagine
the worst. I castigated myself for such paranoid suspicions, but as I did so I
noticed that I was rubbing my hand on my shirt, as if to wipe away the
imaginary germs. I couldn’t help giggling to myself about how silly I was acting.
I tried to put the whole incident behind me, but during the past weeks I had
been so absorbed in the zombie novel that I couldn’t seem to escape back into
so-called reality. I just kept shaking my head in wonderment at how stupidly I
was behaving. “But what if I really do have some kind of a virus on my hand?” I
asked myself. “I know that isn’t likely, but if that was the case, would wiping my
hand on my shirt take care of the problem?”
Against all rational argument, I stopped by the side of the road and started
rubbing my hand in the dirt and then continued toward home to complete my
run. All along the way I kept saying to myself, “Don’t touch your face,” “Don’t
touch your face,” reminding myself not to do so until I could properly scrub my
hands.
As ludicrous as the incident sounds, this illustrates the power of stories to
penetrate our lives in such a way that they become as real to us as anything we
ever encounter through more direct experience. In fact, there is compelling
evidence that fiction, whether novels, movies, or television shows, can be even
more powerful to impact or influence people’s behavior than self-help or
nonfiction books such as this one (Appel, 2008; Appel & Richter, 2007; Djikic,
Oatlety, Loeterman, & Peterson, 2009; Meek, 2014). In addition, the lingering
effects of listening, watching, or reading stories may permanently alter the
architecture and neuronal connections in the brain (Berns, Blaine, Prietula, &
Pye, 2013). It turns out that the brain doesn’t necessarily distinguish between
direct experience and those events that we live vicariously through the
protagonists in stories.
However contrived they might be, stories tap into our imagination for which
we have developed “specialized cognitive machinery” to process them (Tooby &
Cosmides, 2001). They are perfectly capable of creating neural representations
of visual, auditory, or motor experiences that feel just as real as anything else we
experience in daily life (Speer, Reynolds, Swallow, & Zacks, 2009). They invite,
if not require, a level of active involvement in the “consumption” of the story
that produces all kinds of possibilities for vicarious learning, intense
engagement, and personal application that nonfiction can’t touch (Gottschall,
2012a; Levitt, Rattanasampan, Chaidaroon, Stanley, & Robinson, 2009;
Solomon, 2001).
Even if a story is fabricated, it may still contain insights and truths that are
powerfully transformative, especially when it is vividly told. Children frequently
remark after listening to a great story that it feels like they just watched a movie,
or just as likely, that they were right there inside the action. Just as games of
chess, backgammon, or video games teach logic, strategy, and problem solving,
fictional stories instruct about adaptive behavior. We may never meet a
werewolf, zombie, or vampire in a spooky forest, but seeing or reading about
how characters survive these monsters may very well prepare us to deal with any
aggressor. In fact, in the zombie book that I mentioned earlier, the subtext of the
story is that the only people who manage to survive are those who are intimately
familiar with the movie genre because they are the only ones who are
sufficiently prepared to know what to do if you see a zombie!

ALL THERAPY IS ABOUT TELLING STORIES

Client problems, complaints, symptoms, and issues are really just stories about
their condition, compressed into a narrative that is both limiting and revealing in
what they include—and what they leave out. Initially we accept the stories at
face value when clients tell us that they are depressed, anxious, or suffering all
manner of difficulties, crises, or traumas. With time, patience, and dialogue,
these stories continue to evolve, deepen, and often become utterly transformed
into new versions based on our input.
All of our conceptions and diagnoses regarding what we believe has gone
wrong are also just abbreviated stories. “The reason your car won’t start,” the
mechanic explains, “is that you have a faulty fuel pump, often the result of
improper maintenance.” So it is the same with our own assessments of the
presenting problem: “The main reason you are depressed is because...(fill in the
blank). We might offer a story that is reassuring: “Don’t worry. It’s just a side
effect of the meds you are taking for high blood pressure.” We could present a
story that is genetically based: “Your bipolar disorder is largely inherited and
responds well to a certain class of medications.” Or we might introduce other
stories that refer to past trauma, underlying illness, unresolved grief,
interpersonal conflict, substance use, developmental or adjustment reactions, and
so on. We conceptualize our cases in terms of stories that include both
descriptive and explanatory features. Almost everything we think and do is thus
translated into narrative sequences that help to make sense of experiences and
observations.

THE STORIES CONTAINED IN THIS BOOK—THE STORIES THAT

ARE THIS BOOK
This is a book written primarily for psychotherapists, counselors, and other
helping professionals, even if many others might find the ideas useful, if not
inspiring. In one sense it is about the presence and role of stories in therapy, but
it also looks at the subject of storytelling from a much broader perspective, one
that examines the power and influence of all kinds of stories in people’s lives.
Thus, the first several chapters establish a foundation for understanding how
stories affect and influence people in a multitude of ways in daily life.
Our earliest memories are stories; in fact, all memories are storied
experiences. From the youngest age we are exposed to stories through fairy tales,
books, television, films, songs, and family legends. Almost all of our
conversations involve telling stories about ourselves and others. The rest of our
waking time is spent imagining stories, reliving stories, and planning new
scenarios in our minds. Even when we are unconscious, the brain continues to
link images, fragments, and daily experiences into stories in the form of
remembered dreams. Our whole lives are ruled by stories. So it is hardly
surprising that the process of doing therapy, regardless of approach and
theoretical preferences, is essentially a storytelling activity in which each of the
participants takes turns telling tales.
We owe a tremendous debt and gratitude to the contributions of narrative
therapy, as a distinct style of practice, one that gives primary attention to the
power of stories not only to “represent” episodes in in our lives but actually to
completely shape, influence, and constitute our lives and the meanings we assign
to those experiences (White, 2007; White & Epston, 1990), as well as the ways
that people make sense of what happened in the past (McKeough, 2013). This is
particularly the case with regard to how stories are so integrally connected to
larger social, racial, political, and gender contexts in our culture (Brown &
Augusta-Scott, 2007; Hare-Mustin, 1994; Madigan & Law, 1998; White, 1994).
Yet some therapists take issue with the burgeoning popularity of “narrative
therapy” as a particular model since all therapies are essentially narrative and all
presenting problems are contained in stories. Of course, narrative therapy, as a
particular theoretical model, offers its own unique philosophical and procedural
style, not to mention a battery of signature techniques. Nevertheless, most
clinicians recognize the storied nature of the therapeutic process on multiple
levels: (1) clients tell stories about their problems and condition; (2) they share
background stories about the perceived origin of the problems and contextual
aspects of their life experience; (3) therapists form these often fragmented
narratives into their own story formulation that includes a diagnosis; (4) another
version of this story is transformed into a “case history” that is shared with
colleagues, supervisors, and written into treatment plans; (5) therapists construct
and introduce all kinds of stories into sessions, whether as personal self-
disclosures, metaphorical or symbolic parables, or more direct teaching tales to
highlight particular object lessons.
Although storytelling has been adopted primarily under the province of
constructivist, narrative, and other postmodern approaches, I intend to take a far
more global and universal perspective, one that recognizes and honors all the
different ways that stories have therapeutic impact on people’s lives, both within
sessions and in the outside world. After all, it is the drama and emotional arousal
of good stories that allow them to have such impact. This is particularly
important when we consider just how powerfully stories can become not only a
major force for change but also a significant impediment. They are not so much
definitive accounts of events in our lives as they are post hoc theories and
selective accounts of a chosen interpretation that are filled with omissions,
distortions, and exaggerations (Dawson, Farmer, & Thomson, 2011). This
provides therapists with opportunities to help our clients fill in some gaps and
refashion the chosen narratives into versions that offer hope and greater
possibilities for change.

CONTENTS OF THE BOOK

We begin our investigation with a wide-angle lens, viewing the role of stories in
the broadest sense by examining the ways that people have been most
powerfully and enduringly influenced by stories in their lives (Chapters 1 and 2).
We will look at this from multiple angles that include neurological (Chapter 3),
as well as cultural and historical perspectives (Chapter 4). After reviewing the
innumerable ways that stories have led to major life transformations—and even
changed the world (Chapter 5)—we will then concentrate more specifically on
the ways that stories operate to alter one’s self-identity (Chapter 6) and help us to
make sense of traumatic events (Chapter 7). We next look at the ways that stories
lead to personal transformations in people’s lives (Chapter 8), especially within
the context of therapy and teaching (Chapter 9). So much of what we do as
therapists, teachers, supervisors, and mentors is honor people’s stories, help them
to refashion them in more constructive ways, and then share stories of our own
that are specifically designed to reveal significant lessons, truths, or seminal
ideas. We could easily and rightfully claim that we are all essentially
professional story listeners and storytellers.
It is clear that stories are not necessarily accurate and completely “truthful”
accounts of experience, even when they are presented to us as factual accounts.
Chapter 10 thus explores the nature and meaning of lies and truth in the stories
that are told, the impact of self-deception, and how it may be processed in
sessions. Chapter 11 broadens the scope of pursuing greater excellence and
influence through storytelling by reviewing specific methods, strategies, and
skills that increase therapeutic effectiveness. The book concludes the discussion
in Chapter 12 by examining the limits of stories as therapeutic tools and how we
may more proactively develop our own unique style.
If our journey together will be a profitable one, it is likely to result not so
much from any information, data, research, or quotes I present—and there are
literally thousands of supporting studies and examples in this volume—but from
the stories that are told and those that you remember. Pay close attention to your
own internal process, especially considering that one of the limitations of a
nonfiction book such as this is that it usually sparks a certain degree of
skepticism and questioning in which you will challenge certain ideas and
assumptions, arguing with me (or the ideas) rather than simply immersing
yourself in an alternative world where you suspend disbelief. Of course, it is
precisely this active debate and conversation between us that makes any of the
stories your own.
Jeffrey A. Kottler
Huntington Beach, California, June, 2014
Acknowledgments
IT IS CHALLENGING to pinpoint particular individuals who I might credit and
acknowledge as supporters and contributors to this project. I have been exploring
this subject my whole life, collecting stories that I have heard and seen,
refashioning them to make them my own. My editor, Dana Bliss, has been with
me for the ride during the last decade, a creative muse who has inspired me to
undertake a number of challenging projects, eventually culminating in this one,
the most exciting book of all.
Although hundreds of therapists, students, supervisees, and readers have
contributed stories, most of them have chosen to remain anonymous. I do want
to thank several friends, in particular, who contributed ideas, including Jon
Carlson, Paul Peluso, Adolfo Prieto, Matt Englar-Carlson, Xtine Burrough,
Ashley Devine, Ryan Hill, Jean-Franco Romualdez, and Lisa Cantanzaro. I’m
grateful to the following scholars who served as reviewers for the project,
providing valuable input to help shape the book: Paul Peluso (again) from
Florida Atlantic University, Johanna Slivinske from Youngstown State
University, Ruth Ellen Josselson from the Fielding Graduate University, Robert
Neimeyer from the University of Memphis, and George Burns from Edith
Cowan University (Australia). I also appreciate the support of the Oxford
University staff, including Brianna Marron, Liz Gorney, Ryan Cury, and Greg
Bussy. Finally, I want to thank my granddaughter, Aliya Kottler, who has
rekindled in me a passionate commitment to become the best storyteller I can be.
About the Author
Jeffrey A. Kottler is one of the most prolific authors in the fields of psychology
and education, having written over 80 books about a wide range of subjects,
many of them featuring his lifelong interest in stories of change. Jeffrey has
authored more than a dozen texts for counselors and therapists that are used in
universities around the world and a dozen books each for practicing therapists
and educators, many of which represent stories of seminal change. His books
have been translated into more than two dozen languages.
Some of Jeffrey’s most recent works include On Being a Therapist, Creative
Breakthroughs in Therapy, The Therapist’s Workbook, Helping Beyond the 50
Minute Hour: Therapists Involved in Meaningful Social Action, The Client Who
Changed Me, On Being a Master Therapist: Practicing What We Preach, and
Change: What Leads to Personal Transformation?
Jeffrey has served as a Fulbright Scholar and Senior Lecturer in Peru (1980)
and Iceland (2000), as well as worked as a Visiting Professor in New Zealand,
Australia, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Nepal. Jeffrey is professor of counseling
at California State University, Fullerton and a visiting professor at the University
of St. Thomas (Houston). He is the Founder of Empower Nepali Girls, an
organization that provides educational scholarships for at-risk children in Nepal.
In all of his various helping roles, whether as a teacher, supervisor, therapist,
consultant, researcher, keynote speaker, or promoter of social justice causes, he
identifies most strongly as a storyteller.
 1
STORYTELLING IN THERAPY—AND EVERYDAY LIFE

I NEVER REALIZED, until this moment (literally as I write these words), that I’ve
spent my whole life writing this book. If there’s one common thread that runs
consistently throughout everything I’ve studied and written previously, it is that
they are all about stories: I collect them. I study them. I try to make sense of
their underlying meanings, both within each narrative and across their common,
unifying themes. So do you.
Like any qualitative researcher, psychotherapist, and teacher, I’m drawn to
stories as a source of wisdom and inspiration. I’m fascinated with the ways
people talk about their lives, and the critical incidents within, as the means by
which to understand their deepest longings. Among all the interesting questions
that I’ve posed to those I’ve interviewed—and I’ve asked some doozies—there
is none more intriguing than the one that forms the focus of this book.
Ask someone the question, “Tell me about a story that changed your life,” and
there will be a thoughtful pause before a huge grin emerges. Everyone’s life has
been guided and impacted by stories, beginning with the earliest fables and
nursery rhymes that teach moral lessons. Shows on television, characters in
films, lyrics in music, legends and myths, fictional characters from novels, first-
person computer games, gossip, and storied dreams all inhabit our inner lives
and impact us in ways that are truly remarkable.
Storytelling is a uniquely human activity, often described as the DNA of
memory. In addition to transporting us to other worlds and providing a range of
alternative realities, they often highlight themes of growth, development,
transformation, and conflict resolution. Stories are also the primary vehicle by
which we pass along cultural and moral lessons, capture interest in learning, and
provide vicarious opportunities to take on different roles and identities. They are
also the lifeblood of practicing psychotherapy in that they are revelatory rather
than explanatory, offering opportunities for exploration and connection. “True
stories are anchored to the dark and mysterious depths of reality itself, and may
survive decades or centuries of interpretation and reinterpretation” (Roberts,
1999, p. 9). They may be anchored in reality, but they hardly reflect life
experiences exactly as they occurred. Yet even when distorted or exaggerated,
sharing personal stories in a therapeutic setting helps people feel heard and
understood, less alone in their struggles, as if they are able to “transcend the
boundaries of our personal worlds, with their joys and sorrows, and introduce the
universality of human experience” (Feldman & Kornfield, 1991, p. 7). Even
before narrative therapy popularized attention on people’s individualized and
social constructions of their experience, it has even been said that the main
purpose and function of therapy is to help clients repair their internalized stories
(Gardner, 1971; Mitchell, 1981; Spence, 1982).

FIGURE 1.1 Children listening with rapt attention to a story. Whether in the context of psychotherapy,
teaching, parenting, or even marketing and advertising, stories capture attention and provide critical
information and moral lessons sanctioned by any culture.
Photo Credit: © Monkey Business Images/Shutterstock

PSYCHOTHERAPY AS AN EXCHANGE OF STORIES

Traditionally, stories have been lifeblood of elders whose job was to pass on
cultural and historical artifacts to younger generations. Elders were a
community’s source of wisdom and knowledge before the existence of libraries
or the Internet; they were sanctioned to tell stories about optimal hunting
grounds, food sources, and historical triumphs and failures, so that we might
learn from the past (Diamond, 2012). Their stories were designed not only to
inspire and teach but also to discourage children from drawing outside the lines,
so to speak, and instead to conform to cultural norms (Bruce, 1999). Therapists,
clergy, and teachers have now taken on these responsibilities, largely because of
the opportunities that storytelling presents in that “by its very nature, story
elevates and even celebrates conflict as the central vehicle for change” (Murphy,
2012, p. 38).
So it is in psychotherapy that almost everything we know and understand
about our work (and our own reality) is based on either the stories that clients
tell us about their condition or else the stories we tell ourselves based on our
observations of them. “I’m sad,” a client tells us and we reply with the prompt,
“Tell me more about what that’s like for you.” The client then proceeds to
answer our queries related to sleep or eating problems, precipitating events,
physical and sexual functioning, interpersonal connections, interests and
pleasures, and so on. We base our diagnosis on these stories, combined with the
stories we tell ourselves in the form of a diagnosis, and then proceed to measure
relative improvement on the basis of the client’s self-reports, as well as our own
observations and the stories reported by others. These stories told to us, and
those we tell ourselves, are the foundation for all that we do, even though we can
never be sure about their accuracy and veracity (Mehl-Madrona, 2010).
In one sense the job of a therapist is serving as an “assistant biographer” in
that our role is to help people to tell their stories (Holmes, 1999). We also help
them to shape these narratives in such a way that they become heroic
protagonists rather than helpless victims. This is especially the case with those
who have experienced some trauma or tragedy and feel trapped by their stories,
but it may also apply to almost any situation. Witness, as an example, the
primary activity that takes place during a typical therapeutic encounter:
The client’s problem and contextual story: “Ever since my brother died I’ve been having trouble
sleeping. We were very close, ever since we were kids. We always took care of one another. You see,
our parents were never around. Our mom was working three jobs and our dad was usually drunk and
off on one of his binges.”
The therapist’s storied response: “So you’ve always been pretty much on your own, just the two of
you against the world. Your brother was your companion and support and now that he’s gone you feel
so alone. No wonder you have trouble sleeping when you think about what your life will be like
without him.”

There are all sorts of other ways this response could be framed, and other
interpretations that could be offered, whether designed to reflect feelings, convey
deep understanding, normalize symptoms, offer hope, challenge negative
thinking, or present an alternative narrative. Nevertheless, the interactions
between any therapist and client represent an exchange of stories in which each
participant takes turns telling tales. Therapy, by its very nature, is thus a ritual of
exchanging gifts in the form of meaningful, intimate stories that offer “multiple
perspectives and possibilities rather than settled certainties” (Dwivedi &
Gardner, 1997, p. 28). The client begins the process by relating a version of
events that are believed to be at the root of suffering. The therapist, in turn,
responds with a reframed story designed to provide hope or a possible solution.
The client then presents a different story that hopefully reflects new facets of the
experience—and so continues a collaboration and coauthorship that eventually
leads to a consensus.
One intriguing and often neglected aspect of this interaction is the reciprocal
changes taking place during the shared storytelling—not only within the client
but also the ways the therapist is impacted (Kottler, 2010; Kottler & Carlson,
2006; Kottler & Marriner, 2009). A client tells a story about the overwhelming
fatigue he feels as a new father: “Nobody told me it was going to be like this.
Everyone says congratulations on your new baby, but what they leave out is the
hell of no sleep, no sex, no time to do anything other than feed, clean, clothe,
and diaper the kid. I’m exhausted!”
The story is heard and acknowledged by an attentive audience that validates
the experience and then responds with an alternative version: “The baby didn’t
come with a mental health warning, did she? I remember with our first child that
it’s the closest we ever came to a divorce because we were so irritable and sleep
deprived all the time, so neglectful of ourselves and one another.” And so it goes
that the “conversation” that takes place involves this mutual sharing of
perspectives and life experiences. The client hopefully leaves feeling affirmed
and less alone in his struggle. The therapist (who is me) was triggered by the
client’s story, feeling a flood of regret after the session ends. I wished I could
have been more fully present as a parent and resolved, in that moment, to do
something about that now that I am a new grandfather.

LEARNING LESSONS ABOUT THERAPY THROUGH STORIES

There is a long and distinguished history of using stories to highlight key

concepts, ideas, and features of challenging or interesting clinical work.
Sigmund Freud was among the first to “invent,” or at least elevate, the case
history as an art form by which to present treatment issues. He was, among other
things, a fabulous storyteller even if he was apologetic for the storied roots of the
ways he conceptualized and talked about therapeutic work: “It still strikes me as
strange the case histories I write should read like short stories and that, as one
might say, they lack the serious stamp of science” (Freud, 1893/1964). His cases
do indeed read like adventure stories, filled with drama, suspense, plot twists,
extraordinary character development, and action galore. The stories of Dora,
Wolf Man, Little Hans, The Rat Man, and Anna O are classics in the annals of
psychotherapy literature, as much because of their narrative style as their
revealing ideas. The founder of psychotherapy was a master of descriptive prose,
dramatic flashbacks, and complex chronology, in the tradition that paralleled the
great writers of his time like Henry James, Henrik Ibsen, Fyodor Dostoyevsky,
and Marcel Proust, all of whom influenced Freud’s development as a storyteller
(Lieblich, McAdams, & Josselson, 2004). This legacy also helped shape the first
projective diagnostic instruments such as the Rorschach test, Thematic
Apperception Test, and House-Tree-Person test, in which clients are asked to tell
stories about what they see, presumably revealing significant material.
Following in Freud’s footsteps were a number of extraordinary therapist-
writers who used stories and case examples to instruct and enlighten
practitioners (and the general public) about many of the complex nuances of
therapeutic work. Classic works such as James Bugental’s Intimate Journeys,
Robert Linder’s Fifty Minute Hour, Robert Akeret’s Tales From a Traveling
Couch, Jay Haley’s Uncommon Therapy, Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for
Meaning, and especially Irvin Yalom’s Love’s Executioner and Momma and the
Meaning of Life have provided some of the most intriguing and instructive
contributions to our literature, as well as a deeper understanding of the nuances
and challenges involved in our work. Other volumes (Burton, 1972; Conyne &
Bemak, 2005; Hoyt, 2013; Kilburg, Nathan, & Thoreson, 1986; Kottler, 1996;
Kottler & Carlson, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009; Orlinsky & Ronnestad, 2005; Ram
Das & Gordon, 1985; Rosenthal, 2005; Sussman, 1995) have presented
therapists’ journeys throughout their lives and careers, highlighting those stories
that have been most impactful and challenging. If these life stories are both
intriguing and informative, there are thousands of additional examples from
clients in therapy describing their stories of redemption and recovery, what was
most helpful to them and what made the most difference. These include not only
classic tales such as Sybil, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, and Girl,
Interrupted but also collections of anecdotes (Kaplan, 1964; LeCroy & Hoschuh,
2012; Sacks, 1998).

RESTORIED AND DESTORIED LIVES

The postmodern thinkers, especially the narrative and constructivist theorists like
Michael White, David Epston, Robert Neimeyer, Steve Madigan, John McLeod,
Donald Polkinghorne, Gerald Monk, and many others, elevated storytelling to an
exalted position as the essence of our work. The goal has been to help people to
restory their lives in more useful ways. Although often technique oriented in its
execution (think “externalization,” “curious questioning,” “unique outcomes,”
“dominant story”), narrative therapy’s legacy has been to persuade all
practitioners to become far more sensitive to people’s storied lives (Sarbin,
1986) and to appreciate all the ways that our lives are “saturated” with stories
from media and our culture (Gergen, 1991). Jerome Bruner (1986, 2002) was
instrumental in pointing out how we essentially reason in two ways, through
both logical and narrative processing. The latter offers explanations of motive
and highlights the relationships between historical and social events, culminating
in the formulation of personal and cultural identity (Polkinghorne, 2013).
Constructivist and social constructionist paradigms have steadily been making
inroads in almost every discipline from the arts and literary criticism to the
practice of medicine (McNamee & Gergen, 1992). Roberts (2000) laments all
the ways that psychiatric care, in particular, has become more medicalized and
evidence based, relegating a patient’s story to a position of unreliability and
tangential relevance compared to the traditional positivistic paradigm pursuing
illusions of “truth,” “standardized” risk assessments, “accurate” diagnoses,
“objective” outcome measures, and supposedly “best practices.” It’s not that
these advances in science are not incredibly useful but rather that they represent
a hierarchy of credibility that has been established in which meta-analyses of
randomly controlled trails are “privileged” over personal anecdotes and
subjective experiences. Roberts argues that both methods of inquiry are
complementary rather than competitive, and that by elevating data-driven studies
to the exclusion of stories, we would end up neglecting features of internal
experience, existential meaning, personal identity, cultural context and influence,
symbolic and metaphorical representation, and moral value. “Each has the
potential to leaven, challenge, sharpen, and enrich the other; each highlights the
other’s blind spots” (p. 433).
While it is certainly useful to identify, assess, and catalogue client symptoms,
including among others a sense of hopelessness and despair, such a list doesn’t
come close to the client’s own story, as exemplified in novelist William Styron’s
(1991, p. 62) struggle: “In depression the faith in deliverance, in ultimate
restoration, is absent. The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition
intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come—not in a day, an
hour, a month, or a minute.”
 Until we can elicit such deep and thick descriptions of personal experience
from clients, we will never really have a handle on what is (might be) going on,
nor will they ever feel truly understood by us. We can administer inventories,
psychometric instruments, magnetic resonance images (MRIs) to measure brain
activity, biofeedback devices, outcome questionnaires, and all kinds of
behavioral observations, but they are no substitute for the client’s story of what
happened and a best guess as to why.
The honoring of client stories has never been more important during a time
when it is imagined that our lives have undergone a kind of a “destorification”
that is as devastating as the neglectful, willful, catastrophic damage to the
environment (Stone, 2004). These days, who’s got time for stories? Whether we
are talking about the most casual interactions or the practice of therapy,
everything is about speed, brevity, and the bottom line. Why bother with a
lengthy phone call when a text will do? Why go to the trouble of logging into
Facebook or a blog when you can send out a message in the form of 140 letters
as a tweet?
I asked a 5-year-old to tell me a story (these days I ask everyone to tell me a
story).
“Can it be about a unicorn?”
“Sure,” I agreed.
“Okay. There was a unicorn and her name was Nellie. And she was lost.
The end. Now can we play with your phone?”

REDEEMED AND VALIDATED BY OTHERS’ STORIES

Although I have written more than my fair share of textbooks in the field, I don’t
believe they are nearly as useful and influential as the power of telling stories.
I’ve spent the past 15 years working with a friend and colleague, Jon Carlson, to
collect and tell the stories of the world’s most prominent theorists and
practitioners. We began this extended project somewhat serendipitously by
seeking a way to talk more publically and openly about mistakes and failures in
the field. It has been my lifelong secret and shame that much of the time I don’t
feel like I know what I’m doing. My experience of doing therapy is often feeling
lost, confused, and uncertain about what is going on at any moment, much less
having a clear and complete idea of a client’s presenting condition, underlying
issues, and optimal treatment. I rarely understand what is going on with me most
of the time, so I’ve always wondered how I could possibly ever come to terms
with the reality of fully grasping a client’s experience. Adding to my doubts and
uncertainties was the feeling after each and every session that I was flooded with
questions regarding what I could have done—and perhaps should have done—
differently.
Making matters far worse, in my graduate classes, supervision, workshops,
reading, and even informal conversations with colleagues, the norm was to talk
about spectacular successes. The stories that were told and cases presented
almost always seemed to feature some intractable, hopeless problem that was
somehow cured with a favored technique or strategy that added validity to
whatever ideology was being marketed. It all made me feel inadequate and
depressed because this was so far from my own experience.
What I hungered for most was someone, anyone, who would actually talk
about doubts and imperfections, and I set out on a mission to bring such
conversations more into the open, if not to present opportunities to learn from
our mistakes, then perhaps to make myself feel better that I wasn’t so alone. Of
course, what I’ve learned since then is that what actually distinguishes
extraordinary clinicians isn’t so much their preferred theoretical orientation, their
favorite techniques, or even their own personal characteristics, as much as how
hard they work between sessions to reflect on what they are doing and dedicate
themselves to improving their competence (Duncan & Miller, 2000; Kottler &
Carlson, 2015; Miller, Hubble, & Duncan, 2007; Miller & Hubble, 2011). That’s
good news for those of us who do spend so much time thinking about the impact
of what we do.
Jon and I decided to persuade famous therapists, those we most admired, to
tell us stories about miserable failures in which their theories didn’t work so well
or they engaged in behavior that was less that competent. Just as importantly, we
wanted to hear about what they learned from these negative outcomes that was
instrumental in their continued growth and development. Needless to say, the
stories we heard were both fascinating and affirming. I realized, more than ever,
that hearing (or reading) such stories, told with passion and drama, was
incredibly moving and persuasive.
This initial project was followed by many others that presented stories of
famous therapists’ best sessions, their most unusual cases, their most creative
breakthroughs, the clients who changed them the most, the clients who deceived
them most spectacularly, and one project containing the stories of therapists
actively involved in social activism. The whole idea was to touch our colleagues’
hearts and souls, not by lecturing, explaining, and analyzing, but through
inspirational and compelling narratives.
It really isn’t all that surprising that we would learn best, just like our clients,
not through didactic means but through direct experiences. While it is true that
listening (or watching) a story is a vicarious experience, it is one that can elicit
strong emotional and visceral reactions, as well as heartfelt connections to the
characters and the plotline, and a strong investment in the outcome. When we
are immersed in a good story, it is as much about us as it is about others: We own
it.

THERAPIST AS POET, PLAYWRIGHT, AND STORYTELLER

All therapists hold a story dear to their hearts that represents their preferred
theory of change. In various parts of the world, healers believe stories that
problems are caused by unresolved issues of the past, distorted thinking,
unexpressed feelings, lack of personal meaning, interpersonal isolation,
conditioned behavior, demonic possession, God’s will, fate, or a government
conspiracy. Each of these stories impacts our own behavior in such influential
ways that we often identify strongly with this particular dominant story as a
guiding force in our work and lives, not unlike the stories of religious traditions.
When you think about some of the important lessons you have learned about
what works best in therapeutic work, it is difficult not to associate them with a
story you heard or one that you tell. In one sense a good portion of who we are
as professionals, and how we function in the world, represents an accumulation
of all the mentors, supervisors, instructors, and authors we’ve encountered and
been privileged to make a lasting part of our lives. We hear their voices in our
heads, and we remember their stories as though they are our own.
I recall interviewing Jay Haley for one of our projects shortly before he died.
As you may know, Haley was not only instrumental in promoting the work of
Milton Erickson but is also considered one of the leading proponents of brief
therapy, family therapy, and strategic therapy, during their early inception. When
I spoke with him, he was not in the best shape physically or cognitively and was
having trouble organizing his thoughts. But one of the things I found most
interesting is that he “lost” most of his own clinical experience: We had asked
him to share his most memorable case, and he initially responded by admitting
he couldn’t remember any of his own clients very well but would it be okay if he
talked about one of Erickson’s cases about which he had perfect recall.
Eventually Haley was able to dredge up a case from the past (about a client who
was an 82-year-old prostitute!), but it demonstrated how some stories told by
master orators (like Milton Erickson) can become so powerful that they supplant
our own experiences.
During the first decade that I was in practice, I could never escape the shadow
of my mentor. As a writer, as well as a therapist, it always seemed like I was
channeling him. I heard his voice in my head. I told his stories to my own clients
and students. To this day, so many years later, I still tell some of his stories that
almost appear to have become my own. Perhaps that is one reason why I make
stories such a significant part of my teaching, writing, and therapy. When I am
approached or contacted by readers, clients, students, or workshop participants
from the past, and they are kind enough to mention that they enjoyed or were
moved by something I said, wrote, or did, I always ask out of curiosity what
impacted them the most. Like most therapists, I used to imagine that it was some
new idea or skill I introduced, or maybe some way I conceptualized or simplified
things, or even some aspect of our relationship that was memorable (which I still
insist is key), but time and time again what people report is that it’s the stories I
tell. Of course, embedded in them are those concepts, ideas, and skills that are
personalized and translated into something useful in the world, but it is the
stories themselves that “hold” the knowledge gained.
In a sense we are all professional storytellers. What we do for a living is to
collect stories that might be instructive or influential. We are always searching
for the most effective and powerful metaphors or teaching tales that contain
within them the ideas that we most wish to convey. We look for ways to convert
our own life experiences into disclosures that might inspire or motivate others,
or perhaps simply to show them that they are not alone in their struggles.
Well over 90% of therapists admit to using stories from their own lives in their
sessions—and the other 10% are in denial (Edwards & Murdock, 1994; Pope,
Tabachnick, & Keith-Spiegel, 1987). In addition, over two thirds of clinicians
use bibliotherapy to regularly recommend books to their clients, especially those
that they see as directly relevant to the presenting problems (Adams & Pitre,
2000; Campbell & Smith, 2003; McCulliss, 2012). This has been found to be
particularly helpful when the suggested stories are both age and culturally
appropriate (Herbert & Kent, 2000; Koch, 1994) and offer protagonists with
whom readers or viewers may most easily identify (Terrero, 2014). Such
suggestions have been found to be most helpful when they are focused on
problems related to depression and anxiety rather than severe alcohol abuse or
other addictions and impulse disorders (Apodaca & Miller, 2003; Mains &
Scogin, 2003).
In one study of how clients in therapy were transformed as a result of reading
stories, it was found that they were most likely to be influenced by what they
read if they could identify strongly and empathize with the characters and could
explore the meaning in what felt like a safe environment (Levitt, Rattanasampan,
Chaidaroon, Stanley, & Robinson, 2009). They felt comfort and validation from
feeling like they were not alone in their struggles, as illustrated by one reflective
comment about the impact of identifying with Atticus in To Kill a Mockingbird:
“I was worried about what other people thought about me. I was more worried
about fitting in than doing the right thing...This is the book that essentially says,
‘Do the right thing even if you don’t fit in.’ And that made a lot of difference to
me” (Levitt et al., 2009, p. 337). It was also reported by the participants in the
study that reading stories about their own struggles made change seem less risky,
provided them with great hope, promoted insights into nuances of their problem
that had been ignored or hidden, and encouraged them to be more honest and
open in their relationships.
If it is indeed the case that telling or prescribing stories to clients can have that
kind of transformational power, and the relative influence is directly related to
the reader’s or listener’s ability to empathize and identify with the characters,
then it is the quality of the narration that seems to be key: It isn’t just the stories
themselves but how well they are told and how well they are adapted for the
particular audience (Slivinske & Slivinske, 2014). In fact, when people report
the books or films that influenced them most, they almost always fall into the
category of extraordinary literature or art. It is likely the same thing would hold
true for how vividly we tell stories in sessions.

PSYCHOTHERAPY IS STORYTELLING

To a greater or lesser degree, each of us finds ways to reinforce important

concepts or points through illustrative examples rather than pedantic lectures.
Regardless of the preferred therapeutic approach we take, we create
opportunities to help clients remember that which we consider most important to
their growth or recovery. As we will see, there are dozens of different ways this
is possible, depending on one’s preferences and style. Some therapists limit
themselves to brief, targeted anecdotes, while others view storytelling as the
essence of what they do.
Argentinian therapist Jorge Bucay has a rather unusual approach to his craft:
In almost every session he tells a story. For those clients who don’t respond to
conventional therapy as a talking cure, Bucay offers an alternative experience,
one in which he introduces a fable, self-disclosure, anecdote, or a story “that will
be remembered a hundred times better” than any explanation, interpretation, or
conversation (Bucay, 2013, p. 13).
As soon as a client presents a problem—a fear of intimacy, reluctance to take
risks, inability to find happiness, or poor self-esteem—Bucay lowers his voice to
a whisper, inviting careful and focused attention as if inducing a hypnotic trance
and begins, “Let me tell you a story...” or “Once upon a time...”. Unlike Milton
Erickson, Bucay’s training can’t stop him from adding an interpretation as the
story concludes. He tells a parable about a man with anger issues who walks
around carrying a brick in his hand so he could bash people on the head who
annoy him, and then adds at the end, “This particular defense mechanism is
called retroflection...” (p. 20).
Even when a client insists that he or she wants to have a “normal”
conversation about a specific topic, say mezquino (being stingy), Bucay paused
thoughtfully and responded as follows: “Once upon a time, there was an owl...,”
concluding with a comment about the difference between stinginess and
selfishness, then setting the client free. When challenged about what sort of
peculiar, unconventional therapy he delivers, an approach almost completely
composed of stories, Bucay unapologetically remarked that it was designed to
enlighten, not to cure. It is a catalyst for whatever might follow. And before the
client could question him further, he announced that the session was over.
In part, Bucay’s book itself is a parable about what therapy could be if it
capitalized more directly on the power of stories to capture imagination and
provoke change on multiple levels, all without specifically addressing a problem
but rather instead encouraging clients to become far more reflective on their
behavior and its meaning.
This is perhaps an extreme example, but it nevertheless demonstrates how not
only within the province of Western psychotherapy but also among healers and
teachers throughout the world since the beginning of language, stories hold our
wisdom and lessons. In our own unique ways, each of us is a poet, playwright,
and performer as much as a mental health professional.

STORIES THAT MAKE A DIFFERENCE

Not only are we storytellers but also storyholders. One of our main jobs is to
listen attentively, carefully, and respectfully to the stories that are told by our
clients. Regardless of theoretical orientation or therapeutic style, a big part of our
work involves helping people to share their life experiences in such a way that
they feel heard and understood, but it also involves providing an opportunity to
reshape the stories of their lives into forms that are more empowering.
Whether utilizing Ericksonian metaphors, solution-focused techniques of
reframing, cognitive therapy strategies of alternative self-talk, psychoanalytic
conceptions of narrative and historical truth, narrative therapy constructs of
externalization, or feminist ideas related to socio-political-cultural influences in
self-narratives, stories form the basis of much of what we do. In all their forms
and permutations, we not only invite clients to tell their stories but also help
them to analyze, deconstruct, reconstruct, reauthor, reframe, or coauthor
alternative narrative versions in which they can feel greater control and a sense
of power.
A new client walks in and, in one way or another, you begin by asking, “So,
what’s your story?”
“I’m stuck,” the client replies with a shrug. “Got no way out. I’m totally
trapped.”
“How so?” you probe, asking him to flesh out the narrative with some
rich details and context.
“It’s just that no matter what I do, I’m screwed. If I stay in my present
situation, I’ll probably just freak out. The stress is so bad I can’t sleep,
can’t think, can’t even get out of bed. But if I try to change anything,
I’ll likely just make things worse. So I just thought I’d give it one last
try but, to tell you the truth, it’s all pretty hopeless.”
We begin with the client’s first version of the plotline, one that is embedded
with themes of futility, despair, and indecision. Regardless of the favored
treatment strategy one might introduce, a significant part of that effort would be
initially directed to inviting the client to elaborate on the story, filling in some
history, character development, and personal meaning. There might be
considerable differences in the exact way that a therapist might then attempt to
intervene, but likely it would involve some variation of introducing alternative
ways to interpret the story. In many cases, the therapy itself might take the form
of creating quite a different story, one that emphasizes significant ways that the
protagonist can truly make a difference by operating more resourcefully and
creatively. The story changes from one that is about helplessness and despair to
one that resonates with resilience and constructive action.
In any health care setting or context it is primarily through stories that several
significant tasks are accomplished, all of which are designed to make a
difference (Banks-Wallace, 1999; Hunter & Hunter, 2006; Steiner, 2005). Any
initial interview begins with the patient describing his or her health problems or
distressing symptoms: “I was getting out of bed last night when I first felt this
searing pain in my chest...” Initial interventions are designed to help the patient
to reflect on the meaning of his or her suffering: “Until all this happened, I never
realized how truly fragile my health is. I realized it was time for me to stop
postponing things...” Patients’ stories hold within them the perceptions of their
illnesses or problems, especially as they are affected and influenced by their
social situations, physical environment, and self-identity (Chase, 2005). It is also
revealing and significant exactly what patients leave out of their stories as well
as what they choose to include (Bauman, 2004). Negotiations often take place
within sessions to construct alternative stories that are usually far more hopeful
and empowering than the client’s original version of events.

STORIES IN A MUCH LARGER CONTEXT

Although the primary audience for this book is composed of therapists and other
health professionals, we are exploring a big subject that encapsulates multiple
disciplines in communication, evolutionary psychology, media studies, film
studies, neurobiology, history, indigenous and cultural studies, humanities, and
technology, as well as the social sciences and education. Likewise, stories can be
formatted and envisioned in so many forms and incarnations through verbal
narratives, but stories are also told through writing, art, photography, film,
music, drama, poetry, performance, interpretative dance, and movement. In any
of their varied forms, stories help people to share their experiences to promote
growth and healing, and to come to terms with unresolved issues of the past. In
almost every discipline and field, from the social sciences to management, there
is increasing popularity of narrative approaches to understanding and meaning to
describe and explain complex human phenomena (Butler, 1997; Dawson,
Farmer, & Thomson, 2011; Gabriel, 2000; Rhodes & Brown, 2005).
Before we can hope to understand the meaning and influential roles of stories
in therapeutic settings, we must first explore their impact in a larger context.
What therapists, healers, health professionals, and teachers do with stories to
instruct, enlighten, or inspire others fits within an historical evolution that began
with the earliest cave paintings depicting significant events and continues as part
of a daily conversation in which gossip acts to provide valuable social
information about who is doing what to whom. Stories may also be placed
within the larger domain of all art forms in which creativity is expanded and
expressed.
Although we will be examining how stories are told, heard, and understood in
helping relationships, we will also be looking at the subject through a variety of
different lenses. After all, psychotherapy and counseling are conversations that
represent extensions of all that happens in the outside world. Clients bring all
their past experiences into the room, including the sum total of all the stories
they have heard, seen, and lived. It is our job, in part, to help them to link the
series of fables, myths, legends, tragedies, situation comedies, and dramas into
some kind of coherent narrative that makes sense to them and yet also provides a
more functional and self-enhancing conceptual framework to view themselves
and their place in the world.
We will review all kinds of evidence related to the ways that human beings
think, feel, talk, and even dream in stories, dominating the majority of conscious
and unconscious activity. When you add up all the time people spend watching
stories in plays, films, and television; reading stories in novels and online; telling
stories in conversations and social media; sharing gossip about oneself and
others; listening to stories in song lyrics; plus the 2,000 or so brief storied
fantasies each day and the dreamtime when sleeping, we can see that
psychotherapy can be conceptualized, as much as anything else, as a place to
make sense of all this flood of narrative information. It is the most private, safe
place, besides a confessional, to share the most sacred stories of our lives.
When faced with the challenge of understanding life, making choices, or
changing something about their lives, people often turn to stories (their own or
those they’ve heard) for a sense of grounding. After all, most of us got into this
line of work in the first place not only because we wanted to help people and
change the world but also because we have been so profoundly affected by
stories that we have heard and internalized.
This is a book about the meaning of stories in people’s lives, especially those
that have produced enduring changes in their values, behavior, lifestyle, and
worldview. Ultimately, we will explore how and why stories are so powerfully
influential in people’s lives, especially those offered by helpers and healers that
lead to major life transformations.
 2
THE POWER AND INFLUENCE OF STORIES

“TELL ME A fact and I’ll remember; tell me a truth and I’ll believe; but tell me a
story and it will live in my heart forever.” This oft-quoted proverb captures the
power of stories not only to penetrate our souls in ways that almost nothing else
can touch but also to influence us in ways that are beyond our understanding.
When studies are conducted to investigate what happens inside people’s brains
when they are listening to a story, they often report that people enter a trance
state in which they lose themselves in “breathless engagement” for as long as 20
minutes at a time, for some people the only times they are completely still
(Kuyvenhoven, 2007). Stories are also often repeated over and over so they are
better remembered and remain coherent representations of experience. This is
absolutely critical to our continued survival; it is how we learn from prior
mistakes and failures, as well as increase the likelihood that the lessons will be
remembered. The problem is that mistakes can be expensive and can even kill
you.
Stories provide opportunities to experience dangerous adventure, complex
problems, difficult challenges, wars, droughts, disasters, and anything else
imaginable. Stories become a much safer way to place ourselves in harm’s way,
navigate through trials and tribulations, and work out problems we might face in
the future, all without direct jeopardy. That’s why most stories feature things that
go wrong, lies and deception, surprises and plot twists, danger and threats,
villains and antagonists, tension and drama, all to provide real-life experiences in
the comfort of your chair. The brain rewards us for this devotion to story because
it has evolutionary benefits by placing us in situations that would otherwise not
be practical and allowing us to work things out as if we were really there
(Gazzaniga, 2008). What a brilliant adaptation that provides maximum benefits
with minimal investment of time and energy!
Besides preserving the customs, knowledge, wisdom, and practices of a
culture or community, stories serve a number of critical functions within any
group in order to teach people empathy, caring, and appropriate conduct. By
providing access to the inner lives and most intimate thoughts of characters
within the stories, they broaden perspectives and worldviews, as well as promote
greater understanding. They allow us to see things from multiple points of view
that, in turn, promote greater flexibility, moral responsibility, and deeper
understanding of others’ intentions and motives (Mehl-Madrona, 2010). As
therapists, we capitalize on this process routinely after clients tell us their
problems and we ask them to tell us a story about their best understanding of
what happened and why. We hear all kinds of different explanations—that they
have defective genes, poor luck, bad habits, or voices in their heads.

STORIES OF IMAGINED AND LIVED EXPERIENCE

Some of your earliest and most indelible memories are of stories you heard or
viewed. Reese (2013) remembers cuddling in her mother’s lap. “I don’t
remember the book. All I remember is the faint smell of coffee on her breath and
the warm encircling feeling of absolute safety” (p. ix). This recollection led her
to review other seminal memories from her childhood, each connected to a story
that taught her important lessons about her culture and family’s history growing
up during the Great Depression.
We don’t so much exchange stories with others as much as reinhabit them.
Rather than being static entities, they represent ongoing living processes that
help to construct experience and hold on to memories. Yet these recollections are
ever shifting, representing an internalized identity. In one study of how this
autobiographical memory changes over time, McAdams and colleagues (2006)
found remarkable continuity in the evolving life story, even through
developmental transitions. When participants, mostly college-age students,
related the same stories several years later, the endings had often been altered to
reflect greater resolution of conflicts and themes of redemption that resulted.
This is fascinating stuff, considering our main job is to help facilitate this same
process that appears to happen quite naturally.
In addition, stories are also almost always relational in that they are shared
with others for particular reasons, whether to enlighten, reveal, deceive, disturb,
distract, or entertain. Beyond anything else they might do to entertain, they
create relational connections and are designed to build empathy and deeper
understanding of others’ experiences (Rifkin, 2009). In one study of relational
patterns between parents and children, it was observed that stories are told an
average of once every 7 minutes, most of them designed as “induction scripts”
that teach moral values, cultural norms, and encourage reflection on important
life themes (Miller & Moore, 1989). After all, stories form the basis by which
we create meaning from lived experiences (Polkinghorne, 1988).
Consider the way we story our clinical cases in which anecdotes are created,
either in written progress notes, treatment plans, or shared in supervision or peer
consultation. Contrast, for example, these versions of the same case that begin
quite differently:
The patient manifests symptoms of hypochondriasis and psychosomatic
complaints...”
The individual tends to hold stress in his body...”
The client reports a number of disturbing physical problems that he believes
are caused by...”
Even the name assigned to the protagonist of the story (patient, client,
individual) signals particular language that is used in the narrative. Yet clinical
diagnosis is nothing more than a condensed story, just as psychological problems
can be viewed as a kind of “dystoria” or toxic self-narrative because of their
fragmented, constrained, and maladaptive plot (Roberts, 1999). Oftentimes,
therapists and health professionals unwittingly contribute to the self-limiting
internalized narratives by providing names or titles (called diagnoses) for the
stories presented. There’s a huge difference, for instance, between telling a client
he has “an anger problem,” “an intermittent explosive disorder,” “an
oppositional defiant disorder,” or simply “feels chronically misunderstood and
impatient.”

WE LIVE IN A STORIED UNIVERSE

The stories told in therapy, as well as those that are recast in light of our
interventions, form a relatively tiny proportion of all those that are experienced
during a typical day. The average American, for instance, spends about 5 hours a
day, one third of waking hours, completely immersed in stories. This includes
time spent watching television (3 hours), reading books and media (1 hour),
playing storied games (1/2 hour), and listening to music (1/2 hour) (Thompson,
2012). Add to that story time the amount of daily conversation spent either
listening or telling stories as gossip and life experiences (about half of all social
interactions), plus the number of stories threaded through dreams (2 hours each
night). Whatever time is left when supposedly working and taking care of daily
business is actually spent daydreaming—46% of all waking moments (when not
otherwise telling, watching, or reading stories) are spent daydreaming, living in
another universe (Killingsworth & Gilbert, 2010).
We will be exploring together all the ways that we might become more
reflective and critical about what makes a particular story meaningful and
influential for others. One place to begin is by considering a story that had a
huge impact on your life, the choices you made, and the ways you think and feel
about things. This could include anything from a favorite fairy tale as a child to a
recent novel you read, a show or film you watched, or a story told to you by a
friend, colleague, or family member. As best as you can tell, what was it about
the story that hooked you? What have been the lingering effects that continue to
haunt you? Why did this particular story have so much meaning for you? What
was it about the way it was told that most captured and commanded your
attention in ways you have not been able to forget? How has this story been
integrated into your own life to keep it alive and growing?
To answer questions like these in any kind of meaningful way, we must first
examine some of the original functions of stories, how and why they evolved as
the primary means by which we communicate experiences and share
information, as well as commit them to memory.

FUNCTIONS AND ROLES OF STORIES

In the history of our planet for the last hundreds of thousands of years the most
singular event may very well have been the evolution of language in humans that
allows us to pass on information from one generation to the next (Christian,
2011). Whereas reptiles, amphibians, and other mammals are limited by their
DNA molecules to pass along bits of adaptive behavior that usually takes
thousands of years to encrypt, humans learn through real time and via language
to share precise information with collective memory. We are the only creatures
with this gift of storytelling to transmit successes and failures of prior
generations so that new occupants can profit from the advancements of 10,000
years of civilization.
It has been surmised that one of the original functions of language in
preliterate times was to tell stories. These oral narratives about hunts, battles,
births, deaths, past events, and present struggles were crucial in order to provide
some kind of historical record that might guide behavior, especially with regard
to making important decisions. Stories were important in so many other ways in
that they permitted particularly talented storytellers to demonstrate their skill and
creativity; they might not have been the best hunters or fighters, but they enjoyed
status as a function of their verbal powers (Boyd, 2009). And it is no wonder that
storytellers were elevated to significant roles because of their job to provide
shared experiences that hold a group together (Gottschall, 2012a). That is one
reason why the most accomplished writers, actors, film directors, and musicians
are so well compensated for their talents.
You may easily bring to mind particular performers or actors who have spoken
to you in a profound way, sometimes consistently because of their abilities to
become the character they are playing. One man, who always felt like an
outsider and different from others, identified strongly with the actor Christopher
Walken because of the strange, eccentric roles he plays. He remembered the
actor’s story—that he always knew he was “not everyone’s cup of tea”—and that
prompted the man to realize, “I’m the same way! I knew who I was when I was
four years old. I might have been weird, I might have been goofy, I might not
have been that bright, but I had a purpose in life” (Woods, 2012, p. 146). He was
able to identify with someone famous and prominent, someone whose job was to
tell stories, and this led to a kind of self-acceptance that perhaps only
psychotherapy could promote.
As mentioned earlier, we are the only species on the planet that has this
capacity to reflect on stories and internalize them, not to mention document our
collective experiences. This is hardly a luxury for purely entertainment purposes
but rather represents a survival strategy to pass along valuable information on
the whereabouts of enemies, the legacies of feuds or debts, or gossip about who
was a potential trustworthy mate. After all, if a woman made a poor choice, the
cost of such a mistake would be life-threatening considering her “investment” of
finding 70,000 extra calories to feed an unwanted child or offspring from a less
worthy gene pool. This process of trading information continues to this day in
which we use stories in all their various forms to highlight significant
experiences that may be of interest to others who struggle with similar
challenges.
Throughout history, in every culture around the world, stories have been the
primary means by which to transmit legends, lessons, and other useful
information. Whether among the Greeks, Egyptians, Chinese, Hebrews,
Aboriginals, Bushmen, Sioux, or within any contemporary locale, stories
evolved as an original function of language to record significant events and to
pass along critical intelligence and life lessons that were often learned at great
cost (Gottschall & Wilson, 2005; Hsu, 2008). Often such stories, whether tone
poems, Greek tragedies, Shakespearean plays, Wagnerian operas, Hindu epics,
Indian Bollywood music videos, comedic monologues, or contemporary films or
novels, feature universal motifs across all cultures, highlighting themes of
romantic connections, tragic heroes, spiritual and religious origins, gender roles,
wants, desires, dangers, and warnings.
FIGURE 2.1 A puppet stand. Every culture sanctions designated storytellers to pass along historical
knowledge and entertain members of the tribe. Whether by shamans, politicians, actors, musicians, teachers,
psychotherapists, or puppeteers, the stories hold and maintain attention in ways that other forms of
instruction and persuasion can’t approach.
Photo Credit: Supplied by author

Not only do the subjects of seminal stories follow parallel paths across
cultures and time, but they also share similar features. All good stories,
regardless of their particular form and structure, are designed to entertain, to
capture interest, and to evoke strong emotional connections. Above all else, they
feature some kind of psychological realism that rings true on both rational and
intuitive levels. They may take place in alternative realities as fantasy or science
fiction, but the characters and their actions must be thoroughly believable (Mar,
Kelley, Heatherton, & Macrae, 2007). They are designed to transport us to
another world, one in which we are open to new experiences that we could not
possibly experience any other way.

WHAT QUALIFIES AS A STORY?

As we’ve already seen, stories take so many different forms, both within oral
traditions, written records, entertainment, journalism, politics, organizations,
digital and social media, and so on. Yet in all their structures a story contains a
sequence of events over time, often related to some presenting problem or
conflict. They represent a particular interpretation of experience, which accounts
for their variability and often evolving nature over time. When precisely and
technically defined, they also involve specific characters, triggering crisis events,
a surprise or dramatic tension, and some kind of resolution (Bruner, 1991;
Montangero, 2012). In all their manifestations, a story consists of a coherent
account of events or experiences, real or imagined, that is told for purposes of
enlightenment, instruction, or entertainment.
Whether as fiction, fairy tale, film, or news story, the particular meaning of a
story is derived through some type of emotional arousal that leads people to
reflect on the content in a personally relevant way. Stories thus represent a
collaboration between author/teller and the intended audience. They have no
intrinsic meanings except those that are co-created during the process. After all,
people read all kinds of things into stories that the author never intended, much
less considered. It isn’t what’s in the story that matters but rather what each of us
sees, hears, feels, and imagines is present. These interpretations are all related to
personal context that includes your own perceptual filters and the circumstances
of your life.
Structurally, stories usually have three “acts,” whether a play, film, puppet
show, or novel. There is typically an introduction that leads to some conflict, a
series of actions that lead to a climax, followed by some resolution. The plotlines
are usually linear, although there have been certain notable exceptions like Pulp
Fiction, Momento, or The Time Traveler’s Wife, that begin in the middle and
jump forward and backward as flashbacks. Regardless of their structure, form,
media, or delivery system, “stories almost always pack an emotional punch”
(Pink, 2006, p. 103).
 Stories can be brief and small (anecdote, parable, rumor, joke, riddle) or
extensive in length in the form of a novel or series. Stories can be reasonably
accurate accounts of real-life events or experiences, or fictional representations,
but usually conform to one of several familiar plots that involve conflict between
a protagonist and Nature, the environment, technology, the supernatural, the self,
God, or some manifestation of evil (Tobias, 1993). In all their permutations, they
include a set of events that are connected together in a narrative, usually with a
central theme or focal point (Denning, 2000), as well as a moral or message
(Weich, 2013). This is the case whether we will be discussing a movie, television
show, novel, fairy tale, social media post, computer game, advertisement, travel
blog, photographic display, or even a slide presentation in a meeting.

INDIGENOUS ORAL TRADITIONS

Among indigenous and preliterate cultures, stories were (and are) the primary
means by which traditions and history are passed along from one generation to
the next. The stories themselves become cultural artifacts, “published” narratives
that transmit important teachings and key historical events. They become the
sanctioned records of a group, designed to be remembered, honored, and
introduced to each new member of the tribe.
“It’s the story,” writes African novelist Chinua Achebe (1997, p. 114), “not the
others, that saves our progeny from blundering like blind beggars onto the spikes
of the cactus fence. Does the blind man own his escort? No, neither do we the
story; rather it is the story that owns us and directs us.” It is the story that guides
the way, providing wisdom—and warnings—to future generations.
Among indigenous groups such as the Inuit of North America or Greenland,
the Aboriginals of Australia, the Bushman of Southern Africa, or Native
American tribes, stories are told and retold through art, dance, songs, chants, and
ceremonial enactments. In each case, the story presents a tradition that is deemed
significant enough for public consumption. Tribal rituals incorporate the stories
into daily life, telling and retelling them as the means by which to hold collective
wisdom from past generations.
Even during contemporary times, whether conversing face to face, through
texts, e-mails, or phone calls, the vast majority of conversations involve telling
stories about oneself or others. It is precisely the power of narratives, whether
biographies, fiction, or myths, to provide pathways that would never have been
imagined, much less considered. We pass along the stories of our past and lived
experiences. We indoctrinate and acculturate children through the legends and
myths of the past. We record significant events related to births, marriages,
separations, and divorces. We meticulously document the battles of war, the
political skirmishes that define social issues. We present a kind of revisionist
history of land acquisitions and the subjugation of foreign enemies. We present
religious origin stories featuring Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Mohammed, Brigham
Young, or other spiritual figures. We idolize and idealize heroes and glamorize
their exploits in songs, legends, and myths. After all, change is at the heart of
many stories, highlighting themes of growth, development, transformation, and
conflict resolution.
Whether among indigenous groups, or within contemporary Western cultures,
there is universal folklore that is shared by designated professionals whether
they take on the role of mystic, lama, healer, actor, teacher, or psychotherapist.
The protagonist of indigenous stories may take the form of trickster, wizard,
ghost, or various animal forms that are considered sacred, whereas in the West
we often assign him or her names like Zeus, Dorothy, Luke Skywalker, or Lion
King.
In his studies of universal myths, Joseph Campbell (2008) highlighted the
ways that almost all cultures developed seminal stories with similar plotlines in
which a hero or heroine is called upon to begin a quest in search of some version
of a holy grail or to defeat a feared enemy. Often there is some divine
intervention (via God, Merlin, Tinkerbelle, Wizard of Oz, Zeus, fairy godmother,
good witch) that provides crucial assistance and guidance during times of
adversity. Contained within such stories are common narrative themes related to
romantic love, power struggles, social status, and satisfying basic needs related
to survival in a hostile environment (Hogan, 2003).
Time and time again, in almost any language, in any culture or era, the
seminal stories are primarily constructed as tales of transformation. The hero or
heroine must undertake a dangerous journey, one for the good of the tribe to
defeat a monster or enemy, retrieve a sacred object, or pursue a spiritual path.
This expedition is fraught with dangers and many obstacles to overcome
(dragons, natural disasters, vicious enemies, hungry predators, evil spirits), most
of which can only be defeated through some form of drastic change in
personality, worldview, or behavior. As such, these stories become metaphors for
the challenges faced in everyday life, demonstrating the importance of courage,
resilience, determination, and caring for others.
In any culture, ancient or contemporary, indigenous or Westernized, young
people are exposed over and over again to simulations that prepare them for
what they might face when they assume leadership responsibilities. We may no
longer sit around a fire listening to elders regale us with heroic tales of the past,
but there are no less powerful storytelling vehicles for today’s youth when they
watch films or play computer games that test their problem-solving skills. Some
of the popular books in children’s literature (Narnia, Charlotte’s Web, Velveteen
Rabbit, The Little Prince) and the adolescent genre (Twilight, Harry Potter,
Hunger Games, The Outsider) deal with themes of courage, acceptance, loyalty,
and personal identity, exactly the developmental issues that most weigh on their
hearts and minds.
Lest we think of these storied characters as somehow being “only” fictional,
we must remember that some of the most influential people in our world never
actually lived, yet they still altered millions of lives (Lazar, Karlan, & Salter,
2006). Consider the influential power of mythological figures like Icarus, Santa
Claus, or King Arthur. Inventory all the fictional characters that have shaped our
lives in so many ways, including everyone from Peter Pan and the Wizard of Oz
to Captain Kirk, Harry Potter, Don Quixote, and Cinderella. In each case, we
identified with their struggles, imagined ourselves by their sides, and felt as if
they populated our lives. In almost every sense they were as real to us as any
other friends in the neighborhood.

TECHNOLOGIES CHANGE BUT STORIES REMAIN THE SAME

It is widely known that Johannes Gutenberg invented the movable-type printing

press in the middle of the 15th century, making it possible for book-length
stories to be widely produced and distributed. This is considered to be the single
greatest invention of human civilization, even more important than the
microscope, telescope, compass, and clock, all crucial instruments for
breakthrough discoveries (Boorstein, 1983). It is less often recognized that 1,000
years earlier, during the Tang Dynasty in China, block printing was first invented
by Buddhist monks to create scrolls of religious texts. These two advances in
technology created opportunities to disseminate stories to the masses without the
actual physical presence of the author.
Even after printing, and other media developments (radio, projectors,
computers, Internet, television, mobile devices), we still use face-to-face talk as
the primary means to tell stories about ourselves and others. This is quickly
evolving since members of the millennial generation (born from 1983 to 2005)
now consume the majority of their stories not through books or television but
through alternative media such as YouTube, Internet streaming, Facebook, blogs,
tweets, and videos (Chmielewski & James, 2012). Nevertheless it is through
various forms of communication (phone, face to face, e-mail, texts, social
media) that we relate significant events that seem worthy of sharing to others,
especially to those in our immediate family and community:
 • “You wouldn’t believe what happened to me today.”
• “I just had an interesting experience.”
• “I don’t understand what just happened.”
• “This might help explain why that happened.”
• “I heard something really disturbing today.”
• “Boy, have I got a story for you!”
Most conversations involve some form of storytelling, either relating
something that happened to you or passing along anecdotes about others that
might interest the listener. Within larger group settings, most religious traditions
use stories contained in their sacred texts (Bible, Torah, Koran, Book of
Mormon, I Ching, stories of Zen) to define themselves as a group with a shared
identity and set of values. The stories are also used to enforce and regulate
behavior within the group, including object lessons that defiance, selfishness,
sins, and immorality would be punished by divine intervention. Transgressors
are warned in the stories that they will go to Hell or become reincarnated in a
lower life form if they don’t stay with the sanctioned program.
In whatever form they were disseminated, as legends, myths, plays, or
biographies of historical figures, there have been stories that changed the world.
Alexander the Great was reportedly inspired by stories of the Trojan War to
attempt world domination. Continuing the cycle, Alexander’s exploits motivated
Napoleon to try a similar ambitious agenda, which in turn, influenced Adolf
Hitler to begin his conquests.
In addition to historical stories, fiction has also had a strong impact on world
events. When Abraham Lincoln was first introduced to Harriet Beecher Stowe,
he only have jokingly teased that she was largely responsible for starting the
Civil War because of the attention she brought to slavery and equal rights
(Strange, 2002). In a similar vein to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Herman Melville’s
novel, Moby Dick was influential in stopping the wholesale slaughter of whales,
just as Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle was credited for its role in promoting the
labor movement and workers’ rights (Green & Donahue, 2009). More recently,
Ayn Rand’s novel Atlas Shrugged is considered one of the most influential
novels of the 20th century and credited with the birth of the Tea Party political
movement, as well as the economic policy of the Federal Reserve (Gottschall,
2012b). In addition to the power of books, stories on television and in films have
also had a huge impact on social movements. Consider the influence of the
Cosby Show in changing attitudes toward middle-class African Americans or
Will and Grace altering attitudes toward gay relationships.
In addition, the distinction between fictional characters and those who actually
existed is sometimes confusing. In a survey conducted in Britain, one quarter of
people didn’t know that Winston Churchill had actually lived while two thirds
believed that Sherlock Holmes and King Arthur had been real (Emery, 2008).
What has changed so much in recent years is that stories no longer command
quite the collective experience they once held in popular culture because of
temporal inconsistencies in how and when they are consumed. With the advent
of DVRs, alternative media, cable and satellite television, and so many other
ways that stories are disseminated via the Internet, listeners and viewers don’t
necessarily have the same kinds of shared stories—at least at the same time. No
longer do families sit around the radio listening to national broadcasts. It is no
longer common for workers to stand around the water cooler (at least we still
have those!) and talk about the shows they watched the evening before on one of
three or four television stations. It is far more likely that we might ask, “Have
you seen that episode yet?” We now delay our entertainment and informative
stories until a convenient time, which may not at all be in synch with others
within your circle.

POWERFUL STORIES TO PROVIDE SOLACE, SUPPORT, AND NEW

INSIGHTS

Whether in the form of twice-told oral tales, printed manuscripts, eBooks, blog
posts, or microstories on Twitter, whether structured as fiction, biography, or
self-help genre, stories can become the impetus for dramatic life changes. It is
because of our capacity to identify and empathize with others, not to mention the
imagination that allows us to vicariously enter other worlds, that
listeners/readers can be so powerfully influenced by narratives. That we can also
reflect on our experiences, and make meaning from stories we consume, adds to
the potential for dramatic changes that can be possible. In all the various forms,
people report how the experience significantly altered their values, changed their
relationships with others, provided comfort during times of despair or stress,
helped them recover from addictions, and promoted deep insights and self-
reflection that led to a host of other changes (Apodaca, & Miller, 2003; Koch,
1994; Stier, Adler, & Foster, 1997; Wright, Clum, Roodman, & Febbraro
Greggorio, 2000). This is especially the case when stories are created or shared
in such a way to help identify or emphasize potential client strengths and
resources that can be accessed and applied to presenting problems (Saleeby,
2012; Slivinske & Slivinske, 2014).
In one study of how people are transformed by stories, the participants
described a number of processes that were most influential for them (Levitt,
Rattanasampan, Chaidaroon, Stanley, & Robinson, 2009):
1. Identification with characters. It felt safer and less threatening to explore
issues with which they felt an affinity, making it possible to explore new
options and solutions that they hadn’t previously considered.
2. Feelings of joy. They felt moved by the stories in ways that lifted their
spirits and provided a sense of hope and optimism for the future. Rather
than seeing the stories as an escape from their lives, they described them
as an opportunity for new experiences that had previously seemed
inaccessible.
3. Critical evaluation. Stepping back from their own problems and
examining them in a different, external contexts helped to promote new
insights and perspectives, as well as to assess the relative usefulness of
their current beliefs.
4. Communication and expressiveness. They felt inspired to be more honest
and open in their relationships with others as a result of the modeling that
took place within stories. They reported greater appreciation for what
they already have.
One participant talked about how during times of particular difficulty, when
there were temptations to relapse or abandon hope, stories could be reread over
and over to keep a clear head and maintain momentum. In this case, the person
found solace and support in a main theme that she could utilize her own unique
gifts and resources in spite of certain limitations she faced: “Sometimes [when] I
felt discouraged I would think of the characters of the story. The hero in this
story was not intelligent. But he always solves his problems in his own way to
achieve what he wants” (p. 340).
That people receive comfort and support from stories is hardly a new
revelation. At the end of the 18th century, when any surgical procedure was life
threatening before the development of antibiotics, sterilization, and anesthesia, a
little boy was forced to undergo a terrifying experience of having a tumor
removed. The boy was told the story of Snow White to distract and entertain him
and reported that he neither felt much discomfort nor fear afterward. The boy’s
name was Jacob Grimm, and he partially traces his life’s work collecting stories
to this transformative event in his life (Burns, 2001).
When creative individuals from a variety of disciplines were asked to share a
few stories that changed their lives and “made you who you are today,” they
revealed titles that were well worn and tattered on their shelves, books that they
revisited again and again for inspiration and support (La Force, 2012). One of
those who was asked to submit his list, writer Dave Eggers, summarized the
impact: “These are the books that crushed me, changed me when I first read
them, and to which I’ve returned many times since, always finding more in
them. I really am the kind of dork who goes back to the same books for
inspiration again and again” (p. 52). In Eggers’s case, he is talking specifically
about Hemmingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls and Herzog by Saul Bellow, both
of which remind him of what is possible, how a single page, even a sentence, can
haunt a reader forever. Table 2.1 shows a sample of this “ideal bookshelf” that
includes books that were so transformative to professionals whose lives depend
on their creative output. These were the stories that forever changed them.
TABLE 2.1

Examples of Individuals Whose Lives Were Transformed by a Story

Creative Individual
Judd Apatow, film producer
Michael Chabon, novelist
Robert Crais, mystery writer
Junot Díaz, novelist and essayist
Jennifer Egan, novelist and journalist
James Franco, actor and filmmaker
Malcolm Gladwell, writer
Lev Grossman, novelist and critic
Tony Hawk, champion skateboarder
Pico Iyer, travel writer
Lawrence Lessig, legal scholar
Stephanie Meyer, novelist
Patti Smith, musician and songwriter
Lesley Stahl, journalist
Joyce Carol Oates, novelist
Frank McCourt, novelist
Bill Clinton, US President
Barack Obama, US President
John McCain, US Senator
Jodie Foster, actress and filmmaker
Natalie Portman, actress
Influential Narrative
Seize the Day by Saul Bellow
Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges
The Little Sister by Raymond Chandler
The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien
Emma by Jane Austen
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Black Mafia by Francis Ianni
Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis
Endurance by Alfred Lansing
The Quiet American by Graham Greene
The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
The Shoes of the Fisherman by Morris West
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
Henry VIII by William Shakespeare
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Márquez
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
The Diary of Anne Frank
Denzel Washington, actor Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
Bill Nye, television science expert Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein
Stephen King, novelist Lord of the Flies by William Golding

While a teenager, Natalie was recovering from the end of a relationship—she

felt wounded, dispirited, and depressed. She was looking through a used
bookstore near her family’s apartment when she came across a novel called The
Awakening by Kate Chopin. There was something about the title of the book that
appealed to her, perhaps because she felt herself hibernating in a somnolent
slumber. To this day, Natalie can’t remember what it was about the story that was
so impressionable. “It was some kind of coming-of-age book for women,” she
recalled. “I know there was a female protagonist and she was trying to get out of
a tired marriage or something. But what I do remember so clearly is that after
reading the book I felt totally revived.”
It was as if the story was exactly what she needed at that moment in her life.
“Even now it seems amazing to me that the book ended up in the hands of a
desperately hurting girl who had nowhere else to turn. It totally changed my
life.”
Natalie’s experience really isn’t all that unusual. We hear time and again about
the ways that people are able to transport themselves into a story, imagine
themselves as part of the narrative, with all the emotional responses and
reactions as if it was actually happening to them. This is one reason why the use
of stories is so effective when working with children because of their heightened
imaginations and openness to fantasy experience. Burns (2005) mentions several
classic children’s stories that impart particular values such as Pinocchio and
Cinderella (devotion and determination), The Jungle Book and Harry Potter
(respect and friendship), and The Little Prince (kindness and love).
Generations of young people have been strongly shaped and impacted by the
stories they’ve read and seen, not only for the purposes of escape and
entertainment but, in some cases, as a landmark to forge personal identity in a
number of ways (see Chapter 6). One therapist describes how the science fiction
novels of Arthur C. Clarke helped him in his process of coming out as a gay man
struggling with his sexual identity. It was while reading Childhood’s End that he
was first exposed to a casual mention of sexual orientation in an accepting and
flexible way. “As a young man dealing with such issues myself, this was a very
important story for me. It came just as my hometown minister was telling me I
was going to Hell if I did not forsake such a ‘lifestyle’” (Pope, 2013, p. 23).
Even as adults we are still incredibly impressionable to the impact of stories.
Consider my own example that helped launch the idea for this book: living in a
zombie universe that I couldn’t quite escape, even when the story was over. And
for many of us devoted to fictional stories, this isn’t all that unusual of an
occurrence.

THE SUCTION OF STORIES

It’s really quite amazing when you consider that viewing ink-etched marks on
slivers of tree fiber can elicit such strong emotional reactions and intellectual
stimulation among our species. Somehow we are able to look at lines of scribble,
decode them, and feel as if someone is actually speaking to us. Whereas this
moment, as you digest these very words and thoughts, you are sent off on little
mind trips to consider an idea presented and personalize it in some useful way,
stories of fiction magnify this effect (Speer, Reynolds, Swallow, & Zacks, 2009).
As mentioned earlier, while reading or hearing stories (at least good ones) we
suspend critical judgment and skepticism, diving into the narrative, surrendering
all control, joining the adventure with virtually the same level of emotional
arousal as if it was real. “When you sell a man a book,” writes journalist
Christopher Morley (1920), “you don’t sell him just twelve ounces of paper and
ink and glue—you sell him a whole new life.”
There is “truth” in fiction that, in some ways, is far more real than any
rendering of factual descriptions. At Harvard Business School, MBA candidates
are introduced to the moral conunundrums they will face when in positions of
power by considering the actions of Wily Loman in Death of a Salesman or
Machiavelli in The Prince (Meek, 2014). Joseph Badaracco (2006), a faculty
member in the program, has found that far more than only reading textbooks,
studying research, or reviewing case examples, fictional stories are impactful in
ways that other sources can’t touch. Even though the problems confronted by the
characters did not actually occur, students are provided a window into a leader’s
inner character and experience. They learn not only about what happened and
why but what it feels like to make certain decisions or follow particular courses
of action.
Interestingly, not all forms of fiction have the same impact. In one study it was
found that reading literary fiction (book award finalists or classic literature)
offers greater benefits that popular fiction (Kidd & Castano, 2013). It was
discovered that literary novels, because of their complexity and intellectual
engagement, require more of the readers’ imagination and active involvement in
the process. Such works are more likely to promote greater empathy and
interpersonal sensitivity, as well as challenge existing assumptions and
worldviews.
Fictional characters from television and film exert their own influence on
popular culture, as well as individual behavior and choices. When she was 8
years old, an African American girl turned on the television to watch Star Trek
and saw Uhura sitting at her station on the Starship Enterprise. She ran
screaming through the house, “Mama, Mama, there’s a Black lady on TV and
she ain’t no maid.” The little girl later disclosed, “I knew right then that I could
be anybody I wanted to be. I could be a superstar” (Semple, 2010, p. A23). It
certainly helped that the strong identification resulted, in part, from the child’s
identification with someone of her own background and similar appearance
(Terrero, 2014).
That little girl was Whoopi Goldberg, the famous comedian and actress, who
eventually ended up having a part written for her in a newer version of the
popular show. And this extraordinary story echoes a phenomenon that occurs
repeatedly in people’s life narratives. Another minority woman who found
inspiration from a fictional film inspired her to achieve her profession’s highest
honor. Supreme Court justice Sonia Sotomayor attributes her interest in law as
first arising from seeing the classic film 12 Angry Men.
In his analysis of the ways that stories make us uniquely human, literature
scholar Jonathan Gottschall (2012a, p. 3) observed: “Human minds yield
helplessly to the suction of a story. No matter how hard we concentrate, no
matter how deep we dig in our heels, we just can’t resist the gravity of
alternative worlds.” He should know since he has devoted his career to the study
of stories and how they have transformed lives and altered history in so many
ways. He has framed the whole purpose of childhood as a form of story
enactment, preparing young people for the hunt, for battles, struggles, parenting,
and leadership.
Certainly stories are immensely fun and entertaining, but they are also
absolutely critical as a kind of mental rehearsal for life’s greatest challenges.
Digesting, creating, and telling stories appear to be far more important that mere
play, containing deadly serious lessons of survival. Consider children’s races,
competitions, sports, and games as simulations for skill development and
problem solving. Storied and fantasy play, in particular, involves confronting
monsters, enemies, predators, and other kinds of adversity in which good
triumphs over evil and the likes of Darth Vader, the Bogeyman, Wicked Witch,
or Big Bad Wolf.
Regardless of the media, there is a staggering array of different types of
stories, a few of which are noted in Table 2.2. But this is just a sampling of
traditional vehicles that doesn’t include contemporary versions like novels,
cartoons, films, television shows, short stories, song lyrics, or even blogs and
graffiti.
TABLE 2.2

Types of Stories
Type Description Examples
Folklore Traditional oral tales converted to Hans Christian Andersen, The Brothers Grimm
written form
Pourquoi Explain why things are the way theyRudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories for Little Children, such as
tales are How the Leopard Got His Spots
Myths Cultural or religious traditions as Buddha, Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, Vishnu, Brigham Young
origin stories
Parables Teaching stories with moral lessons The Tortoise and the Hare, The Emperor’s New Clothes
or devoted to life’s mysteries
Ballads Romantic stories set to music Robert Burns’s John Barleycorn, Righteous Brothers’
“Unchained Melody,” Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven”
Legends Embellished stories of quest or Robin Hood, Zorro, the Pied Piper
adventure
Epics Lengthy, extended fantasy story of King Arthur legends, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter series
heroic deeds
Tall tales Exaggerated exploits of heroes Paul Bunyan, John Henry
Fables Animal stories with moral lessons Aesop’s Lion and the Mouse
Nursury Children’s stories set to poetry Mother Goose, Jack and Jill
rhymes
Joke Stories to arouse laughter or “A guy walks into a bar...”
surprise
Rumor or Exchange of unconfirmed “Did you hear that she was fired because...” “Is it just me, or
gossip information about social behavior are the two of them still together?”
ChronicleHistorical and systematic record of The Famous Chronicle of King Edward the First
events
Play Historical or fictional story Shakespeare’s King Richard I
performed on stage

STORIES CHANGE THE WORLD

If stories can have such a huge impact on the development of an individual, they
can also strongly affect national and world events. Charles Dickens’s A
Christmas Carol is credited (or blamed) for elevating the holiday to the
stratospheric level of attention it now receives; prior to the book’s publication it
was treated as a relatively minor celebration on a par with Memorial Day or
Veterans Day. Other books, not so much stories as conversations, changed the
world’s governments: Plato’s The Republic, Karl Marx’s The Communist
Manifesto, Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man, and Adam Smith’s The Wealth of
Nations. When President Obama reviewed his first years in office, he was asked
about the single biggest regret. He didn’t mention any single policy, nor did he
refer to any particular decision. His biggest mistake “...was thinking that this job
was just about getting policy right. And that’s important, but the nature of this
office is also to tell a story to the American people that gives them a sense of
unity and purpose and optimism, especially during tough times” (Hart, 2012).
Perhaps the most influential stories of all come from religious texts and
scriptures—The Bible, Koran, Torah, Tibetan Book of the Dead, Book of
Mormon, Bhagavad Gita, I Ching, Tao Te Ching—each of which shapes the
values and behavior of millions or even billions of avid followers (see Table 2.3
for list of most influential books). Apart from the messages in these sacred
books, it’s the stories within them that have been most influential in leading
people to strive for higher moral and social grace.
TABLE 2.3

Very Selected List of Most Influential Books

Nonfiction Fiction
Bible To Kill a Mockingbird
Book of Mormon Gone With the Wind
Koran Atlas Shrugged
I Ching (Book of Changes) The Iliad and The Odyssey
Civil Disobedience Ulysses
On the Origin of Species Crime and Punishment
The Communist Manifesto The Republic
The Critique of Pure Reason The First Folio of Shakespeare
The Interpretation of Dreams Great Expectations
Relativity: Special and General Theory The Trial
The Road Less Traveled The Lord of the Rings
The Feminine Mystique Uncle Tom’s Cabin
Man’s Search for Meaning Walden
When Bad Things Happen to Good People Don Quixote
Sexual Behavior in the Human Male Grapes of Wrath
Autobiography of Malcolm X Moby Dick
In Cold Blood The Jungle
The Joy of Cooking For Whom the Bell Tolls
The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care The Catcher in the Rye
Alcoholics Anonymous The Cat in the Hat
How to Win Friends and Influence People The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
The Second Sex War and Peace
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions 1984

Namrata (2012), a 24-year-old engineer from India, became severely

despondent when her parents didn’t permit her to marry outside of her caste. She
was forced to abandon her first love and best friend, and seriously considered
suicide as a viable choice to end her pain. “I wanted to die,” she admitted. “I
wanted to run away. I did everything to forget and move on, but every attempt
made me more and more lonely. Day by day my depression was taking me.”
Namrata tried to move forward as best she could. Out of desperation she
started reaching out to friends, one of whom recommended she read The Secret
(Byrne, 2006), an influential new-age self-help book with a strong religious
flavor. “Day by day I noticed how life changes just with a shift in your thinking.
It was a time when I started feeling good about myself.”
It seemed like it was overnight that some of the messages from the book
clicked for her. It inspired her to let go of the negative messages she was telling
herself and to reclaim a more optimistic, hopeful attitude. There are many other
ways that such a lesson might be learned—most notably from psychotherapy—
but in this case Namrata found affirmation and support from a single volume.
As a counterpoint to Namrata’s experience of her spiritual views being shifted
as a result of her greater attachment to a religious doctrine, Levi was influenced
by a book in another direction. While growing up, he had been thoroughly
indoctrinated into a strong, rather restrictive religious tradition. His world had
been limited to the values and traditions exposed in small-town life in which the
church provided the main focus and guidance.
“I can’t remember who, but someone gave me a copy of Herman Hesse’s
Siddhartha when I was in my early teens. It’s the story of the journey that led to
the Buddha’s enlightenment, how he turned from a privileged life to one devoted
to the pursuit of knowledge, freeing himself of worldly possessions and religious
dogma. That book changed everything for me. It opened me to new ideas that I
had never imagined. It created this romantic notion that I’ve followed my whole
life since then that the most noble goal in life is the search for truth and
understanding.”
It’s perhaps not surprising that Levi eventually became an academic in his
adult life. He can trace a number of influences that led him on this particular
path, but it all began with this small book that showed him for the first time a
vision of someone who could become freed from rigid beliefs and oppressive
values that were not his own.
Far from unusual, advocates of many different religious traditions often report
that stories from sacred texts have virtually changed their lives overnight. After
all, it is essentially our beliefs and expectations that often predispose us to be
affected strongly by any healing or helping encounter. When you enter such an
experience, not only from a position of hope and desperation but also with a
strong believe in divine intervention, it is no wonder that the effects would be so
powerful and long lasting.
Whether stories are sanctioned within religious traditions, or represent
influential books by scientists or writers, there is little doubt that a number of
written accounts have quite literally changed the world in ways that still
reverberate today (see Table 2.4).
TABLE 2.4
Source: From Downs (1983).

STORIES TO INFLUENCE BEHAVIOR

One of the most famous incidents of a story influencing people’s behavior in a

dramatic way, leading to widespread panic, occurred in 1938 when Orson Welles
read the classic science fiction story War of the Worlds on the radio. One expert
on digital media traces his interest in the field to that day, remembering as a
child feeling so terrified when first listening to H. G. Wells’s classic tale of alien
invasion (Alexander, 2011). He was hardly the only one to be so viscerally
frightened since much of the nation that tuned in a bit late to the radio program
genuinely believed that Martians had landed. People fled their homes in panic.
Police stations were besieged by calls for help. During the ensuing analysis of
the event, some politicians and commentators believed that radio stories were
too dangerous to be broadcast to the public because of their potential to spread
chaos and panic (Bartholomew, 2001).
For better, and sometimes for worse, fictitious stories make their way into the
public consciousness more as urban legends and myths than as any semblance of
truth. With new technologies that make it possible for almost anyone to spread
rumors or lies under the guise of news reporting, or even a television network
that thrives on sensational stories with little basis in reality, it is no wonder that
people will believe the strangest things and be totally impervious to changing
their minds, even in the face of irrefutable evidence. In one poll conducted in
2013 it was discovered that 14% of Americans believed that the President of the
United States was really the anti-Christ, 37% thought global warning was a
hoax, and a whopping 29% believed in the presence of aliens on our planet that
the government was covering up (Public Policy Polling, 2013).

STORIES THAT APPEAL TO THE HEART

The worlds of business and marketing have been especially intrigued with the
ways that stories can be used to influence and seduce consumers to buy their
merchandise. Advertisements and sales pitches are often organized around
stories in which 30-or 60-second narratives, or a photographic image, are
employed to evoke some kind of emotional connection to the product on display.
This “consumer item” may not only involve a physical entity but also a human
product in the form of a political ideal. Some of the most influential and
powerful political figures have been those who are especially skilled at
packaging their inspirational life stories. This has been as true for the likes of
Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Roosevelt as it has for contemporary figures like
Barack Obama. Likewise, some of the most persuasive political figures have
been great storytellers who are adept at conveying their essential messages
embedded in narratives that are, at once, emotionally evocative and vividly
constructed.
“I was just talking to a couple the other day, Marian and Theodore,” begins
the response to a complex, abstract question about the economy during a
presidential debate. “They had lost their home, their jobs, their life savings,”
continues the candidate, weaving together a story that, while never answering
the question directly, presents himself or herself in the role of a compassionate
listener and attempts to make an empathic connection with viewers that is
considered far more crucial that any factual answer.
Whether we are talking about policy making, political influence, or raising
money for an election or a charitable cause, it is far more effective to present
stories rather than data, although Brene Brown has wryly observed in her classic
TED talk that stories are simply data with soul, meaning that they have an
emotional valence that sometimes bypasses the brain altogether and goes directly
to the heart. People are often less moved by the quantifiable than by the
qualitative dimensions of experience told in a story. In one study in which people
were divided into different groups in order to make a pitch for charitable
donations to stop world hunger in Africa, one group was given compelling
statistics about the millions of starving children who were dying each year. The
second group was told a story about an “identifiable victim,” a 7-year-old girl
named Rokia who lives in Mali and is starving to death. In this study, and many
others, it was found that it is far more effective to appeal to the heart through a
powerful story of one person than appeal to the head by presenting data (Small,
Loewenstein, & Slovic, 2007). You might remember ways that your own
sympathy was elicited by similar stories in the media, such as the case of “Baby
Jessica” who fell into a well in 1987 and captured world attention or, more
recently, the Pakistani girl, Malala, who was attacked by the Taliban and became
the focus of a media frenzy for months afterward. When you think about it, it is
more than a little interesting how the story of a single child can lead to crusades,
social change, or political movements that could not otherwise have been
launched by merely presenting the facts and consequences of neglect. The
difference appears to be directly related to the ways that emotional arousal is
ignited by stories.
It is this unity and purpose that provide the essence of the most influential
stories, whether told by politicians or marketing experts who want us to sway
our habits and attitudes, or by storytellers who seek to entertain and guide our
lives. Scientists introduce their own stories to explain phenomena in the world,
saying that there are invisible particles called atoms or invisible agents called
bacteria that cause disease.
Without leaving the comfort of a chair it’s possible to travel anywhere in the
world—or the galaxy—enjoying adventures and challenges, and without the risk
of becoming physically injured. “Some see the world with fresh eyes through
wild adventures,” writes Marie Arana, a journalist whose life has been
irrevocably and repeatedly changed by books she’s read, especially memoirs “for
what some have taught me about myself. I’ve seen people I might have been. Or
people I might become” (Arana, 2008). This is a theme that will recur
throughout the pages of this book.
It is more than a little striking that when people are asked which books or
media have been most influential in shaping their lives, they often mention
fictional stories, memoirs, and biographies. The irony, of course, is the existence
of the self-help industry in which thousands of advice-oriented books are
published each year spanning every imaginable subject from Dale Carnegie’s
classic, How to Win Friends and Influence People, to those that will likely never
reach such status, including A Beginner’s Guide to Sex in the Afterlife, How to
Avoid Huge Ships, How to Live With a Large Penis (yes, these are actual titles),
and my personal favorite, How to Seem Like a Better Person Without Actually
Improving Yourself. Although these works are specifically designed to influence
behavior, they don’t seem to do nearly as good a job as a good story that
contains within it the seeds of change as manifested in the plot and character
development.
One of the main themes and focus of this book is the power of stories to
transform our lives in ways that few other vehicles could touch. Whether doctors
are trying to alter their patients’ health behaviors, psychotherapists are
attempting to change self-defeating patterns in their clients, teachers and coaches
are working to inspire and motivate students, or parents wish to teach important
lessons to their children, there are few means at our disposal that are potentially
more effective. Stories, especially dramatic and well-told versions, command
attention with haunting results. They are often subtle in the ways their impact
sneaks up on you, sometimes not recognizing until months or years later how
they still resonate within you.
In all their forms and manifestations, stories provide a semblance of comfort
and reassurance to those who feel lost and rudderless. Their essential power is
found in the familiarity of their plots that, on the one hand, resonate with
particular universal themes, and yet on the other hand, have been personalized in
such a way to shine a light on shadowed experiences. They offer alternative
ways to view challenges and suffering, making it possible to find or create
meaning from the confusing chaos that is called reality.
 3
THE STORIED BRAIN

A CLIENT IS sitting with rapt attention as you tell the sad story of someone you
know who struggled with a number of personal problems similar to the person in
your office. A series of unfortunate events in your friend’s life cascaded one after
another, never giving her time to recover before she was hit by another tragic
encounter. You tell the story with vivid detail and emotional resonance, pausing
dramatically before completing the tale with an unexpected ending in which the
protagonist demonstrated extraordinary courage and resilience in the face of
insurmountable obstacles.
Your client’s mouth falls open. He shakes his head in wonderment, and you
can see that he is visibly moved. He surreptitiously wipes his sleeve across his
eyes to catch the tears that had been gathering. You ask him about his reactions,
and he can barely talk. It is obvious that something happened inside him, some
response that had little to do with the person in the story but seemed to connect
deeply with his own experience.
An Italian team of neuroscientists discovered almost two decades ago that the
brain houses a mechanism that fuels both our capacity for empathy, as well as
the means by which we can accumulate valuable lessons through observing
others—as if it was our own experience. These “mirror neurons” have evolved in
such a way that it is possible for us to imbibe and share vast amounts of
information about the world without direct action that might put ourselves in
harm’s way. We can know what it’s like to walk to the North Pole, plant a flag on
the moon, stalk a serial killer, score a touchdown in the Superbowl, participate in
an orgy, or live in the 18th century, all without leaving the comfort of home.
Through what has been described as “resonance circuitry” we can maintain
emotional attunement with others, either by watching them in action or
hearing/reading stories about them (Rifkin, 2009). In other words, we literally
feel others’ pain just as we can channel their joy, fear, disgust, or elation when
we see or hear it. That’s one reason why people get so worked up over sports
events, reality shows, and spectator events—it very much feels like it is our own
reputations at stake. And that’s also why stories have such power to influence
and change behavior.
THE BRAIN IS A STORIED ORGAN

The brain is not what it seems. Yes, it controls movement and collects data and
processes information, but it is not really a storage warehouse of memories as
much as it is “a story we tell ourselves in retrospect,” writes novelist Noam
Shpancer (2010, p. 38). “As such, it is made of storytelling materials:
embroidery and forgery, perplexity and urgency, revelation and darkness.”
The brain is an instrument that, among its many other functions, stores
information that is necessary for survival. It interprets data from our sense
organs that (1) gives priority to input that signals impending danger, (2)
distinguishes between friends and others who mean to do us harm, (3)
recognizes sources of nutrients, (4) identifies potential resources, and (5)
increases the likelihood of procreation and thriving of offspring. Our senses
don’t so much tell us what is really going on all around us as much as they
provide selective information that we can interpret quickly and efficiently.
As one example of this phenomenon, Zander and Zander (2000) mention the
vision of frogs is limited to recognize only four distinct stimuli that help them to
find things to eat and avoid being eaten—contrasting lines, changes in light,
flashes of motion, and outlines of small objects. Frogs can only “see” what they
need to see in order to survive. Although humans have a much wider range of
visionary acuity, what we see, hear, feel, and sense does not provide a complete
and accurate representation of so-called reality. Our brain is flooded with an
assortment of data after which it then makes decisions about what is most
important, what should be stored for later retrieval, and what can be ignored or
discarded. And here is where things get very interesting: The brain takes bits of
information, fragments, images, and sensory input, and automatically strings
them into meaningful interpretation in the form of a story.
A therapist watches and listens carefully to a client who is speaking. In the
span of a few seconds, the following is observed: flushed face, eyes flitting,
licking lips, left hand clinched, foot bobbing, and hesitant pauses in speech. All
that data is useless without some link that connects the information to some
hypothesis or theory about what it all could mean. A story is thus created to
explain the behavior—that the client is anxious because he is delving into new
territory that feels shameful and humiliating. But, of course, as Albert Einstein
once argued, it is not a matter of our theories emerging from what we observe
but rather “it is a theory that decides what we can observe.” This leads to the
rather interesting question about how our assumptions, theories, and stories not
only package our notions of reality but also the ways they limit what we can see
and hear. We tell ourselves—and our clients—stories about what we believe is
wrong with them and what they need to do to fix things, or at least make them
better. Yet it is precisely these stories that close down other possibilities that
remain inaccessible or invisible.

EVEN THE MIND IS JUST A STORY

The mind is simply a metaphor, a story we tell ourselves, to make sense of all the
inner workings of the brain that we really can’t begin to truly understand. It is
that part of consciousness that is aware of what goes on around and within us,
organized around stories that are essentially coherent units that hold experience.
“Nothing has meaning in itself,” observed Scottish writer Brian Morton (1999, p.
185), “all the objects in the world would be shards of bare mute blankness,
spinning wildly out of orbit, if we didn’t bind them together with stories.”
There are roughly 1 billion neurons in the brain, each one connected to 10,000
companions, and organized into a kind of story grammar. “Stories are easier to
remember,” Pink (2006, p. 101) suggests, “because in many ways, stories are
how we remember.” Among the estimated 1 quadrillion different neuron
connections (that’s 15 zeros) are all our memories, fantasies, dreams, thoughts,
knowledge, reflections, goals, and aspirations, with the most important ones
organized as stories. This offers tremendous advantages over mere facts in that
they not only compress and package information, but they do so in the context of
prior knowledge and emotional responses (Norman, 1994; Turner, 1996).
We’ve reviewed how most of our waking moments and conversations are
taken up with stories. Considerable leisure time is spent reading, viewing, and
listening to stories. Work tasks often involve consuming stories in the forms of
reports and descriptions of activities. And as much as half of every minute of
every day is filled with brief, intermittent daydreams that help to reduce stress
and conflict, self-soothe, stimulate the imagination, alleviate boredom, provide
endless entertainment, and plan for the future (Killingsworth & Gilbert, 2010).
Although excessive mind wandering and escape into fantasy may be
associated with mental illness (Klinger, Henning, & Janssen, 2009), the inner
storied lives of people reveal all kinds of interesting things about their
satisfactions and aspirations. Results of some studies are intriguing in that
particular themes of fantasies and daydream stories predict well-being,
especially those that involve loved ones, whereas those that focus excessively on
past romantic partners or fictional characters can often signal loneliness and poor
adjustment (Mar, Mason, & Litvack, 2012). It turns out that there are particular
regions of the brain (left hippocampus, middle occipital gyrus) that light up
when people recall stories about relationship episodes in their lives, far more
than other kinds of personal memories (Loughead et al., 2010).

THE EVOLUTION OF A STORIED BRAIN

When we think about the role of stories in human experience, we almost always
relate them in some kind of historical and cultural context. Certainly, culture is
an important influence on the development, structure, and content of signature
narratives, but we also tend to underestimate the universality of human
experience (Barkow, Cosmides, & Tooby, 1992; Cronk, Chagnon, & Irons,
2002). Despite the constant emphasis on our individual and cultural uniqueness,
we are actually a pretty uniform species, genetically speaking. There is far more
variation within any local homogenous group than there is between ethnic
populations (Dawkins, 2004; Edwards, 2003). Our storied lives are thus a
product of human nature as much as they are our environmental background.
Evolution has developed and prepared our brains as receptacles for stories,
which are essentially devices to help keep track of changes that occur in our
environment and community, as well as to pass along this information to other
members of the tribe and future generations (Wilson & Wilson, 2007). How else
could we possibly hold onto the 500,000 minutes of new experience that we
accumulate each year?
We have biologically adapted our brain functions to process, code, and
remember experiences in storied form, not only for memory storage but to aid in
the prediction of future events and challenges that we might someday face. This
is a trait that has been modified by natural selection, one that increases the
probability of survival in that it provides us with advantages over others who
have not developed this capacity (Attran, 2002; Boyd, 2009). In other words, the
most successful storied brains reproduce offspring with this enhanced ability.
Learning how to hear, process, retain, and tell stories must be a crucial life
skill through the ages, considering that the brain’s functional capacity to operate
in this way comes at such a high cost. The human brain represents only 2% of
body weight but consumes 20% of our energy, so it must be cautious in what
priorities it assigns to certain tasks considered necessary for survival. It may be
obvious, for instance, how and why our oldest ancestors chose to spend time
carving stories on cave walls that described successful hunts and battles,
providing an historical record for the tribe. But why, then, have fictional stories
and gossip become so universally popular throughout the ages?
Gossip actually provides valuable “strategic information” that helps predict
and deal with future challenges (de Waal, 1998). After all, it evolved as the
primary means by which we monitor the behavior of others and disclose
information about those of high status or those who have violated social norms.
Gossip is almost always critical of other people, with 90% of it focused on
violations of social norms and only a tiny percentage reporting others’
accomplishments and good deeds (Dunbar, Duncan, & Mariott, 1997; Haidt,
2006). Storytelling may have evolved as an expanded version of gossip, which
serves to both build group cohesion as well as control the behavior of outliers
(Dunbar, 2005). The latter can actually overwhelm and even destroy a society if
left unchecked, casting doubts on the value of goodwill and reciprocal favors
(Enquist & Leimar, 1993). Gossip stories we tell about other people are thus
often designed to report those who are unreliable or untrustworthy and to help
support people who have been bullied (Feinberg, Willer, Stellar, & Dacher,
2012).
Notice that the subject of most informal conversations, at work or in social
situations, involves talking about several common themes (Boyd, 2009): (1)
famous athletes, film stars, or celebrities; (2) slackers who are not doing their
fair share of work; (3) cheaters who aren’t playing by the rules; (4) unsanctioned
sexual relationships (affairs, romantic conflicts); (5) self-promotional anecdotes
that increase status; (6) breached alliances or fractured relationships; (7) status
seekers; (8) potential threats; and (9) those with unusual or mysterious power.
We can readily see that such time is well spent if the goal is to collect the most
current and useful information for navigating complex social relationships,
avoiding individuals who are unreliable, and forming alliances with those who
can watch your back.
Telling stories may, at first, appear to be solely for entertainment purposes,
especially in the context of leisure time reading novels, watching films or TV, or
listening to music. But most forms of play are actually considered rehearsal or
practice for some future challenge or survival scenario. Watch the games that
children play, and they are hard at work developing their competitive, defensive,
social, or fighting skills that may someday save their lives. The most popular
games such as frozen tag, wrestling, skateboarding, and organized sports are all
about developing balance, dexterity, strength, and strategy for dealing with
potential threats: They involve rehearsal and practice of stories that may be life
threatening in the future.
As if it isn’t enough of an evolutionary advantage of stories to preserve safety
and prepare for life’s challenges, there are also a number of other distinct
benefits in that they make connections between present circumstances and prior
knowledge, which, in turn, improves comprehension and retention of new
information (Haven, 2007). Within the arena of therapy, virtually every study
that investigated the use and impact of stories in sessions indicated that they
were helpful for promoting greater and deeper understanding of oneself and
others (Harter, Japp, & Beck, 2005).
It turns out that in so many ways storytelling provided an evolutionary edge to
those among our ancestors who have survived and managed to procreate. In a
discussion of why this has been the case for the past 50,000 years or so,
Vanderbes (2013) describes master storytellers as among the most colorful,
brilliant, and poetically polished among their brethren, literary peacocks as it
were who use “ornament and plumage” to draw attention to themselves and
increase their prestige and access to resources within the tribe or clan. It is no
accident that even today storytellers such as novelists, screenwriters, composers
of long lyrics, and members of the entertainment industry are so well
compensated for their skills, not to mention their elevated celebrity status. In
addition, she points out a number of other evolutionary advantages that have
accrued to those who can spin a good tale:
1. Storytellers have always been as important to a community as hunters,
gatherers, healers, and even leaders, because they provide relatively low-
cost, low-risk “surrogate experiences.” As such, they instruct people in
crucial cautionary tales of what things to avoid and what to consider as
viable options.
2. In the best tradition of academic philosophers, they offer “thought
experiments” that allow people to imagine the consequences of various
choices and actions. In previous books, for instance, I collected stories of
bad therapy (Kottler & Carlson, 2002), creative breakthroughs (Kottler &
Carlson, 2009), or lies and deception in therapy (Kottler & Carlson,
2011) as object lessons that might help us avoid certain pitfalls and
dangers. Likewise, even reading romance or mystery novels, or watching
reality shows, provides instructive lessons when people imagine, “What
might happen if I tried to seek revenge against my nemesis?” or “What
would be the consequences of being caught having an affair?”
3. Storytellers help listeners/readers/viewers to increase their capacities for
empathy and emotional intelligence. They provide opportunities to enter
inside others’ minds, especially those who are from different
backgrounds. They allow us to imagine what it would be like to be
someone else, to understand his or her motives and intentions, and
predict his or her behavior. Obviously, this would be invaluable
knowledge to increase the likelihood that one would survive, make
friends and develop networks, find and keep a mate, raise healthy
offspring, and enjoy status and access resources in the community. The
 most avid consumers of stories are thus better equipped to deal with
life’s challenges. They are smarter; more worldly and wise; and arm
themselves with all kinds of data, scenarios, and reflective experiences
that are hopefully integrated with real-life adventures. And it is
storytellers to whom we owe our gratitude.

ENDLESS COMPLEXITY: CONVERTING FRAGMENTS AND IMAGES

INTO STORIES

Over the course of human evolution the brain has developed progressively more
efficient ways to hold on to important information that gets us through the day
without being eaten or killed, as well as being shamed or shunned by the
community for doing something supremely stupid. Given the limitations of our
brains to hold too many bits of information, stories were developed as a means
to “chunk” information into bigger units. With the emotional valences added to
stories that arouse a host of feelings, they become even more accessible to
retrieval as needed. Thus, almost everything that we know and understand, all
our memories of past experiences, and our perceptions of new experiences are
linked to reconstituted recollections of stories (Schank & Abelson, 1995). Any
new event, joyful, traumatic, or quite ordinary, that strikes us as significant will
be more likely to be remembered if it is told to others in the form of a story
(Boyd, 2009). Yet it is more than a little interesting (and confusing) how each
time that a story is told about the past, it actually changes what it is believed to
have happened; each retelling alters details and sequences. This leads to the
distortions and discrepancies between what Kahneman (2011) has called the
“experiencing self” versus the “remembered self.” It is the latter memory of
events (especially how they end) that actually determines how we evaluate our
life satisfaction rather than what was actually experienced at the time.
We tell ourselves stories about what happened to us based on a small part of
what actually occurred. Kahneman cites as one example a study he conducted
(Redelmeier & Kahneman, 1996) in which patients who underwent a
colonoscopy were asked to rate their level of pain during the procedure (before
anesthesia was administered during the 1990s). One patient experienced 8
minutes of intense discomfort before the invasive procedure was over while
another lived through 24 minutes, but with only the first few minutes reported as
painful. But here’s the key: When remembering what happened, it is the second
set of patients who said that there was much less discomfort, even though the
experience lasted so much longer. It turns out that how long the procedure lasted
didn’t matter as much as the relatively swift way that it ended. This signifies that
the stories that we tell ourselves about even extremely unpleasant circumstances
are strongly influenced by their conclusions.

STORIES CONSTRUCTED BY NEURONS

Describing the neurocognitive processes involved in making sense of stories is

more than a little complicated, involving multiple functions and regions of the
brain. First, there is the thalamus that takes in the perceptual input from hearing,
seeing, and reading the story as it unfolds. The limbic system and amygdala kick
in during periods of emotional arousal that inevitably occur in any narrative in
which there is tension and conflict, conditions that are part of any decent story.
Then there is temporal sequencing, memory storage and retrieval, and
constructions of meaning that are all handed over to the cerebral cortex to do its
jobs. None of this activity is all that centralized, considering the different kinds
of memory that are involved when stories are “coded” in the system, including
semantic memory that holds the facts in a language-based system and episodic
memory that is far more visceral and experiential.
In a review of the recent neuroscience research on how the brain is activated
when reading stories, Paul (2012) acknowledged that it has long been known
that language areas (Broca’s and Wernicke’s) are involved, but far more
surprising have been findings that when reading or hearing words that elicit
smells (“perfume,” “coffee,” “sewage”), the olfactory parts of the brain become
actively involved just as do the motor regions when there is action described
(e.g., “Miguel ran as fast as he could to escape the threat”).
If that doesn’t sound complicated enough, then consider that 100 trillion
neuronal connections each have at least 10 different levels of arousal (Carter,
1998; Churchland, 1989). In other words, we are never going to fully understand
what’s going on with all these neurochemical pathways and how they somehow
lead to making sense of stories, much less being fundamentally changed by
them.
The bottom line is essentially that the brain’s main job is to look for
recognizable patterns, some of which involve programmed biological rhythms, a
kind of internal pulse that responds optimally to certain stimuli. Researchers who
studied 150 popular films identified a common pattern to the stories that seemed
to capture and maintain attention through what they call “1/f fluctuations” that
mimic internal brain rhythms (Cutting, DeLong, & Nothelfer, 2010). In other
words, as mentioned in the previous chapter we have developed a natural affinity
for recognizing a few central plots that interest us the most because of the
lessons we might learn from them.
 Once there is emotional arousal operating in the limbic system, there is a
replay of sequential events taking place in the hippocampus, asking the critical
question, “What the heck is going on?” That important query is turned over to
the cerebral cortex, which converts all the data into a coherent narrative
representation. This may be “coherent,” but it isn’t necessarily accurate in this
search for meaning. There are all kinds of omissions, elaborations, and
distortions that take place during this interpretation, leading to both self-
deception as well as personally relevant meanings of the story. Then the stories,
and their ongoing impact, change over time as a result of memory storage and
retrieval imperfections that are lost in translation, so to speak (Spence, 1982).
Whether representative of any kind of objective reality or not, the brain is
perfectly capable of altering its internal structure and functions as a result of
stories that are heard or read. Whereas a number of studies have been undertaken
to explore what happens during the consumption of a story, one research project
examined the lasting effects as measured by functional magnetic resonance
imaging (fMRI) scans of those who read an historical novel (Pompeii by Robert
Harris). The researchers found increased neural connectivity in the temporal
cortex even weeks afterward, leading them to conclude that stories can literally
transport you into the mind of protagonists just as though it were your own direct
experience (Berns, Blaine, Prietula, & Pye, 2013).

WHAT MAKES STORIES STICK

Much of the brain’s work that takes place to convert experiences into stories
happens automatically and unconsciously, including a series of incremental steps
(Haven, 2007; Lakoff & Johnson, 2003). For example, in a typical conversation
that might take place in therapy, the following sequence might occur:
1. The language that is used, actually a bunch of sounds, is interpreted as a
series of words and sentences. “Losing—that—election—in—school—
changed—everything—for—me—after—that.”
2. Mental images are formed—not only visual but also auditory and
kinesthetic—that make the story more alive and real. She is sitting in her
room, head buried in her pillow, feeling sorry for herself, feeling
humiliated, feeling so completely rejected she never wants to show her
face in school again.
3. Gaps are filled in between spaces in the story, personalizing it in one’s
own language and style. I think what she is telling me is that this was
about way more than an election for her; it was a seminal incident in her
 life that she relives over and over every time she is disappointed about
something. Or at least that’s what I’m feeling as I hear her, but maybe
this is my own vicarious experience.
4. Meaning is interpreted from the verbalizations, making sense of what is
being said. I think she is saying that it was through that failure that she
finally realized how much she took certain things for granted.
5. Connections are made to link the story to some context within the
interaction. This helps explain why she has been so hard on herself about
her marriage not working out—and why she is so self-critical in our
sessions.
6. Memories are accessed that may also be appropriate and relevant, adding
further contextual features. I wonder how this is connected to what she
mentioned during the intake interview when she warned me that she had
such low expectations for what therapy might do to help her.
7. Inferences are formed that are directly related to the story and its
particular meaning. She seems to be telling me this story about the school
election right now because she senses my disapproval of her choice to
get back into another relationship so quickly.
8. Decisions are made about the appropriateness of what is shared to one’s
ultimate desires and goals. Is it worth exploring this further? What
should I do with this story?
9. Comparisons are made between one’s own interpretation to what is being
said to visual and other cues that are transmitted, confirming a
reasonably accurate interpretation of the story. Is this really what my
client means to say to me?
10. Response options are formulated and selected, deciding how to best
respond and process what was offered. Should I ask her to elaborate
first, or offer an interpretation? Perhaps I should simply stay with the
feelings of sadness she seems to be expressing.
The truly remarkable thing is that all of this happens in the span of a few
seconds, the brain churning out options, and actual verbal responses limited to
about tiny percentage of all the internal conversations taking place. That is one
reason we sometimes feel so drained and exhausted after a session that contains
one or more stories that are particularly moving or significant since we feel
flooded with so much mental activity and clinical choices.
It’s interesting to consider what leads any of us to solidify particular memories
(like a school election from childhood) that not only sticks in our brain but
remains relatively stable and accurate—at least as originally interpreted and
coded. In a review of what most contributes to permanent storage and easy
access, the following factors play a key role (Haven, 2007).
First and foremost, experiences that are successfully formatted into stories are
far more likely to endure. It has been found, for example, that memory
champions rely on strategies in which a story is created to help link all the pieces
together in some kind of coherent fashion (Foer, 2006). We may do this
ourselves as a way to hold on to some of the details and names that a client may
introduce in an early session.
Memory may, in fact, be organized in such a way that it depends on stories to
hold onto experiences in a meaningful way. For instance, dreams are composed
of fragments and images that would make little sense, much less be remembered,
if they were not converted into story form. There have been many different
descriptions of them as storied experiences by neuroscientists and sleep experts
(Cipoli & Poli, 1992; Kilroe, 2000). Yet an alternative theory suggests that
dreams are not actually stories as much as narrative-like canons that may, upon
waking, be organized sequentially (Montangero, 2012). Likewise, although
events in our lives, or those that occur in the world, don’t naturally occur in a
storied form, we make them appear that way. “It is easy to forget how
mysterious and mighty stories are,” marveled Nigerian author Ben Okri (1995).
“They do their work in silence, invisibly. They work with all the internal
materials of the mind and self. They become part of you while changing you.”
The ongoing effects of a story, once released into the brain, are shaped and
converted once again by the social and cultural scripts that influence our
interpretations. They are based on the sanctioned and standardized narrative
patterns that are in place. Even the youngest children quickly grasp that stories
have sequential timelines that include a beginning, middle, and end, or that they
involve some kind of struggle in which a person, animal, or creature must
resolve the challenge. It is during such dramatic engagement that we are able to
completely lose ourselves in the story that feels as real as anything else we
experience in daily life.

AS FAR AS THE BRAIN IS CONCERNED, STORIES ARE REAL

During ancient cave-dwelling or savannah-roaming days, stories were told in

several ways—as oral narratives of hunts and skirmishes with enemies or as
pictographs etched onto cave walls with pigments of carbon, iron oxide,
manganese, limonite, and gypsum. Technology may have evolved to deliver
stories in a variety of other forms, but this doesn’t change the brain’s fanatic
search for patterns and meaning in narratives. Similar kinds of physiological
responses occur whether we are being chased by a predator or watching such a
scenario on screen—our hearts are pounding, breathing accelerates, and we can
literally feel the tension in our bodies. We experience genuine emotional
responses of fear, sadness, anger, and joy, just as we would if the events were
happening to us. That is one reason why stories exert such powerful influence in
our lives, because the good ones so thoroughly transport us to another world that
they often feel like they are real. And in a sense they are.
Stories are, by their very nature, externalized events that are happening to
someone else (unless you are telling your own narrative, which is another story
altogether). What’s particularly interesting, however, is the way the brain doesn’t
necessarily distinguish very well between what is happening to you versus
someone else. When thoroughly immersed in a story, it becomes your own lived
experience. Everything we experience, or at least remember related to those
events, is “coated in emotion,” based on addressing the most important question
to our continued survival: “Will this help me or hurt me?” It is one of the brain’s
main goals to peer deeply into the minds of others to figure out their intentions
to help, ignore, or harm us (Gazzaniga, 2008). It is quite interesting that stories
actually provide one of the best vehicles to become more skilled at
understanding, reading, and predicting others’ behavior. And best of all, any
story that truly ignites shivers of emotion is going to be more easily remembered
(Cron, 2012).
In one study, subjects were read a story while physiological and magnetic
resonance imaging data were gathered (Wallentin et al., 2011). As mentioned
previously, it was conclusively found that during emotionally arousing parts of
the narrative, corresponding reactions in the amygdala and limbic systems were
detected. Listening and reading stories are thus active processes as far as your
brain is concerned. Tears flow down your cheeks when you feel a character’s
sadness or grief. Your sympathetic nervous system kicks in as though it is you
who is being stalked, chased, or threatened. Those mirror neurons discussed
earlier are activated whether you are directly involved in action or
hearing/reading a story about someone else’s adventures (Decety, 2012; Hess,
2012; Zwaan, Stanfield, & Yaxley, 2002). When this is coupled with the brain’s
natural (or evolved) tendency to make stories out of random events, it helps
explain why the effects are so powerful.
Feeling the direct effects of a story through our mirror neurons is one thing,
perhaps indistinguishable from our own experience as far as our brain’s
interpretations, but evolutionarily speaking, the real goal is to understand what’s
really going on inside others’ minds and motives (Iacoboni, 2008). We are driven
to make sense of actions we encounter in the world, regardless of the form in
which they are presented to us. The distinct advantage of accumulating such
experience during stories is that we can add to our repertoire of understanding
how and why people do the things they do without putting ourselves in jeopardy.
As one example of the brain’s relentless desire to story even arbitrary events,
Heider and Simmel (1944) developed a crude film showing a circle and triangles
moving around in haphazard ways. Viewers were asked to interpret the random
actions and consistently storied the movements into a perceived battle between a
smaller shape that was seeking to escape being bullied by the larger shapes. This
has since been used as a compelling example of the brain’s need to convert
abstract, ambiguous, meaningless forms into some kind of pattern.

FIGURE 3.1 Heider and Simmel experiment. In Heider and Simmel’s classic study, subjects insist they
were watching a film about the circle that was being chased and bullied by the triangles, even though they
were just random movements. This is often used as an example of the ways the human brain creates stories
of experiences in order to make meaning even from serendipitous events.

There may very well be neural correlates that are associated with standard plot
scenarios that have existed throughout the ages and universal across cultures.
Maybe our brains are designed (or evolved) to create subsystems or modules that
are organized around these classic narrative patterns (such as battles or chase
scenes in the Heider and Simmel study); this is one reason why they may seem
so familiar and why we respond so powerfully to their enticements (Nigam,
2012).
We also project ourselves into stories we hear, read, and view, described as the
“Kuleshov effect” (Mobbs et al., 2006; Smith, 1995; Wallbot, 1988). Filmmakers
have long known that if they can seduce viewers to identify and empathize with
characters, even villains or evildoers, it is much easier to suck them into the
story. In a typical example, the protagonist will face some disgusting or
horrifying stimulus (decaying body, snakes, vomit, beheading), but the camera
shows an absolutely blank, unreadable expression on the face of the actor. When
audiences are asked later about the scene, they insist the actor was showing
strong emotional reactions when, in fact, it was the viewer who responded so
viscerally and visibly to the scene. Filmmakers thus understand their job as
providing a platform for the audience to project itself into the story.
FIGURE 3.2 A movie audience reacting emotionally. The Kuleshov effect refers to viewers experiencing
intense emotional reactions to a story, even though the actor’s face is benign, later reporting that it was the
actors who were so terrified or aroused. This is an example of how mirror neurons increase empathic
responses to characters in stories as if you are transported into that world.
Photo Credit: © StockLite/Shutterstock

This projection into stories occurs through an “orienting response” during

which there is a shift we make, noticeable in neurological activity as it moves
from the left to the right cerebral hemisphere. Endorphins kick in and the action
on the screen, stage, or in the novel triggers a physiological response similar to
what would happen if events were actually happening to us. The heartbreak, the
panic or terror, or the relief after some kind of resolution feels as though it is
really happening to us. That’s one reason why a television series, for example,
can be so addictive and why the average American watches TV 5 hours a day,
the equivalent of 13 continuous years of life (Romano, 2013).

SURVIVAL FUNCTIONS OF STORIES

Just as in every other facet of evolution, great storytellers would have enjoyed
certain survival advantages over those who were less adept at oral descriptions
and reenactments of significant events. They would likely have been better than
their peers at presenting themselves in the best possible light. They were
probably more creative than others and had more highly developed verbal and
social skills. In addition, they would have been able to genetically transmit these
abilities to their offspring; many of us who now roam the Earth are not only the
legacy of ancestors who had superior hunting, fighting, and problem-solving
skills but also those who could tell a good tale.
It is considered an essential social skill in our culture to be able to tell a
coherent, structured, plausible story about “what happened to me” (Killick &
Frude, 2009). As an art form, storytelling is both strongly interactive and
improvisational. As much detail as possible is provided to make the narrative
come alive for the audience. Characters are fleshed out as much as possible.
Embedded within what may seem like a simple story can be all kinds of
symbolism, metaphors, images, many of them accessible at an unconscious
level. But perhaps the most salient feature of all is that stories speak in a
language of emotions, providing deep insight into the motives and inner
experiences of the characters as they resonate within us.
Despite its importance in creating a common bond within a group, and the
universal enjoyment of stories among humans throughout time, the task of
creating and telling a story is among the most intellectually demanding tasks. It
has been estimated that this complex activity requires upward of “five orders of
intentionality,” meaning that listeners/readers much somehow manage to make
sense of character intentionality through a hierarchy of complexity: “I intend that
you understand that I want you to believe that I think...” (Stiller & Dunbar,
2007). And if you think that is complicated, consider that the tellers of stories
must add a sixth level of intentionality in the creation of the narrative. Because
stories generally reflect the realities of everyday life, including character
intentions and motivations, they often stretch the limits of what the human brain
can effectively juggle. It is no wonder that throughout history it is so rare to
encounter a superlative storyteller.
In an analysis of unique areas of the brain that are involved in story
processing, researchers generally conclude that any parts that support language,
memory, and perception are critical (which covers a lot of territory). This
includes regions that are most actively involved in the storage and retrieval of
memory, interpreting those memories as they are related to the story, and then
elaborating and personalizing that experience. Even more precisely, using
neuroimaging techniques, researchers (Mar, 2004) have honed in on specific
areas that light up during times when people are immersed in stories (see Table
3.1). With a surprising degree of pinpointed focus, they identify particular
neurons in the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex (Brodmann’s areas 6, 8, 9, and 46)
that are involved in time sequencing of language constructs, or those that
actively work on behalf of long-term memory coding, retrieval, and storage of
narrative events (Brodmann’s area 47). In simpler terms, we tell stories so we
can remember what happened; we tend to forget what we do not tell others
(McLean, Pashupathi, & Pals, 2007).
TABLE 3.1

Brain Functions Involved in Story Processing

Brain Region
Brodmann’s area of prefrontal
cortex
Dorsolatereral frontal cortex
Anterior frontal cortex
Posterior cingulate
Medial prefrontal cortex
Orbitofrontal cortex Anterior
cingulate
Suspected Role in Narrative Comprehension
Language processing
Memory retrieval and storage Temporal ordering and processing of
sequences of events
Long-term classification of relevant and meaningful memory
Accessing personal experience to connect with story and add realism
Understanding of characters’ mental states Inferences about cause-effect
events in story
Attention to story and motivation to remain engaged

Drawing upon an extensive body of research, Mar and Oatley (2008) review
how and why stories are so powerfully influential, fictional stories most of all.
They mention several different cognitive processes that become fully engaged.
As mentioned previously, and explored throughout our discussion, stories
provide simulations of experience that may be encountered in real life, or never
possible in real life—climbing Everest, saving the world from certain
destruction, fighting dragons, or simply drinking water from a moss-covered
mountain stream.
There is consistent and compelling evidence to support the ways that fictional
stories can have such lasting effects (Appel, 2008; Appel & Richter, 2007; Mar
& Oatley, 2008; Mar, Oatley, Djikic, & Mullin, 2011; Strange, 2002). There are
many reasons for this that can be explained by some of the brain functions that
have been described in this chapter. In summarizing these findings, there are a
number of things that should be kept in mind when constructing stories designed
to persuade or change clients (Boyd, 2009).
1. Stories provide templates and patterns of social interaction that are useful
to decode and understand, providing rehearsal of future scenarios that
might be encountered. Although we may never encounter a crazed
murderer or invading alien, we are better prepared for a defensive
response against any perceived threat.
2. Fictional tales increase one’s ability to interpret social behavior and make
sense of underlying motives because of access to characters’ innermost
thoughts and feelings. This provides valuable information for predicting
behavior and anticipating events. They also help reveal hidden causes
and disguised motives that help make sense of others’ actions.
3. Stories provide vicarious experiences that would not otherwise be
possible. You can travel to exotic countries, or even other worlds, and
enjoy exciting adventures that would not be accessible any other way.
4. They supply strategic information that is readily available, without risk
or much personal investment. You can learn what it’s like to fight in a
battle, fly a supersonic jet, negotiate a truce, live in a commune, compete
in the Olympics, or save the world from certain destruction, all without
risking personal injury or even expending much energy.
5. Stories train cognitive flexibility by teaching us to quickly shift time
parameters, identify with different characters, change perspectives, and
make inferences based on limited data that are later confirmed.
6. Unlike nonfiction, fictional stories specialize in emotional arousal, which
makes for better retention and access to memory storage. Great stories
make us laugh or cry, preferably both.
7. Great fiction is specifically designed and crafted to provoke reflection
about deep issues. We learn about important and frightening themes
related to death, grief, fidelity, trust, shame, regret, generosity, loyalty,
sacrifice, alienation, betrayal, guilt, helplessness, and personal
responsibility, all without jeopardizing our own safety and health.
8. Through the identification with characters in stories we are able to live
alternative lives, not just for the stimulation but to prepare for future
challenges we might face. They are like “thought experiments” in
philosophy, except these have definite practical applications.
9. Fiction, through its emergence in others’ experience, increases empathy
and the ability to relate to a variety of people from diverse backgrounds.
You may never be stranded on a desert island like Robinson Crusoe,
exiled from your home planet like Superman, or find yourself lost in
Neverland or Oz, but these vicarious experiences, emotionally saturated
 and powerfully narrated, make these adventures your own.
10. Finally, fiction significantly increases creativity and one’s ability to
imagine other possibilities and alternative worlds. “It offers us incentives
for and practice in thinking beyond the here and now, so that we can use
the whole possibility space to take new vantage points on actuality and
on ways in which it might be transformed” (Boyd, 2009, p. 197).
It’s clear that fictional stories, in particular, reveal the underlying motives,
thoughts, feelings, and intentions of characters, helping the
listener/viewer/reader to interpret behavior and its meaning. They develop
inferential, predictive, and problem-solving abilities as a result of joining in the
immersive journey, reasoning through how we might act. Finally, they facilitate
a deeper understanding of our own mind and motives through the vicarious
experience of a character’s thinking and reflections.
In the next chapter we will look at some of the historical traditions and
cultural variations of the ways that stories have been delivered through time and
around the world. Such a study provides some clues regarding relatively
universal features of those narratives that consistently prove to be most
influential.
 4
CULTURAL VISIONS AND VARIATIONS OF
STORYTELLING

IT HAS BEEN a great mystery why humans in every known culture and era have
invested so much time and energy to storytelling. In one sense, the only things
that cultures from the past leave behind are their trash and their stories (Sachs,
2012).
The earliest known recorded stories, found etched on the walls of Chauvet
Cave in France, are estimated to be over 30,000 years old and were created
purely for the sake of art and historical record (see Fig. 4.1). From ancient times
to the present, stories existed to help children and others to resolve predictable
conflicts that inevitably arise at various developmental stages. This is true across
all cultures and communities, regardless of time and place (Sanders, 1997).
One definition of a culture is the collection of all the stories ever created,
remembered, and shared about that people, as well as all the things that resulted
from those stories, including the dwellings, artwork, rituals, practices, and
explanations of phenomena (Mehl-Madrona, 2010). The Aboriginals of
Australia, one of the oldest cultures on Earth, honor the complexity of their
stories, which hold all their wisdom and knowledge, by recognizing four
different levels of meaning: descriptions and explanations of the natural world,
relationships between people within the community, relationships between the
people and their environment, and spiritual powers that guide daily life (Sveiby
& Skuthorpe, 2006). A culture can thus be conceived as the generally accepted
set of stories, legends, and myths that hold the past, guide the present, and often
predict the future.
FIGURE 4.1 Chauvet Cave. The earliest known story, over 30,000 years old, depicts a tribal hunt. In every
era, culture, and geographical region, similar thematic content has evolved in the signature stories of that
group, even with variations reflecting differences in language, customs, and rituals.
Photo Credit: © Makc/Shutterstock

With respect to American culture as an example, the values of freedom,

persistence, and individualism, and the belief that Americans are the “chosen
people,” are rooted in the dominant stories (not necessarily true and accurate)
that have been passed along from one generation to the next. This is in marked
contrast to the dominant stories told within collectivist cultures in Asia and other
parts of the world. A seminal story in America might include George
Washington’s singular effort to “cross the Delaware” or “chop down a cherry
tree” and confess the crime, featuring heroic actions of the individual. Yet stories
of Buddha in South Asia emphasize his self-sacrifice for the greater good or his
transcendence of the limits of the individual to make connections with others and
the larger universe (McAdams, 2006).
It is an interesting exercise to look at the storytelling media within our culture,
especially as it is directed toward the indoctrination of children into our most
cherished values. Similar to most other cultures around the world, and
throughout history, there are recurrent themes in the stories emphasizing
obedience, respect, and cooperation. Specific popular stories represented in films
also teach values related to being true to yourself (Brave or Frozen), making the
best of any situation (Cinderella), growing up (Toy Story 3), sticking close to
your parents (Finding Nemo), looking beyond appearances (Shrek), and learning
that success isn’t always about winning (Cars) (Reese, 2013).
In this chapter, more than any other in the book, we set the tone and context
for the ways that stories not only influence and change people within
psychotherapy but also within daily life. There are long-standing cultural and
historical traditions related to narrative themes that have been relatively
universal across all regions of the world since the invention of language. It is
interesting, if not necessary, to understand this bigger picture if we are to become
more intentional and strategic in the ways we utilize storytelling effectively in
sessions.

DOMINANT STORIES WITHIN THE CULTURE OF

PSYCHOTHERAPY

We have our own dominant origin stories within the culture of psychotherapy
that feature Sigmund Freud’s fearless and courageous challenge of the medical
establishment, John Watson’s systematic experiments that led to an
understanding of behavioral conditioning, Victor Frankl’s conversion from
suffering to searching for meaning, or Albert Ellis’s transformation from analyst
to rational problem solver. Contained within our culture are also the stories we
pass along to our clients that contain the seeds of our primary values: self-
reliance, resourcefulness, redemption, productivity, meaning-making, intimacy,
and goal-directed behavior.
One powerful example of a story that reflects both the theme of redemption,
as well as the dominant story within psychotherapy, is one that emphasizes how
we learn and grow from adversity. Kramer (2010) asks us to imagine receiving
the most precious and valuable gift that could possibly be offered, one that
promises to provide greater intimacy, new friendships, recalibrate priorities,
promote deeper meaning and life satisfaction, inspire renewed faith and
spirituality, increase appreciation for every moment of life, and utterly transform
the way you see yourself and the world. She tells the story in such a way that
almost anyone would want to beg, borrow, or steal the $55,000 she paid for this
amazing opportunity. What she is actually referring to is the impact of having a
brain tumor that was eventually removed through surgery. She concludes her talk
about healing from trauma with any therapist’s favorite ending to a story: “The
next time you’re faced with something that’s unexpected, unwanted, and
uncertain, consider that it just may be a gift.” This is our intended legacy that we
offer to our clients, in whatever form we introduce it: No matter what you have
experienced, no matter how you are suffering, there is indeed hope for healing
and recovery, as well as the opportunity to find greater meaning and satisfaction.
The sense of belonging to a cultural group, even a profession such as
psychotherapy, is often integrated with its dominant story. This is especially true
with the sense of belonging that we call “home.” Rather than being where we
hang our hat, or where our heart lies, home may be more accurately connected to
the stories we hold and tell about our sacred space (Chamberlin, 2003). The
language and dialects we speak, the customs and norms that rule our lives, and
the values we follow are all extensions of our collective history in the form of
stories. These include the origin stories of a nation, tribe, village, neighborhood,
or profession; the myths and legends of ancestors; and the anthems and shared
beliefs that define a group as unique and separate from others. Everything from a
nation’s constitution and a profession’s ethical code, to a neighborhood’s
building regulations or a club’s charter and bylaws, is a kind of cultural story
that contains the essential worldview of the group.

STORIES TO IMPART CULTURAL VALUES

In every era, every region of the world, from the first presence of human beings
on the planet, inhabitants have invented or created a story to explain their
existence and how it occurred. More often than not, these origin stories involved
some divine intervention, whether worshipping Stonehenge (Druid), Apsu
(Babylonian), Zeus (Greek), Jupiter (Roman), Thor (Norse), Brahma (Hindu),
Eluhim (Jewish), Allah (Islam), Buddha (Buddhism), Jesus (Christianity), or a
supreme power that lives in the sky, the sea, the earth, in idols, in heaven, or on
Olympus.
 During the Viking invasion of Britain during the 8th century, the battles were
not only about plunder but also were about competing stories of God as a
creator. Christianity was blossoming in what would become Saxon England
under the reign of Alfred the Great, a distinct threat to the favored gods of the
Danes and Norsemen. In a fictional account of this conflict, one of the
characters, herself a Dane, expresses her confusion over Alfred’s dominant story:
“Our gods prefer feasting. They live, Uhtred. They live and laugh and enjoy, and
what does their god do? He broods, he’s vengeful, he scowls, he plots. He’s a
dark and lonely god” (Cornwell, 2010, p. 147).
Consider how many wars have been fought in human history in which one
group of people wish to impose their preferred story of God on others. From the
Inquisition and the Crusades to contemporary conflicts in the Middle East,
between China and what used to be Tibet, India and Pakistan, Ethiopia and
Somalia: They are not just territorial disputes but disagreements about their
religious doctrines, which are essentially narratives that help explain God’s
origin, meaning, and purpose.
In their review of some other cultural differences, McLean, Pasupathi, and
Pals (2007) noted that similar to so many other aspects of one’s worldview,
socioeconomic status has a significant influence. Interestingly, working-class
families tell more stories than those in the middle class, often to socialize
children into their most cherished values for success. In one example, it has been
found that working-class families tell stories in which achievement must be
earned rather than offered as a gift, which is more typical in upper-class families.
The stories are thus used to encourage greater ambition and upward mobility.

UNIVERSAL THEMES AND VARIANTS ACROSS CULTURES

Aristotle observed that stories evolved as a way for humans to provide shared
experience that can be added to the collective memory of a community. They
were told to explain how the world evolved and our place in this universe, to
make sense of the inexplicable—where the sun goes at night, what happens after
death, and what our purpose might be during a lifetime. They became the
dominant form of describing personal and group identity. In answer to the
question “Who are you?” the response would follow in the form of a story.
Among the Maori, the indigenous people of New Zealand, identity is defined not
so much by a family name but by a story that includes the river, mountain, and
“canoe” that originally transported immigrants from other parts of the South
Pacific.
It’s been said in many cultural traditions from Ancient Greece and Rome, to
contemporary religious origin stories, that the gods so love good stories that this
is the reason they made humans for entertainment. As such, stories contain
nuggets of meaningful information about our collective culture and individual
lives. Yet art and literature, including storytelling in all its forms and
manifestations, also contain important adaptive information. Those that are most
realistic and authentic include life lessons that help people to make sense of the
most ordinary and meaningful dramas in daily life. They are what make us
uniquely human, perhaps even more so than any other attribute. “Opposable
thumbs let us hang on; story told us what to hang on to. Story is what enabled us
to imagine what might happen in the future, and so prepare for it—a feat no
other species can lay claim to, opposable thumbs or not” (Cron, 2012, p. 1).
Many themes in stories are universal around the world and across time
“because they represent a predicament common to all human cultures: the
difficulty of navigating a sea of friends and foes, intimates and acquaintances”
(Marr & Oakley, 2008, p. 177). Yet it is also not the least surprising that stories
are told in different ways, emphasizing variations of certain themes, according to
the cultures in which they live. One study, for example, demonstrated how a
single folktale evolved into 700 different versions throughout 31 ethnic groups in
Europe within a few centuries (Ross, Greenhill, & Atkinson, 2013).
Unlike genetic evolution that occurs through migration and random variations,
changes in stories across cultures develop through popular appeal: A story does
not become “accepted” and integrated relatively permanently into a community
unless it has distinct and lasting appeal that contains relevant themes. This is
quite unlike genetic evolution that can easily move into a population from
migrants who may have an impact on future generations through their offspring
and intermarriage yet still don’t alter the culture they joined in any significant
way.
The researchers cite one example of a classic folktale about two girls, one who
has excellent manners and dedication and another who is lazy, cruel, and selfish.
This certainly has universal themes that could be embraced almost anywhere in
the world and found itself adapted by both the Brothers Grimm and Shakespeare,
among hundreds of others. What is interesting about this study of story
migration is the ways that each culture adapts the central theme (serving the
community above personal needs) to fit their own unique language, values, and
rituals.
One familiar plotline of American stories, whether in film, novels, or personal
narratives, is a theme of redemption in which the protagonist (or storyteller)
highlights how an important lesson was learned as a result of some challenge
that was faced (McAdams, 2006). The consummate American story is one of
Horatio Alger, or rags to riches. Featured on Oprah and other talk shows nearly
every day, this theme is also one of the most beloved in contemporary films like
Wall Street, Return of the Jedi, Avatar, Ice Age, and The Shawshank Redemption.
Such stories reflect our cultural values that emphasize the limitless possibilities
for individual growth and reinvention, even against overwhelming odds.
In marked contrast, telling such a story in China would not go over nearly as
well, given the emphasis on collectivism. Chinese stories tend to follow more
prescribed scripts that play down individual initiative in favor of communal
cooperation and conformity to dominant moral codes (Wang & Conway, 2004).
Keeping this them in mind, it is important for therapists and other helping
professionals to adapt any stories so that the audience (or client) is able to
identify with the characters in meaningful ways that are also culturally
appropriate. Thus writers and film makers take great pains to target their
audience by presenting individuals with whom they are certain will spark an
empathic connection. That is also why parents search for stories that will
resonate with their children in terms of like characteristics and shared values.
The reality is that there are actually very limited options that represent cultural
diversity within any geographic region. Imagine the challenge, for instance, of
an African American parent who wants to find stories that feature Black
protagonists engaging in adventures that best match their younger reader or
viewer. Make a list of African American, Lation, Asian, or Middle Eastern
superheroes. Think of classic stories, or even contemporary versions, that
present African American wizards or princesses or other protagonists. It turns
out that among the 3,000 children’s stories that are published each year, less than
3% presented African American characters. It is suggested that one reason for
this state of affairs is that stories with minority or diverse characters just don’t
sell and most editors are white females who inadvertently (or deliberately)
promote books that represent their own experiences (Terrero, 2014).
Therapists, teachers, and other helping professionals are in an ideal position to
change this limited library of options by customizing many of the universal
themes and plotlines to their audience. Instead of merely repeating the classics
our job is to co-create with clients those stories that are best designed to capture
their imagination. After all, this has been the tradition of the best storytellers
throughout human history.

THE ENDURING NATURE OF TIMELESS THEMES

Until the last few centuries, stories were always presented in an oral tradition, a
performance on stage or at informal gatherings in homes, pubs, village squares,
or around campfires. They were organic and evolving processes, adapted to the
audience, context, setting, and the mood and preferences of the storyteller. The
plots were fluid and flexible, as were the characters’ motives and behavior. Often
there was an implicit collaboration with the audience in which listeners would
call out preferences and express their relative satisfaction with the unfolding plot
and development. That is one reason that there are so many different versions of
the classics in which, for example, Little Red Riding Hood might be raped,
murdered, or victorious. In one version of the story she ends up drinking the
blood of her grandmother, does a striptease for the wolf in order to seduce him,
plots with him to kill her mother, and then prepares a meat pie out of her
mother’s corpse to consume at her pleasure (Degh, 1969).
When the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and Charles Perrault set
out to create a written record of popular folk tales, this was the first time there
were standardized versions of the tales. All three teams of editors attended
performances throughout the European continent, seeking to record the best
versions of the stories that had been described as “poetry of the people.”
As has been made clear, folk tales were only ever intended for adults and
restricted to mature audiences because of their brutal content (Calvino, 1980).
When you consider the subject matter of these tales, filled with sexual assault,
child abuse and neglect, abandonment, and ruthless violence, it’s all the more
surprising that the folktales were adopted by parents as bedtime stories for
children. In the original versions of the stories, Cinderella was actually only 7
years old, a bit young for romance with a prince, and Sleeping Beauty was not
really awakened by a kiss but rather she had been raped while asleep,
impregnated, and then forced from her slumber when the infant was born.
One fairy tale that is among the most violent in the Grimms’ original
collection (since expurgated for obvious reasons) was “How Children Played
Butcher With Each Other.” It tells the story of two brothers who are playing in
the yard when one murders the other. The mother, watching from the upstairs
window where she was giving her infant a bath, becomes so enraged that she
runs outside and takes revenge by killing her surviving son. When she returns
back inside, she discovers that her baby has drowned in the tub and then she
becomes so distraught she kills herself. Next the father returns home to find his
family gone and falls dead on the spot from grief. This is one of the fairy tales
that never made Disney’s cut.
Some of the stories have lived for a thousand years because of their
adaptability to changing times and places while still appealing to universal
themes related to life’s great challenges. They evolved, like so many other
aspects of the natural world, and survived because of their continued usefulness.
They have been passed on to future generations while other, lesser stories
perished, because of their essential timelessness. They often provide messages of
hope, especially as they were rewritten and sanitized. Whereas the original Red
Riding Hood is the victim of a serial rapist and killer, in the Grimms’ version she
does manage to barely survive. But the basic plotline lives on with postmodern
heroines in the red hood.
In the 2011 version of the adult film, Red Riding Hood, the girl (Valerie)
eventually defeats the murderous werewolf but only with the aid of her
boyfriend, Peter. In a distinctly feminist adaptation of the story (The Highway), a
young Reese Witherspoon plays Valerie as a juvenile delinquent hitchhiker who
is picked up on the interstate by a serial killer (Kiefer Sutherland). When she is
attacked, she beats the attacker to a bloody pulp, leaving him paralyzed and
confined to a wheelchair. When that is not enough to discourage his murderous
ardor, she eventually dispatches him with a flair, not exactly the model of a poor
damsel in distress.
We can find this kind of character reincarnation over and over again (Zipes,
2006). What is Harry Potter if not a variation of Cinderella? The Cinderella story
of rags to riches, in particular, exists in every culture and is adapted for films and
television in almost limitless permutations. Consider Julia Roberts in Pretty
Woman, Anne Hathaway in the Princess Diaries, or Eddie Murphy’s Coming to
America, and the same basic story unfolds. Even the most popular fairy tale
narratives of our time, the Star War movies, were shaped by none other than
mythology scholar Joseph Campbell as a consultant to George Lucas.
What makes the stories so timeless and enduring, even after centuries, is
because they offer important lessons related to powerlessness and victimization,
followed by revenge or retaliation. “Fairy tales may constitute the childhood of
fiction,” one scholar on the subject writes, “but they are not necessarily the
fiction of childhood” (Tatar, 2003, p. 191). It may very well be that the
characters in the fables are small, vulnerable, and powerless, but they usually
triumph in the end even if they also suffer horrific tortures and deprivation along
the way. Rather than being called “fairy” tales, it might be more accurate to label
them as tales of horror. In another of the Grimms’ version of “The Naughty
Child” a disobedient boy is punished by God and killed because of his
rebelliousness (there are similar variations in the Old Testament). Even in his
grave the child thrusts his arm through the ground in defiance. The boy’s mother
is forced to beat the protruding limb until it retreats to a semblance of
compliance. The lesson of this, and other stories, is clear enough that bad things
happen to children if they disobey their parents, challenge God’s will, or
otherwise behave poorly.
 Fairy tales were thus designed, or recalibrated, to influence children’s
behavior and help them to deal with psychological and moral conflicts, or
prepare them to face life’s dangers. A number of scholars have analyzed the
morals, lessons, and meanings of fairy tales and how they influence children
(Bettelheim, 1976; Bottigheimer, 1986; Cashdan, 1999; von Franz, 1996;
Warner, 1995; Zipes, 2012). They provide vivid and engaging examples of how
children resolve conflicts related to the sins of vanity, sloth, greed, deceit, and
envy. The Pied Piper is thus a warning against pedophiles; Little Red Riding
Hood warns girls to be very careful trusting strangers; Cinderella emphasizes the
importance of inner beauty over material wealth; The Three Little Pigs deals
with laziness and sloth; and Sleeping Beauty (or Shrek) is about the inner
goodness of people instead of superficial physical features. In each case there is
a subtext that introduces children to culturally sanctioned values that are
considered necessary for success in life (see Table 4.1). So when we ask our
central question, how do stories change people, what we realize is that they have
actually been infused into our DNA from birth.
TABLE 4.1

Fairy Tales and Thematic Sins

Sin Fairy Tale Theme
Vanity Snow White The Emperor’s New Queen obsessed with adulation Deceptiveness of
Clothes physical appearance
Gluttony Hansel and Gretel Little Red Riding Hunger out of control Ravenous hunger
Hood
Envy Cinderella Frog Princess Jealous persecution Sibling rivalry
Deceit Frog Prince Rumpelstiltskin Breaking a promise Moral choices related to lies
Greed Jack and the Beanstalk The Fisherman Repeated thefts beyond satiation Never satisfied with
and His Wife possessions
AbandonmentToy Story The Velveteen Rabbit Being outgrown and left behind Loneliness and love

“Fantasy is true, of course,” noted science fiction and children’s writer Ursula
Le Guin (1955, p. 44), “it isn’t factual but it’s true. Children know that. Adults
know it too, and that is precisely why so many of them are afraid of fantasy.
They know that its truth challenges, even threatens, all that is phony,
unnecessary, and trivial in the life they have let themselves be forced into
living.”
Fantasy and fairy tales present alternative worlds of what could be, a universe
with very different rules and laws, a place where almost anything is possible.
And that is one reason why so many therapists have found that collecting,
discovering, adapting, or creating metaphorical or fantasy stories can provide
such useful avenues to bypass client resistance and introduce significant themes
that may empower the potential for transformation.

TRADITIONS OF STORY VIOLENCE

The same kind of vicarious role playing and conflict rehearsal that occur during
dreams at night are also a major focus of entertainment media during waking
hours, especially films, books, and television shows that feature explicit violence
and almost intolerable levels of terror. One might justifiably wonder why anyone
would pay money and voluntarily subject themselves to the horror of true crime
stories, or the aliens, zombies, vampires, monsters, and serial killers that so
frequently inhabit contemporary narratives. After all, it sure doesn’t seem like
much fun when you are being scared out of your wits, sweating, heart pounding,
eyes closed shut (or peaking through your fingers) while heads literally roll.
Whereas in the early versions of this genre of films like Halloween, Scream,
and Friday the 13th, scantily clad young women were stalked and
unceremoniously dispatched (only the virgin survives!), feminist plotlines,
beginning with Sigourney Weaver in Alien (still running around in her
underwear), feature resourceful women who defeat the creature/predator/killer
using their wiles, wisdom, and intuition. A noted producer of such films
observed, “Horror films tap into the most primal fears. And when we put a
woman through this mythological journey and have her come out at the end
kicking ass, the guys get their eye candy they want and the girls get the sense of
‘I can face my demon’” (Spines, 2009, p. 33).
Of course, vicarious identification isn’t the only reason that violent stories so
attract our interest. From ancient Aztec times in which hundreds of people would
be sacrificed to satisfy public lust for blood, Roman gladiatorial games in which
thousands of slaves or captives would be tortured and murdered, or public
executions featuring French guillotines, there has been a long history of
presenting storylines that present brutality and wholesale slaughter. The legacy
remains to this day with sports like cage fighting, wrestling, boxing, rugby,
bullfighting, hockey, and football; popular games like Grand Theft Auto,
Manhunt, Call of Duty, or Modern Warfare; and countless blockbuster movies,
all of which maximize as much violent conflict as possible. Likewise, true crime
books about murder, or horror novels, also fascinate readers as a popular genre.
One function of all stories, violent ones included, is to provide opportunities
for the audience to work through fears and conflicts, a kind of rehearsal for
problems of everyday life, or sometimes addressing worse-case scenarios such
as an alien invasion or zombie attack, however unlikely. The violent stories serve
other functions as well, such as teaching gender roles (girls scream, boys grip the
armrests and endure stoically) and providing various outlets for repressed
aggressive urges that are no longer useful in today’s environment (Kottler, 2011).
Ultimately, humans just love the rush of intense emotional activation, even terror
and fear (think rollercoasters), especially if you are guaranteed to survive at the
end.
Whether we are examining the themes of fairy tales for children or adult
stories, they are most often about some kind of transformation that takes place as
a result of confronting adversity, whether internal demons or genuine monsters.
The child protagonists in contemporary films are usually threatened either by
relatively benign antagonists (Home Alone, E.T., Breakfast Club, Willy Wonka
and the Chocolate Factory) or more serious threats (Wizard of Oz, The Shining).
As with fairy tales in which the children are threatened with abuse, rape, murder,
abandonment, cannibalism, monsters, ogres, witches, sorceresses, evil
stepmothers, or vengeful gods, they must deal with all kinds of obstacles, traps,
tortures, betrayals, and mysteries. They must solve problems, resolve conflicts,
and look deep inside for the resilience and courage to not only survive the
challenges but also grow from the experience. They emerge, if not unscathed,
then at least far stronger. And that is the most prominent theme of what we do in
psychotherapy.

HOW FAIRY TALES CHANGED US

It has been observed that the same universals that are found in the range of
human emotions across cultures are also connected to the standards of literature
around the world, both past and present. It is the arousal of intense feelings that
is both the goal—and effect—of a story’s influence to transform us (Hogan,
2003). The best stories, reveals an expert on the secret source of narrative power,
accomplish far more than merely describing events in authentic form. “These
tales captivate their audience, whose emotions can be inextricably tied to those
of the story’s characters” (Hsu, 2008, p. 46).
In a volume devoted to women writers whose lives and careers were strongly
impacted by fairy tales, poet Julia Alvarez (1998), recalls her terrifying
childhood living under the reign of El Jefe in the Dominican Republic. She
retreated into stories as a way to cope with her fears and uncertainty. “Early on I
learned that stories could save you. That stories could weave a spell even over
powerful adults and get them off your case and on to other things...” Growing up
in a country with over 80% illiteracy, Alvarez appreciated, more than the
average kid, the power of stories that were so much a part of her culture. She
was one of the few among her peers who had access to the magic of reading
folklorica.
Novelist Margaret Atwood (1999) was also significantly affected by stories as
a child, especially Grimms’ fairy tales, but not because of their plots that, even
when she was young, struck her as improbable, but rather because of their
invitation to explore her own inner life. She wasn’t much impressed with the
female protagonists who needed to be rescued by princes, nor did she care for
the arbitrary and unpredictable way that characters were assigned their roles. “In
one story, a talking wolf is your friend; in another, he’s out to eat your granny”
(p. 25). But what did have lasting and profound effects on her development as a
woman, and a writer, was the introduction to magical thinking. It was as a young
girl that she first became enamored with the things that can happen in fairy tales,
“the large anxieties, and sudden victories, and serendipitous gifts.” So rare do
such things occur in our lives, and yet so familiar they seem because of their
presence in our dreams.
Another writer, Rosellen Brown (1999), marvels at the impact that The Little
Mermaid has had on her life. It was not so much the actual story itself that
continued to exert its influence on her as the way she remembered it. As an
adult, she reread it several times and found that it is a different—and more
disturbing—story than she recalled. After all, the mermaid suffers terrible
tortures and eventually dies in service to unrequited love. But that is not what
struck her so powerfully. Rather, it was that the mermaid had no voice; she could
not explain herself because she was mute. Brown felt panicked at the very idea
of not being able to express herself. “I don’t know that I felt particularly
misunderstood but the threat is always there for children that they will be
inadequate, possibly even speechless, when it’s urgent that they be heard” (p.
59).
Dozens of other women novelists and poets testified to the ways their own
lives were so affected by these early childhood stories. On one level, it’s
probably no accident they were sufficiently inspired to become writers
themselves.
In one sense, everyone is an accomplished storyteller, whether we relate to
friends and loved ones our daily experiences or pass along potentially valuable
(or meaningless) information about what other people are doing. Within any
community the behavior of members is monitored in all kinds of ways through
the sharing of stories about heroic, constructive, scandalous, or inappropriate
actions. Such gossip has gotten bad press, but it actually serves some very
important functions within any group.

TELLING STORIES IN EVERYDAY CONVERSATIONS

There’s a group of staff members huddled around the copy machine, drinking
coffee and deep in conversation. This could be in a hospital, law firm, mental
health clinic, corporation, or any other office setting. If you were to listen in on
the discussion, more likely than not, you would overhear them talking about
others in the organization. As mentioned earlier, the vast majority of
conversations involve telling stories about oneself or others. This is the case in
almost every culture and spans age groups and gender (Dunbar, Duncan, &
Marriott, 1997). Whether this activity is classified as gossip, or just exchanging
social information, it remains the focal point of verbal discourse, working
effectively to keep outliers, freeloaders, and selfish people under close scrutiny
by branding them as untrustworthy (Beersma & Van Kleef, 2012).
Once upon a time, the original purpose for humans forming groups and
communities was protection against predators and enemies. But this organization
comes at a cost in that it promotes competition over limited resources, food
sources, and potential mates, sparking a degree of jealousy, resentment, and
conflict. Among primates, this is one reason that grooming habits developed in
which members of the pack or troop spend as much as 20% of their time literally
watching one another’s backs (e.g., I’ll pick off your fleas if you’ll do mine).
This is what helps forms alliances and coalitions within a group, which is
considered crucial for mutual cooperation and collaboration (Beersma & Van
Kleef, 2012). This grooming behavior is rewarded not only through shared
resources and skills but also by a flood of opiates in the brain that lowers heart
rate and provides feelings of well-being and relaxation (Keverne, Martensz, &
Tuite, 1989).
Among primates, grooming partnerships are typically arranged through
genetic kin relations, the most trusted alliances. The problem, however, is that
this time-consuming activity usually takes place between only two, or at most
three, different individuals at a time. This is fine for chimpanzees that might
operate in groups of only a few dozen, but humans have historically lived in
groups that number about 150 members (this is still the case if you add up all
your relatives, friends, neighbors, coworkers, and familiar acquaintances). Our
species had to develop alternative ways of “grooming behavior” that could be
more efficient (who has time to spend 3 hours per day brushing someone else’s
hair?) and thus verbal grooming—or gossip—was developed as a likely
alternative. We can build alliances not only through touch (pats on the back,
hugs, handshakes) but also through exchanging social information, usually in
groups of four standing by the copy machine or in other convenient settings like
coffee shops, hallways, lounges, or residences. One thing about this phenomenon
that is so interesting is that the amount of time that people spend engaged in
gossip is about the same amount of time that primates spend in grooming
behavior (Dunbar, 2004).
Although gossip has often been viewed as divisive, it has generally been
defined rather neutrally as exchanging evaluative or critical information about
someone else who is not present during the conversation (Foster, 2004). Its
particular meanings, influences, and effects depend on the context and
intentions, but it usually involves passing along new, surprising, or privileged
information about others in the group (De Backer, Nelissen, Vyncke, Braeckman,
& McAndrew, 2007). It is also especially useful in punishing perceived
offenders of social norms. In one study, for example, it was found that the targets
of sorority gossip were actually those who were considered most selfish, lazy,
cold, and overly aggressive (Keltner, Van Kleef, Chen, & Kraus, 2008). Gossipy
storytelling thus serves several important functions such as (1) providing
exchanges of social information about who is doing what to—or with—whom;
(2) controlling outlier behavior by advertising to others who is unreliable,
untrustworthy, or dishonorable within the group; (3) spreading information about
strangers or newcomers who could be threats; (4) discussing underlying conflicts
or ongoing issues that compromise maximum functioning; (5) sharing
information that could preserve safety and health, especially incidents related to
death, accidents, crimes, and illnesses; and (6) elevating the status of those who
hold privileged, secret information.
In all their various functions and roles, it is clear that such stories help to
regulate behavior and punish those who are not with the program, so to speak.
The frequency of stories about others’ behavior actually increases significantly
when someone in the group is loafing or literally not carrying his or her weight.
In one study of university rowing teams it was found that when one member of
the team was slacking off, conversations focused on badmouthing the violations
of group norms and talking more about individuals who were doing more than
their fair share. This was seen by the researchers as an especially fertile context
to explore the gossip behavior because in team sports like rowing there are only
group goals and no recognition of individual achievements (Kniffen & Wilson,
2005).
It should be noted that gossip can also be employed as a means of harassment
and bullying, in which false or misleading stories are spread about someone who
is thereafter marginalized. This is one reason why gossip has earned such a
harmful reputation, especially with regard to issues related to homophobia,
racism, prejudices, and other attacks against people who are different.
One other intriguing aspect of this subject is related to why people spend so
much time thinking, talking, and telling stories about people they don’t even
know. I’m talking about celebrities, those in the pubic eye, who command so
much attention in the media and in daily conversations. Why is it so irresistibly
compelling to talk about famous athletes, political figure, or actors, even though
we have had no personal contact with them and they hardly circulate in our
worlds? Why do publications such as Star, People, Us, and the The National
Enquirer make their living spreading gossip about these people in the pubic eye?
The answer: Because we actually imagine these celebrities as our friends.
If you think about it, each of us feels strong emotional attachments to people
we see regularly in the media. We hear their voices when driving in the car. We
watch their performances on television or in films. We root for or against them.
We feel invested in their work and in their lives. We care deeply about their
actions because, in many ways, they really do inhabit our lives. We talk to them
even if they don’t respond: “You idiot! Pass the damn ball!” In many ways, some
of them, or the characters they play, are members of our families.
As mentioned earlier in the context of all stories, our brains don’t differentiate
between the strong emotional connections and investment we feel toward
members of our family and inner circle versus those we encounter in the media.
As far as our minds our concerned, certain celebrities we admire really are
among our cherished friends. We know so much about them, far more than we
know about some of our colleagues and family members. And that’s one reason
people might feel so betrayed when they hear stories about someone they admire
who violated some (espoused) social norm.
Celebrities also become teachers and mentors. Their fashions and habits
become models for others, a fairly adaptive strategy considering how much work
it would take to figure out what is in style on your own; studying and mimicking
their choices is actually far more efficient (De Backer, Nelissen, Vyncke,
Braeckman, & McAndrew, 2007). Athletes, politicians, actors, and other
celebrities live in worlds we will never have access to, creating a fascination for
their trials and tribulations as they navigate through their extraordinary
adventures on our behalf.

CULTURAL STORIES THAT ARE JUST PLAIN WRONG

The stories we hear, and those we tell, are not necessarily accurate; in some
cases, they are pretty much fantasies and gross distortions of any semblance of
reality. Based on stories you might see and hear on some media outlets, you’d
think that crime is out of control with the number of reported murders and
incidences of violence, even though actual statistics report that deaths from
murder and war have never been lower in human history. Likewise, supposedly
the downtrodden are suffering worse than ever (and, admittedly, poverty is a
crime of negligence), yet for the first time in history, more people in our culture
are dying of overeating than they are of malnutrition. Supposedly, the sanctity of
marriage is eroding from gay rights, sexual promiscuity, abandonment of
traditional religion, and moral degradation, yet the divorce rate is steadily going
down. The same can be said of teen pregnancy, also going down, down, down.
“In short, if there is a widely held, ingrained assumption about the time in which
we are living, you should go ahead and assume it’s wrong” (Marche, 2013, p.
74).
We will talk more about deception and distortions that are part of stories told
in therapy and elsewhere in a later chapter, but next we continue to expand our
wide-angle lens to cover aspects of stories that produce personal transformations
in everyday life, especially those that occur as a result of consuming media,
viewing films and television, reading novels, even the narratives embedded in
games, whether pursuing wealth in board games like Monopoly or world
domination in Risk, or participation in online and video games such as Grand
Theft Auto or Plants Versus Zombies.
There is considerable debate among scholars of the gaming genre as to the
extent to which participation in these fantasy worlds leads to improved problem-
solving and cognitive abilities, or whether they contribute to greater laziness,
vicarious participation, and even violent behavior. Regardless of the eventual
outcomes of this research, there is little doubt that we have an insatiable hunger
to experience as much as we can, in as many ways that we can. It turns out that
in all their various forms and manifestations, stories provide those outlets.
 “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
“Why are you crying?”

5
STORIES OF CHANGE IN MEDIA, ENTERTAINMENT, AND
EVERYDAY LIFE

THIS INTERACTION WITH a 4-year-old child shows how she is already learning the
rudimentary skills of storytelling through jokes, riddles, and rhymes. Each of us
eventually builds a unique catalogue of stories throughout a lifetime, indexed by
subject (disappointments, triumphs, romantic liaisons, adventures), context
(dinner table, office, classroom), and audience (suitable for children, X-rated,
friends, coworkers, strangers, clients). This collection represents all that we
remember, all that we value, and all that we wish others to know about us and
what we have experienced during our lifetimes. Many of these stories represent
themes of change, transformation, and transitions that were most meaningful.

THE NEED TO TELL OUR OWN STORIES

In later life we become so attached to stories that they appear to rule almost
every aspect of life. There was one case in India in which the populace became
so enamored by a television program that they literally went on strike. In the
1980s, Indian trash collectors began a work stoppage to protest the cancellation
of a popular television series that had aired for more than a year. As piles of
stinking garbage spread across New Delhi, bringing the city to a standstill, the
workers adamantly refused to return to their jobs until the series was renewed
and they could find out what happened to the characters.
Unfortunately, it is more than a little ironic that although we’ve seen how
important storytelling is to daily life—its functions to solidify relationships,
create meaning in activities, code and retrieve memories, not to mention all its
forms as entertainment—it is rare that we are given much opportunity to tell our
own stories. People are constantly interrupted or required to be brief and “get to
the point.” Conversations during phone calls are now replaced by texts or tweets,
face-to-face interactions are replaced by e-mails, and the postal service is always
on the verge of bankruptcy because most people have stopped writing letters.
During those times when people most need to tell their stories, such as when
they are suffering or sick, they are least likely to have the chance to do so. When
you visit a doctor, you’d like some treatment and relief, but it also feels
important to be able to describe what happened and what it feels like. Yet studies
have consistently found that the average patient has about 18 seconds to tell his
or her story before the physician is likely to interrupt, and only 2% of patients
will ever be able to finish their story. And if that isn’t frustrating enough, the
majority of patients leave the office visit not really understanding what the
doctor suggested that they do (Levine, 2004).
Just as there has been a rebirth of storytelling in so many other aspects of life
where people are craving greater meaning and connection to others, it’s about
time that narrative medicine has found a footing in which doctors are now
understanding the crucial importance of their patients’ stories (Charon, 2001,
2006; Mehl-Madrona, 2007). Stories are thus conceived not so much as a special
performance on a stage, in a film, or in the pages of a book, but rather as a
continual source of the most natural mental activity. As we’ve seen, story is the
most basic organizing principle of the mind, responsible for consolidating and
creating meaning from all life experiences (Turner, 1996). Nevertheless, the fact
that stories are absorbing and entertaining is just a by-product that is no different
than the pleasure we derive from our sense of hearing or vision in which we
selectively attend to sights or sounds that are most interesting and stimulating.
One of the reasons why stories are so powerful and memorable is precisely
because they arouse such strong emotional reactions—fear, anxiety, sadness, joy,
frustration, hope—all time limited with the tension eventually coming to some
kind of closure. That’s why humor is also a critical feature of many stories,
producing laughter, which in turn stimulates a release of endorphins that not only
reduce pain but also produce a “high” that creates community engagement and
shared experience (Dunbar, 2005). Consider the role and function of comedians
(or jesters) throughout history: It may seem that they are basically entertainers,
but they have a far more significant cultural purpose as social critics, holding up
a mirror that reflects our own foibles and absurd behavior. They are deputized to
create communal experiences in a culture through shared laughter.
Think of any noted stand-up comedian—Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, George
Carlin, Chris Rock, Rita Rudner, Robin Williams, Jerry Seinfeld, Louis C.K.—
and it’s hard not to giggle a little when you remember one of their classic
routines. They are accomplished storytellers whose brilliance is related to
making us laugh at ourselves—together. Their jokes and routines become a kind
of social currency, in the same way that people frequently repeat favorite lines
from Monty Python, The Princess Bride, The Big Lebowski, The Hangover,
Blazing Saddles, or Annie Hall. These are the cultural artifacts that lead to
shared experiences.

STORIES REFLECTING DEEP-SEATED FEARS

In Bruno Bettelheim’s (1976) classic study of the psychological meaning of fairy

tales, he digs deeply into the existential themes of The Three Little Pigs, Hansel
and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, Snow White,
Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Goldilocks, and other tales. He likens the stories to
a “magic mirror which reflects some aspects of our inner world.” Once
immersed in these fantasy worlds, “we soon discover the inner turmoil of our
soul—its depth, and ways to gain peace within ourselves and with the world” (p.
309). Bettelheim believed that fairy tales were not only useful to educate
children about the values, struggles, and dangers within our world but also serve
as a timeless guide for conduct in the most challenging of circumstances.
Hansel and Gretel’s parents are poverty stricken and desperate, uncertain how
they can feed their family. The children are hungry and terrified, believing they
will be abandoned and doubting their parents’ ability to provide for them, which
would trigger any child’s deepest, unexpressed fears. The children must draw on
their own resources to protect themselves and so embark on a journey through
the woods, becoming lost because of errors in judgment. It’s at this point that
Bettelheim’s own fantasies and projections might have gotten a little carried
away when he interprets (or imagines) that the gingerbread house symbolizes the
mother’s body, which the children wish to devour as a source of nourishment.
Back to the story, Hansel and Gretel ignore warnings of danger—and their
intuition—when they give in to their gluttony. The witch serves as a reminder
that there is payback for such excessive indulgence, although the children defeat
the evil creature and eventually return home safely through the help of divine
intervention (e.g., the birds that lead them out of the forest). All the themes of
the story teach important cultural lessons: sibling cooperation to support one
another, initiative and resourcefulness to solve problems, confronting dangers in
the world without parental support, and facing fears and anxiety “because such
fairy tales give him confidence that he can master not only the real dangers
which his parents told him about, but even those vastly exaggerated ones which
he fears exist” (Bettelheim, 1976, p. 166).
Such stories contain within them a number of significant features that can be
utilized in therapy with children and adults (Brown, 2007; Frankzke, 1989;
Henderson & Malone, 2012). They are obviously more subtle than addressing
difficult issues more directly, not to mention they are so much a part of our first
introduction to stories as children. They allow us to identify with protagonists on
metaphorical levels, slaying dragons, monsters, and witches through the aid of a
supernatural force (wizard, good witch, magic, God), which parallels the role of
the therapist as a divine power who comes to the client’s aid during a time of
desperate need.
One author has even connected Winnie the Pooh characters to specific
transactional analysis ego states (Adams, 2009). Winnie the Pooh = Adult.
Tigger = Natural Child. Eeyore = Adapted Child. Kanga = Nurturing Parent.
Rabbit = Critical Parent. And so on. The main idea is that fairy tales and
children’s stories contain within them representative metaphors that make
identification easier with core issues that frequently arise in therapy. When
clients are asked which characters most closely resemble them, or their
antagonists, they can describe the similarities; when talking about the stories
they can often be far more willing to explore forbidden or difficult areas that
they previously avoided when speaking more directly about their own
experience. Adams (2009), for example, describes a woman suffering from panic
disorder, as well as feelings of incompetence as a parent because of her inability
to help her son adjust to problems at school. The client disclosed that she could
relate strongly to Rabbit because of her strong need to comply with societal
expectations—to be nice, polite, compliant, appropriate, always doing what is
expected. And yet she wanted to be far more nurturing like Kanga, who was also
kind and polite but seemed far more genuine, authentic, and self-determined.
Adams reports that this was a breakthrough for the client to internalize Kanga in
a new self-identity as a parent and a woman.

MUSIC, FILM, BOOKS, GAMES, AND TECHNOLOGY: VARIATIONS

OF A THEME

More than ever in human history, there is a greater variety of ways that stories
may be delivered to an audience. Art, music, dance, and oral traditions have
almost always been a part of our heritage in every culture. Once written
language was developed and disseminated to a wider audience, this led to a
number of other options that now include forms of technology we could never
even imagine.
In their earliest forms as children’s stories or fairy tales, we are all provided
with models designed to inspire us to achieve certain goals or values that are
cherished in our culture. We learn to be courageous, or selfless, or modest from
those earliest introductions to literature. During the formative years of early
adolescence the genre widens to include “young adult” novels, comic books, and
video games that feature vicarious role playing.
Jace, for example, looks back on his childhood with tremendous reluctance.
He had been teased and bullied in school, a frequent target of bigger kids who
terrorized him. He lived in constant fear and paralyzing anxiety, drawing comfort
from one major source that sustained him during these difficult years.
“Spider-Man helped transform me from an insecure adolescent boy into a
confident young man,” Jace recalls with a wistful smile. “The transformation
was gradual. There was no magical moment in school when I remembered
Peter’s heroic tale and immediately became a new person.”
Jace admits that only in comic books can such drastic changes occur, but he
doesn’t quite belief that. “For me, Spider-Man provided a regular source of
guidance. I felt insecure, worthless, and alone so much of the time. Spider-Man
often felt similar feelings, but he used them to motivate him to be a better
person. His example guided me to renew my confidence and face my negative
feelings. I would cycle this emotional experience countless times. Eventually, the
insecure boy I was became the confident man I now am.”
Jace doesn’t credit Spider-Man for his complete transformation, but the
fictional character became his companion and eventually his new secret identity.
“I made Spider-Man a presentational part of who I was. I wore Spider-Man
shirts, used Spider-Man pens, and mimicked the superhero whenever possible. In
doing so, I created an anchor for myself to get through puberty. I was trying to
figure out who I was and how I fit into society. I questioned my sexuality, my
intelligence, and my sanity. When everything else was confusing or scary, I had
one solid part of myself I could trust.”
Although we talk more in the next chapter about how stories such as this
become such formative pieces of created self-identities, the heroes from comic
books, song lyrics, legends, video games, novels, TV shows, and films become
as influential as any other mentors in our lives.

Rhythmic Lyrics of Music

The stories told through music in any given era often reflect the underlying
issues and concerns of listeners. When we compare the lyrics of popular songs
from a few decades ago to present times, we find that there is a significant
increase in stories told about alienation, loneliness, anger, and conflict. There is
more use of first-person pronouns rather than the collective “we.” This is
surmised to demonstrate increased underlying psychological troubles, especially
with regard to feelings of disconnection and hunger for intimacy (DeWall, Pond,
& Campbell, 2011).
I remember so vividly yearning to spend time with my father as a child. He
was always so busy with his work, playing golf and cards with his friends, plus I
had to compete with my brothers for his time. There was this song by Harry
Chapin, “Cats in the Cradle” (1974), in which he told the story of a son who so
idolized his father and wanted to be just like him, but his father was always too
busy. As the boy grew older, and his father remained just out of reach, he
continued to hunger for his him and to fight to spend time with him. The boy
grows up, becomes a man, and his father wants to spend time with him, but now
he is the one who is too busy. Finally he has a child of his own and the cycle
repeats itself: His own son becomes too busy to spend time with him.
Ever since I heard this song it has haunted me, in part, because the first acts of
the story were so familiar to me, and at each stage of my life I’ve thought about
how so much in it turned out to be true. Just yesterday, I called my son on the
phone just to tell him how much I love him. Before I could get the words out, he
interrupted: “Sorry, Dad, I gotta go, the baby’s crying.”
I just stood there, smiling, thinking about that song and how my father now so
wants to spend time with me, wants me to call him, and I always seem too busy.
I picked up the phone and called my father, just to tell him that I love him.

Stories That Speak Through the Screen

Kyle was abandoned at an early age by his father. He felt rudderless and overly
pressured by others’ expectations. He often allowed himself to be pushed in
directions that held no passion, much less interest for him. In so many ways it
didn’t feel like he was living his own life, but rather the template that had been
created for him by others.
On one lazy afternoon when he was feeling bored and out of sorts, Kyle
watched a film that randomly caught his attention. The Darjeeling Limited was
about three brothers on a train trip in India. The brothers started out with a
laminated map of someone else’s spiritual points that held no personal meaning
for them. They were just following someone else’s opinion about what should
matter to them.
Kyle marvels at the ways he saw his own life reflected in their story. “They
unknowingly found resolution when they embarked across the Indian
countryside in search of their own way home. The brothers acknowledged the
tragedies of the past but also learned to move beyond them. That is why the
brothers’ story continues to haunt me. There are just some stories that are so
accurate in portraying the human predicament, that watching them is like a warm
embrace and a consolation that we do not suffer alone.”
“In many ways,” Kyle continued, “I believed that I was limited by my father’s
incomplete map for my life, which I struggled for years to follow. However, in
my stumbling navigation I realized that the map of any individual’s life can
unfold and manifest itself in an infinite number of ways. We are constantly
charting and recharting our life’s map and need not be held back by anyone’s
else’s path for our lives. With some trials and help of loved ones, we can each
find our own way home. And that’s what that film did for me that has stayed
with me ever since.”
We resonate not only with the storied lyrics that speak to us but also those
plots that unfold on the screen. There is something about sitting in a darkened
theatre with a crowd of other people that heightens the impact of a story. For two
uninterrupted hours the audience enters into a trance state where they have been
transported to another time, another place, perhaps another planet. Time, as we
know it, disappears.
Film producer Beeban Kidron (2012) asks why we don’t honor stories
presented as films or television series on the same level as we do classic books.
Drama is a kind of truth, one that presents shared experiences that now cross
national borders, cultures, religious traditions, and languages, and impact
multiple generations across the world.
A French student remembers going to see an American film about a time in
her country’s history that seemed both distant and remote (Clooney, 2002). The
movie was Saving Private Ryan and she was never the same after the lights came
back on. “I was locked in my chair,” she recalls. “It was like an epiphany. The
thunderbolt that struck me was this: All that fire and steel and pain—and none of
those young American boys had to be there.” She had never so clearly realized,
until that moment, the sacrifices that others had made—strangers and foreigners
—so that she and her family could be safe. “Isn’t it interesting,” she wondered,
“that a movie, a shadow on a screen, can do that?” And by “do that” she means
get through to her in a way that no dry, history book could touch.
For those who struggle with reading because of a lack of interest or ability,
enacted stories on stage or screen provide another alternative that is now far
more popular. After all, according to recent polls, about one third of Americans
haven’t even read a single book during the past year (Moore, 2013), yet most
people consume thousands of hours of stories via televisions or movies.

The Ongoing Evolution of Books

Technology continues to advance at a staggering pace never seen before in the
history of the world. It was only 150 years ago that the main instruments of daily
use were a horse and a gun. Some of us are old enough to remember the times
when the only technological skill that was required was how to change the
ribbon on a typewriter; now every year there are software updates on our
computers and mobile devices that require considerable adaptation and new
learning to master them. And then consider that for more than a thousand years
stories were distributed and consumed as printed books or scrolls; it is only in
the last decade or two that advances have led to consuming stories on e-readers,
Kindles, iPads, audio recordings, and even mobile phones.
Yet many among us lament the death of printed books that you can hold in
your hand, caress, and physically turn and mark pages. What is lost, observes
one writer (Piper, 2012), is the sense of touch: “Reading isn’t only a matter of
our brains; it’s something we do with our bodies.” It’s a physical act that, more
than anything else, involves the hands. The author of the previous quotation,
mourning the death of books as objects, describes the new electronic
incarnations as similar to invertebrates like jellyfish, literally without a spine.
As an example of the power that physical books can exert, Piper describes St.
Augustine’s spiritual transformation. In his Confessions, Augustine relates the
story of sitting one day under a fig tree, tearful, in despair over his misery,
searching desperately for some enlightenment, or at least relief from his
emotional suffering and spiritual emptiness. He was wondering why it was so
difficult for him to give up his sins, why decisive action was always postponed
for some elusive time in the future: why couldn’t he make changes in his life
right now?
During this reverie, Augustine heard the beautiful voice of a child singing in
the distance. The words were indistinct and the melody unfamiliar, but when he
listened closely he could hear the chorus, “Take it and read, take it and read.”
It was as though this was a message from God, and so he reached for the only
book within his immediate grasp, a Bible, and opened it to a random page to read
the passage. Immediately he was flooded with an awareness that “all the
darkness of doubt was dispelled.” He carefully marked the page, closed the
book, and reported that he had undergone a religious conversion that became the
focal point of his life.
One other interesting point of the story is that this transformation occurred, in
part, because Augustine was accessing a story in a book that allowed him to turn
and mark pages randomly, the result of a new technology that converted words
from scrolls that had to be unrolled to a bound volume that made stories far more
accessible and user friendly.
 Echoing Augustine, Prior (2013) described how reading books can be both
personally transformative and spiritually transcendent, though not necessarily in
a religious sense. She has found that when immersed in a story, we are able to
transcend the immediacy of any moment, to explore far beyond the actual
narrative, and consider moral choices that confound us. She mentions such
seminal books as Great Expectations from which she learned “the power the
stories we tell ourselves have to do either harm and good, to ourselves and
others.” Death of a Salesman taught her about the seductive power of corruption.
Madame Bovary taught her about the differences between fantasy and reality.
Gulliver’s Travels expanded her limited worldview. Jane Eyre helped her to be
more herself. She says these weren’t just moral, or even intellectual lessons,
even if that is the way it began for her. “Rather, the stories from these books and
so many others became part of my life story and then, gradually, part of my very
soul.”
Perhaps the next generation will find electronically delivered stories (perhaps
even wired directly into the brain) just as groundbreaking and will find these
primitive instruments called books ridiculously primitive and obsolete. Piper
remarks again, “Unlike books, we cannot feel the impression of the digital. The
touch of the page brings us into the world, while the screen keeps us out.” It is
thus the varied physical sensations associated with books that can heighten their
impact.
It seems to be the traditional (and older) authors who are most disturbed by
the changes taking place in the ways that stories are distributed. Novelist
Richard Russo (2012), for one, recalls with wistful longing his ongoing love
affair with the local bookstore, a sanctuary where he would spend hours sitting
on the floor in the children’s section, perusing the latest installments of his
favorite series featuring the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew. “But to me bookstores
remain places of wonder. Like libraries, they’re the physical manifestation of the
world’s longest, most thrilling conversation.” What Russo loves, and mourns, is
that bookstores are or were as much about the people who work there as the
stocked shelves of volumes. One thing that an online delivery service can’t
provide, at least in the same way, is that “they’ll put in your hand something you
just have to read, by someone you’ve never heard of, someone just entering the
conversation, who wants to talk to you about things that matter” (p. 20).
Perhaps we should just get over it, stop whining about changes in the ways
that stories are transmitted. We used to disseminate them on cave walls until a
technological breakthrough occurred to make it possible to compose symbols on
clay, then papyrus and scrolls, before stories were all slimmed down to what we
know as paper. Now we can hold thousands of books on a small device weighing
less than a paperback. We may not speak with a human person while accessing
electronic versions of stories, but they do have their statistically predictive
“genius” recommendations based on your history of purchases and interests.

Active Storytelling Immersion in Gaming

It may be surprising to learn that not only do half of all Americans over the age
of 6 regularly play video games (and many more than that in parts of Asia) but
also that far more money is spent on them than on movie tickets (Pink, 2006). In
addition, almost all children and college students regularly immerse themselves
in the storied worlds of video or online gaming (Fogel, 2012). The increasing
popularity is not only about diversion and entertainment but also related to
developing high-level conceptual skills through immersion in simulated stories.
Recent research is finding all kinds of benefits that accrue to players, including
improved visual perception, critical thinking, problem solving, and the ability to
process multiple sources of information (Gray, 2012). One study even found that
doctors who regularly play games make one-third fewer mistakes when
performing surgery because of increased dexterity (Rosser et al., 2007).
Yes, there are also a number of problems associated with excessive
participation in violent games, even though for most people they permit
opportunities to confront anticipated fears and work out strategies for
overcoming challenges (Kottler, 2011a). It turns out that the fastest growing
segment of the video gaming market is not first-person shooter games but rather
those that provide role-playing opportunities in which the participant must
assume the identity of a character who must navigate through a series of
obstacles and challenges that parallel those in real life: They provide safe
opportunities to practice crucial life skills in negotiation, compromise, pattern
recognition, and predicting outcomes, as well as practicing empathy and thinking
deeply about complex systems (Gee, 2007).
Whereas films and books represent a form of passive entertainment, at least
with respect to interactive involvement, video game players are literally
operating as controllers of a character’s fate. Going much deeper, one frequent
participant sees the games as a complete immersion experience in which players
“are writing their own story as they go, and that their actions are actually having
an effect on the ultimate outcome” (Dubbelman, 2011, p. 158).
Story-driven games like Half Life, BioShock, Heavy Rain, Assassin’s Creed,
and Minecraft, not to mention all the first-person shooter games, acknowledge
the presence of players “as if they are physically anchored in the story world”
(Dubbleman, 2011, p. 166). In that sense, they are “spatial journeys” that
continue where the stories from other media like movies and television shows
leave off, allowing for greater depth and emotional arousal (Jenkins, 2006).
As one example of the convergence of multiple media that enhance the
storytelling experience, in the popular television show Walking Dead each
episode is followed with opportunities to continue the narrative by playing the
companion video game, downloading a mobile app, or joining online
communities to discuss the characters, even to be chosen as an “extra” zombie in
a future episode. The ultimate goal is to create for the viewer the most realistic
immersion experience possible in the story, as if you are there, as if you are
literally part of the action and determine what might happen next. These games
provide the kinds of adventures and action for which our nervous systems may
have been originally designed in a far more dangerous environment but now lie
dormant and underutilized.
The stories that are part of online games are just as important as the action. In
the most popular digital storytelling, games such as Call of Duty, World of
Warcraft, Wildstar, Farmville, Halo, Grand Theft Auto, WildStar, and Liberty
City, whole virtual universes are created and the player becomes an actual
character in the story. There are elaborate histories and backstories of each
character, contextual features designed to maximize the feeling that you are not
merely an observer or player but are inside the story as a real character. Players
are literally able to immerse themselves in the action, akin to participatory
theatre (Alexander, 2011). One can only expect that as technology advances with
multiple-dimension screens, gesture-and movement-activated responses, smaller
mobile devices, voice-activated commands, and holographic images, the
differences between storied and actual reality will become less defined.

THE EVOLUTION OF PSYCHOTHERAPY AS A STORIED

EXPERIENCE

Every half decade or so, many of the “rock stars” within the field are invited to
come together for the Evolution of Psychotherapy Conference, one of the most
well-attended and acclaimed meetings of the minds. Lectures, panel discussions,
dialogues, and demonstrations introduce the faithful to the latest innovations in
psychotherapy theory and practice, although the majority of the programs
usually involve revisits to the past with notable figures talking about the origins
of their ideas.
As much as I enjoy such gatherings, both as a presenter and participant, I’ve
often wondered whether our profession has actually evolved way beyond the
relatively narrow ways that our practice has been conceived. Most theories are
actually obsolete, considering that the vast majority of practitioners identify as
eclectic, pragmatic, or integrative in their orientation. And most presentations
that focus on specific techniques or interventions seem to completely ignore all
the compelling research about the therapeutic relationship as the most significant
operative ingredient in producing satisfactory outcomes. All the attention on
empirically supported and evidence-based treatments also emphasizes specific
behaviors and procedures over more universal skills, such as the ability to craft
influential stories.
As we will explore in the next chapter, our identities, our very notion of
“self,” are constructed as stories we tell ourselves and others. Likewise, the
stories that are heard and viewed can have a profound effect on future choices,
all without explicitly discussing problems directly. That is what is so remarkable
about storytelling as a means by which to promote changes: The process may be
mysterious, ethereal, aesthetic, and even unconscious, but the outcomes are no
less powerful.
After watching the film Sliding Doors about a woman (played by Gweneth
Paltrow) who juggles two alternative lives, Sally was profoundly influenced by
what she experienced vicariously, leading her to work out a conflict with her
boyfriend. For the first time, she understood clearly the source of her wounds
and resentment: “I suddenly understood that my anger was a way for me to push
him away by defending against my vulnerability and fear of abandonment. I
sensed it would help me to tell him about these feelings when he returned, but I
was too afraid to look stupid. It would make me feel too weak. He might take
advantage of my vulnerability, criticize me, see me as needy, and push me away.
Then I would feel even worse” (Wolz, 2003).
While watching the movie, Sally observed the strong female protagonist
looking anything but weak and vulnerable. This opened up new opportunities for
her to redefine herself that hadn’t occurred to her previously. It’s not that weeks
or months of therapy couldn’t help her develop similar insights, but it happened
during a 2-hour viewing of entertainment.
Therapists and other professionals have known for decades about the utility of
films and other story media to supplement the work done in sessions, promoting
growth and deep insights that can be processed later (Berg-Cross, Jennings, &
Baruch, 1990; Garrison, 2007; Schulenberg, 2003; Solomon, 2001; Ulus, 2003;
Wedding & Boyd, 1998; Wooder, 2008). What is interesting for us to consider
when thinking about our profession’s evolution is not what new theories will be
introduced, or old ones rehashed, but rather how our delivery systems will
continue to evolve. Just as it might seem quaint in a few years to read an actual
physical book, so too will therapy’s role as a story-holding and storytelling
enterprise, expand in all kinds of other settings and contexts, forming the
foundation of much of what we do.

THE ENDURING LEGACY OF STORIES ACROSS GENERATIONS

Even among those clients who insist that stories haven’t been very influential in
their lives (and there are a few), or at least those who can’t seem to remember
any stories of significance, they still have been shaped by them in ways they
would find difficult to deny. Most of the impactful stories within families,
including the legacies, myths, and legends, were offered casually and informally
with a subtle touch. “Mostly they float, barely noticed,” observes one student of
the phenomenon, “through our daily talk and only long afterwards do we realize
we’ve been hearing and unconsciously collecting them all along” (Yashinsky,
2004, p. 67). Yashinsky believes that some families are just better than others at
keeping their stories alive. They do so not only through the retelling of the
experiences but also the accompanying artifacts that include photos, videos,
social media posts, blogs, journal entries, souvenirs, scars, and collective
memories. Yashinsky makes the point that we aren’t only born into houses of
brick and wood but also dwellings constructed of stories, memories, and legends.
Family theorists like James Framo, Ivan Boszormenyi-Nagi, and Murray
Bowen have long honed in on the stories that have become enduring legacies
passed on from one generation to another. These can be humorous or cute
anecdotes that hold within them a core family value. They are passed along in
such a way to instill a sense of family history and those intergenerational
legacies that especially attract our attention. Patterns of “distancing,”
“triangulation,” “invisible loyalties,” and “differentiation” become established as
part of ongoing stories within the family. Although often invisible and unspoken,
they clearly shape behavior of the members who live out stories they never
authored in the first place. In some cases, the family stories are myths and
deceptions.
Becka had been raised by her single mother, always wondering about who her
father was. It took years of relentless nagging before her mother finally revealed
to her that her father had been of Native American origin. Becka was fascinated
by this startling information about her heritage. She decided to track down her
father to learn more.
It turned out that her father didn’t come close to living up to her hopes and
expectations. The man seemed to have no interest in Becca and, in many ways,
couldn’t have been more disappointing. Yet she resolved to continue her
commitment to her Indian heritage. She attended ceremonies and learned about
the rituals of her people. She had tattoos of feathers and Indian symbols
imprinted on her body. She took tremendous pride in her cultural background.
It was while applying for a state job that Becka was required to obtain a copy
of her birth certificate. She was stunned to see that the name listed under
“father” on the legal document wasn’t the least familiar to her and certainly not
the man whom she had been told was her father. When she questioned her
mother about the discrepancy, she learned, much to her dismay, that the first
story had been a lie; her father was actually someone else!
Becka decided to pursue her new lead and eventually met her real father who,
it turned out, had also been looking for her all these years. They reunited and
eventually developed a warm relationship. But the interesting, and perhaps
amusing, part of the story was that Becka’s father was actually White. She had
no Indian blood! “So what the hell am I supposed to do with all these tattoos?”
she asked.
The interesting question in therapy, as in so many of our own personal stories,
is what really exists between what is told about families and what is not told?
Members adapt particular fragments of shared experience into their own
identities, versions of stories that often conflict dramatically with the ones told
by others in the family (McGeough, 2012). The sum total of these self-narratives
adds up to the collective family culture that contains its operating rules and
values that guide and restrict behavior. And as we will investigate in the next
chapter, they also construct what we know as a self-identity.
 “What is the story of your life?”

6
PERSONAL NARRATIVES AND STORIED IDENTITIES

THIS COULD VERY well be a question we might ask a new client during a first
session when we are gathering background and contextual information related to
the presenting complaints. In addition to whatever we do to help people resolve
their struggles and problems that led them to therapy in the first place, we also
help them to tell their stories as part of the process.
Think about how you might respond to this question. Would you begin with
your birth or your first conscious memory? Would you work backward from the
present? What would you include and what would you leave out of your story,
given that it’s hardly practical to include everything you remember.
Of course, there is no definitive account of anyone’s life, whether a client’s or
your own, nor is there a simple linear narrative. Rather than a single story of
self-identity, there are multiple versions, a “conversation of narratives” or “war
of historians” that battle for dominance in our recollections (Raggatt, 2006). The
therapist’s job often involves helping people to “thicken” their stories in such a
way that they can have a corresponding impact on personal identity (Lundby,
2013; White, 2007).
Each of us presents a multiplicity of selves with its own accompanying story.
We are all victims and survivors. We could tell stories of success or failure, of
serenity or struggle, of elation or despair, productivity or inertia, enlightenment
or confusion. That is why one of our jobs is to help people to honor and
reconcile the paradoxes and polarities of life stories, acknowledging the various
colored and textured threads that are woven together as part of the patchwork
quilt that represents a storied identity. These narrative identities become
internalized in such a way that they connect the past to the present, as well as
possibilities for the future (McAdams & Pals, 2006; Singer, 2004). They also
help to reveal core beliefs and values, as well as crystalize a sense of purpose
and meaning. This is especially the case when the storied identity is crafted in
such a way—with a therapist’s help—to emphasize a coherent sense of agency,
including feelings of success, productivity, personal control, and mastery (Adler,
2013).
STORIES REVEALED AND STORIES CREATED

“Being on my own is a scary place,” confessed one client who was interviewed
in Adler’s (2012) study of narrative identity in therapy. “At times, I feel like I’m
going somewhere for the first time—exciting, frustrating, wonderful, and scary
all at once. There are a lot of changes in my life. I was feeling completely at
their mercy, but now I see that I do have control. It’s up to me to be able to stick
with it and I will rise” (p. 374). This suggests that we could be far more
intentional and explicit about asking clients to talk about what they are doing to
make things better, especially during those times when they are deferring to us.
CLIENT: “I just want to thank you for what you’ve done for me. I just
can’t say enough about how helpful you’ve been.”
THERAPIST: “Thanks. But I think you mean how helpful you have been.”
CLIENT: “Excuse me?”
THERAPIST: “I realize that I’ve been a partner in this process, but you are
the one who is doing all the work. So I wonder if we could try this
again? What’s your explanation for why you’ve made such significant
progress during the last few weeks? Tell me a story about that.”
In this view, therapy often works best when clients are asked to organize
stories about their sessions that emphasize new and wider possibilities for future
choices and actions, especially those in which they were the ones in charge
(Omer & Alon, 1997; Rosenbaum & Bohart, 2007). In this constructivist view of
narrative identity, stories are not simply revealed; they are actually created in a
multitude of ways, depending on one’s perspective. Obviously, therapists have a
certain influence to help shape the direction and form that these stories might
take, especially when particular clients from marginalized or oppressed groups
have been “colonized” into accepting stories that continue to perpetuate privilege
among those who hold power. If one definition of personal identity is that it
represents the composite story that we tell ourselves and others about who and
what we are, then this internalized narrative is unconsciously and strategically
influenced by forces far beyond our awareness and control (Jenkins, 2013).

DIAGNOSES ARE SHORT STORIES

People often define themselves by the stories they hear—and tell—about their
characteristics, conditions, and diagnoses: “I’m shy,” I’m schizophrenic,” “I’m
bulimic,” “I’m an addict,” “I’m Irish and have a bad temper.” Therapists often
contribute to the problem because we also oversubscribe to the belief that clients
are their labels. How often have you overheard colleagues (of course, you would
never do that!) say things like “I’m seeing this OCD client,” or “I’ve got this
PTSD guy coming in at 10,” or “This borderline is driving me crazy.”
Clients come to believe that their labels and diagnostic stories define them,
forge their identities, and provide ready reasons, if not excuses, for why they are
so limited. “I wish I could hold on to a job for more than a few months,” one
client complained with a shrug. “But with my impulse disorder I just can’t seem
to help myself. I just go off on someone at work and it kind of just gets out of
control. I don’t really blame them for letting me go after that, but hey, what can I
do?”
One of the most important predictors of a positive outcome in therapy is the
way the psychological difficulty is defined, accompanied by what constitutes
successful treatment. This is especially the case with more serious, intractable
conditions or illnesses in which a client’s sense of self is directly connected to
the presenting complaint or diagnostic entity (Davidson & Strauss, 1992). In
other words, there are no schizophrenics or narcissists or anorectics (or even
alcoholics) but rather individuals who manifest aspects of these patterns. As long
as people tell self-limiting stories about themselves—that they are their
diagnoses—they will have a much harder time shedding that identity no matter
how well they recover. Of course, there are sometimes good reasons for adopting
a label as an internalized condition (such as being an alcoholic or diabetic)
because it helps to set limits on which behaviors will likely do serious harm.
The story we tell clients about what treatment and recovery involves, what it
means, and where it leads also defines the “therapeutic identity.” If success
means a complete absence of symptoms, a return to previous levels of
functioning in all areas, and a total cure, then that significantly reduces the
probability of a satisfactory outcome. On the other hand, when we offer a far
more realistic story defining the probable result as renewed hope for the future,
new skills for coping with difficulties, greater understanding and meaning
associated with one’s life journey, and a significantly transformed attitude
toward the presenting complaints, so-called recovery becomes far more likely.
As we will cover in the chapter on traumatized identities, sometimes that
involves creating altered stories of choice and empowerment, even when
biological, genetic, or even environmental factors are not amenable to change.

A PLURALITY OF NARRATORS

Individual and collective identities are constructed, in part, by the stories we tell
ourselves and others: They form the foundation for organizing experiences in a
coherent way, as well as constructing our notions of reality (Bruner, 1986). They
are the basis for what has been called the “Quixote principle” in that they are
responsible for the ways that new identities can be forged by pursuing imaginary
social worlds, such as those that can be discovered through fiction (Sarbin,
1986). In the case of children, they can be instrumental in helping them to
understand better social relationships, people’s desires and motives, and which
actions may most productively lead to personal change (Pomerantz, 2007).
Personal narratives begin in stories of childhood that are passed along from
parent to child, as well as through seminal books, films, and shows. Each of us
receives consistent messages of value and worth, as well as the first definitions
that describe our behaviors, motivations, and personalities. Often they can be
empowering and encouraging, and for some people they can be limiting or even
destructive. In either case, the dominant narratives exist within each of us and
often have an impact that may be beyond awareness.
One definition of an emotional disorder, or even a psychotic process, is
someone who is unable to develop a sense of identity that integrates a coherent
story of multiple voices and characters that live inside one’s head. And one
viable means by which to facilitate this process is through reading, listening, or
viewing stories that strengthen the ability to reconcile a plurality of viewpoints,
all sharing their own—but quite different—perceptions (Bakhtin, 1984). That’s
why some therapists recommend to their clients novels that force them to look at
the ways that identities are forged by the discrepant stories told within their
families, often directly contradicting one another and requiring them to make
sense of the inevitable paradoxical accounts.
For instance, in Michael Dorris’s (1987) A Yellow Raft in Blue Water, a young
biracial girl living on an Indian reservation tells her story of abuse, sparking in
the reader intense rage and indignation toward her mother, who was so
neglectful. But then you read the mother’s account of the same, exact events, and
you feel nothing but compassion for her, now understanding that it was her
mother who was so abusive. Finally, you read the grandmother’s narrative of the
same events and now realize that she was also the victim of circumstances
beyond her control. We are left to reconcile and make sense of three stories of a
family, each presenting an extraordinarily different version of individual and
family identities.
In another example, Barbara Kingsolver’s (1998) novel The Poisonwood Bible
presents the story of a family that travels to Africa as part of a mission to convert
the “heathens” to Christianity. Each of the four daughters (ages 5 to 16) and the
mother take turns describing the events of their lives (the father is the only one
without a voice). Because of the weight limits for flying during the 1960s, each
of the family members is allowed to bring only a limited number of cherished
objects. The eldest adolescent daughter wears three layers of clothes on the plane
so she will have a suitable wardrobe. The mother uses her precious allotment to
bring Betty Crocker cake mixes so she can celebrate each of her children’s
birthdays with a familiar ritual. The father, the single-minded, rigid patriarch,
brings a hammer, only to discover when he arrives that there is no wood and
nails in the village. As another example of his well-intended but misguided
worldview, he can’t figure out why the villagers refuse to be baptized in the
river, only to discover it was because it’s filled with crocodiles. One of the main
themes of the story is that there is no single narrative; each character has a very
unique and quite different view of the events as they transpire, and each tells her
story in a very different way. The cumulative effect of reading such stories is that
they expand one’s capacity for embracing multiple perspectives, each of which
may be equally valid.

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL REASONING

The stories we tell ourselves about past experiences define and explain the
subsequent trajectories that our lives might take. When they include themes of
growth, redemption, and positive self-transformation, they most likely lead to
feelings of well-being, closure, resolution, and life satisfaction versus those that
are viewed negatively and result in regret and lingering despair (Bauer &
McAdams, 2004; Lilgendahl & McAdams, 2011; Pals, 2006). Termed
“autobiographical reasoning” or “narrative identity,” they contribute to the ways
we interpret our core identity and the explanations we provide for the ways we
behave the way we do (Habermas & Bluck, 2000; McAdams, 1993). These
stories become legends—and often myths—that rule our lives in so many ways
that they are simply accepted as truths about who we are. Clients stubbornly hold
on to the stories they tell themselves (and others) even when confronted with
clear evidence that things didn’t quite happen the way they report. It seems that
the stories have become their reality, making it that much harder for us to help
them to face alternative viewpoints.
In a sense, our job is to challenge the client’s presenting story as the only
possible version of truth. In narrative therapy terms, this means deconstructing
the dominant story in favor of an alternative preferred outcome that creates a
new empowered story. A therapist might offer, for instance: “It’s curious to me
that although you’ve described yourself as wounded, vulnerable, and
incompetent after being laid off from your job, you’ve just provided an example
of how assertive and proactive you can be. That endless noise from your
neighbor has been going on for months, bothering everyone around him, but you
are the one who took constructive, forceful action. I wonder how that fits with
the image you created of being so passive and victimized? I wonder how that
changes the story you tell yourself and others about who you really are?”
It is interesting, if not useful, to help clients to catalogue those seminal events
that have been translated into autobiographical reasoning and then critically
evaluate their meaning and accuracy. You are welcome to try this on your own as
an experiment by listing several of the most frequent life stories you share with
others (including your clients). Next, review the list and question as honestly as
possible your degree of confidence that these events really happened exactly as
you report. Obviously, there would often be some shading, if not exaggerations
or minimizing of details, that didn’t quite fit the preferred outcome.
Some of my own “classic” stories that define my identity as a person and
professional include the following:
• My mother was a depressed, suicidal alcoholic. Sure, she had a few
cocktails every evening. And she had a right to be upset after my father
divorced her. And yes, she did sometimes wonder aloud whether she
would be better off dead, but I’ve probably exaggerated the degree of her
problems as an excuse for my own underachievement early in life. See
next story.
• I was an underachieving student because (1) my mother was a depressed
alcoholic (see earlier point), (2) attention-deficit problems, and (3) poor
vision that was never diagnosed or corrected. Honestly, I don’t really
know how much of this is really accurate. I think this was true. I certainly
believe it to be so. But I don’t really know how much I am exaggerating
for the sake of a good story to explain my early problems.
• After my parents divorced, I was the eldest son who was responsible for
taking care of my mother and brothers. Strictly, this was the case in that I
was the “man of the house,” but I didn’t really take care of anyone very
well, including myself.
• I barely got into college, and then on probation, mostly because I showed
up for the interview without my parents and this impressed the admissions
officer. This seems highly unlikely as an explanation. It’s far more
probable I was admitted because I was on the cusp and was given a break
because I came across as highly motivated.
• I entered this profession because a therapist once helped me and I wanted
to be like her. I’m sure this helped to cement my interest, but I knew I was
 interested in psychology from my very first semester. I became a therapist,
in part, because it was important for me to do something useful.
This is but a sampling of my favorite stories I tell a lot—to clients and to
audiences. I even believe them most of the time. But when I seriously question
their complete veracity, I’m left wondering how much is really true.
Nevertheless, these seminal defining stories of my life have indeed shaped who I
think I am, just as stories or legends or urban myths within our culture continue
to shape our perceptions of political, economic, or social structures, whether they
are accurate or not. For instance, during a national financial crisis, the prevailing
story presented in the media is that everyone is becoming more cautious with
spending during these “bad times.” This collective story helps to shape and
influence behavior, just as much as it reflects what is supposedly happening.
That is one reason why politicians and pubic figures are so accomplished at
presenting storied versions of the reality they want to sell to constituents.
Likewise, each of us grasps an illusion of personal identity that represents our
own autobiographical reasoning, with all its distortion and selective memory. In
some cases, this dominant story of identity can be shaped and influenced by
other stories that we hear and view.
Andrew Stanton, a screenwriter for Pixar’s greatest movie hits, including Toy
Story and Finding Nemo, remembers as a child watching Lawrence of Arabia, a
film he later saw seven times. He knew he was seeing something extraordinary
beyond the film’s historical record of events, but it wasn’t until a later viewing as
an adult that he was struck by one scene that captured an “aha” moment
(Stanton, 2012). Peter O’Toole, as Lawrence, had just crossed the Sinai Desert to
finally reach the Suez Canal. He and his companion stand there mute, in awe,
when a motorcyclist is stunned to see two ghosts covered in white sand. The guy
yells out to them: “Who are you?”
And that is the question that hit Stanton hard, by inviting him to look at his
own place in the world. It is also the driving question that he has explored in all
the stories he has created and told since then.

ALTERNATIVE STORIES OF IDENTITY

Antonio Damasio (2006), one of the pioneering neuroscientists, observed that

“consciousness begins when brains acquire the power, the simple power I must
add, of telling a story” (p. 30). This miraculous and natural process begins
during the second and third years of life once language fluency builds, but
perhaps even earlier in that infants will tells stories through gestures and
movements. Corresponding to what Erik Erikson (1950) referred to as identity
development in adolescence, this is when a true narrative, autobiographical self
begins to flourish in earnest, when the key questions of “Who am I?” and “What
am I here for?” are addressed (McAdams, Josselson, & Lieblich, 2006).
Twelve-step and other addiction recovery programs facilitate healing and
recovery primarily through the invitation to tell a new story of identity as a
recovering addict, one that includes themes of shame and redemption: “Hello,
my name is ______ and I’m an alcoholic.”
Whether related to addicts in recovery, reformed ex-convicts, jilted lovers, or
anyone else carrying around a lifetime of regrets, a therapeutic process of “true
confession” can lead to surrendering false pride, working through shame,
abandoning excuses, confronting self-deception, and promoting greater personal
responsibility (Maruna & Ramsden, 2003). Although there is no single optimal
script for recrafting a new identity, such constructed narratives often have
common features (Ahmed, Harris, Braithwaite, & Braithwaite, 2001; Maruna,
2001).
1. Noble suffering. The new story is framed as a learning experience, one in
which it is possible to profit from mistakes, lapses, and failures, in order
to serve some greater good.
2. Acknowledging limitations. This is a surrender to helplessness,
vulnerability, dependence on others, and the expressed need for help and
support.
3. Connectedness to something bigger than oneself. This could include
Nature, social relationships, tribal affiliations, or a Higher Power. The
main idea is that we are all a part of something much larger than our
individual existence.
4. Service to others. This includes repentance, restitution, generosity,
altruism, and paying back to others. Regrets and mistakes lead to
constructive action.
5. Coherence. A new integrated identity is forged through a heroic story of
recovery and resilience, as well as an opportunity for continued growth.
Of course, we’d expect that recalibrated stories might not necessarily hold
“absolute truth” as much as an alternative narrative that features a sense (or
illusion) of empowerment. In some cases, this can lead to a different form of
mythology.

PERSONAL MYTHOLOGY
Every culture, community, religion, and organized group holds a series of myths
that are designed to explain mysteries and unknown phenomena, guide spiritual
development, provide guidance for navigating trials and conflicts, establish
models for appropriate behavior, support the social order, and indoctrinate
members into perceived realities, as well as a sense of awe toward things that
can never be explained (Campbell, 1988; Eliade, 1963). They often involve
origin stories that form the foundation for the world’s religions but also the
history of a culture and its significant rituals and customs. Originally, myths
were considered faithful and true stories about the natural world and how it came
to be, as well as the origins of our species. During contemporary times myths are
often associated with superstitions and irrational beliefs that have no basis in
reality. Nevertheless, they may exert powerful influences in shaping beliefs,
attitudes, and worldviews.
Lawlis (2007) reports a study in which adolescent girls and young women
from the inner city were asked to name the one story from childhood that they
best remember and had the most enduring effects on them. Given the setting and
culture, it may not be surprising that 80% of them mentioned Cinderella as their
most memorable story. But perhaps different than their counterparts living in
more affluent and privileged areas, they seem to recall a very different theme
from the story other than the usual subtext that a girl should be compliant,
patient, and suffer abuse in silence until rescued from a Prince Charming.
Although the girls interviewed did agree that the story was about “not being
treated right,” they also concluded that the moral of the story was related to how
unjust the world is: “The only thing the story taught you was that there is not
much hope of life getting better because princes are just make-believe” (p. 178).
There are thus many possible interpretations of a story, depending on one’s life
situation. In addition, myths can exert powerful “Cinderella effects,” even
though they represent fantasy.
Our profession has its own myths and origin stories, many of them just as
fictional, or at least as ethereal, as anything from Greek or Roman stories of the
gods. We hold as sacred certain entities we call “the unconscious,” “the inner
child,” “a personality,” and “mental disorder,” which are merely the names for
things we can’t quite explain or understand. Nevertheless, they help us to
function in a landscape that is filled with mysteries.
Our clients embrace their own personal mythology that, at one time, was quite
functional but eventually may become both restrictive and obsolete. These are
the origin stories that they bring to us explaining why they have a bad temper
(e.g., “It’s my genes”), why they drink so much (e.g., “My mother smoked while
she was pregnant”), or why they can’t get out of a destructive relationship (e.g.,
“I’m just following the pattern of my family”).
In many cases, mythical explanations may even be partially valid, but they are
nevertheless quite restrictive. They provide a semblance of order in a world of
chaos. They represent similar functions and roles as their counterparts within
cultures, providing explanations and guidance for life’s conundrums and
mysteries, as well as organizing one’s sense of reality (Feinstein, 2007). As such,
their formulation and adoption usually take place beyond conscious awareness
and often without deliberate choice: “It is often not until we are ready to
challenge a myth that we are first able to perceive and articulate it” (Feinstein,
2007, p. 147). It is, therefore, one of our jobs to help clients to critically identify,
examine, and reflect on the personal myths that control their lives, as well as to
develop “countermyths” that lead to a more functional synthesis and congruence
with expressed desires and goals (Feinstein, 1997).
How are we to accomplish this task more strategically? One technique from
Gardner (1971) in his work with children asks them to create a story that has
four features: a beginning, middle, and end, plus a moral. One version of this
story invitation by a boy who feels alienated might sound something like this:
There’s this rabbit...No, not really a rabbit, but it just looks like a rabbit. It’s really a little boy but he
got changed into a rabbit by this mean old witch who likes to scare people because she’s...I don’t know
why she does that but I’ll tell you later. So, anyway, the rabbit who is really a boy can’t go to school
anymore ‘cause kids would laugh at him and everything. But then he has to get food and stuff and find
a place to sleep and he feels so, so, so lonely because he doesn’t really know how to talk rabbit and
nobody will talk to him either. But then, one day he gets so scared and hungry that he goes to the witch
and begs her to change him back. But instead the witch just laughs at him and tells him to go away.
And I guess the moral of the story is to be really, really careful ‘cause you never know when you might
get changed into a rabbit.

The therapist attempts to identify significant psychological themes in the story—

perhaps such features as the boy’s identification with the rabbit, his expression
of fears and apprehensions, a belief that he must be cautious and careful, fearful
of harm. The boy may also be talking about his own feelings of loneliness and
discomfort with things that happen in school, about which he seems to feel
ambivalent; he seems to feel relieved that the rabbit doesn’t have to go, but he
also feels excluded and marginalized, different from others. Finally, the ending
and moral are not exactly hopeful: The boy appears to be expressing uncertainty
about the future, saddened that he has so little power to control his own life.
Perhaps we wouldn’t offer these interpretations directly to a child, but they are
interesting observations about what may be part of his experience. We have
some conjectures and hypotheses that are better formed based on contextual
features of how the story fits within all the other things we have learned about
him in sessions. We could also ask the child directly about how and why he
identifies with the rabbit and the events that unfolded, perhaps discussing other
possible morals and endings. Yet Gardner preferred instead to respond to his
young clients by offering an alternative version of the story, one that highlighted
some of the core psychological issues through mythic language. In this new
mythical story, the therapist could uncover and reveal more about what the rabbit
is feeling inside, and also how resourceful he can be to adjust to his temporary
feelings of being different before he finds a way to change himself back into a
boy and to protect himself against future attempts by bullies to harm or scare
him.
A similar strategy has been employed to work with adults when they are asked
to tell their own fairy tales in which they play a heroic role (Feinstein &
Krippner, 1988, 1997). Initially they are helped to conceive of their problems in
terms of a deeper mythological conflict. Marital disputes, with impending
divorce, might instead be framed as a disagreement between two trolls who fight
so much that they forget to collect the tolls of the travelers who cross their bridge
overhead. The goal is to help clients to create new mythological tales that better
integrate and represent their experiences.

STORIES TO INTEGRATE EXPERIENCES

Most people need to tell their stories and that’s often one reason why they come
to therapy in the first place. No matter the culture, the time period, the
geographical location, gender, or socioeconomic status, 90% of all personal
experiences that involved some strong emotional reaction (anger, joy, sadness,
disappointment, frustration, anxiety, pride) were shared with someone else
(Rime, Mesquita, Philippot, & Boca, 1991), usually on the same day the events
occurred (McClean, 2007). Among married couples and partners, and at family
dinners, the conversation is dominated by stories about things that recently
occurred, introduced an average of every 5 minutes (Pasupathi, Lucas, &
Coombs, 2002). Again the stories selected for disclosure usually involve some
situation in which something really nice or really bad occurred. These
disclosures appear to serve the function of helping to integrate and make sense
of the experiences, as well as to build more intimate connections with loved
ones. This is one reason why social media has become so popular, with literally
billions of people writing their stories in brief installments on Facebook, Twitter,
and blogs, telling the world about the most mundane aspects of their lives—what
they had for dinner, tricks their dogs or kids performed, who has been invited
into or exiled from their lives.
Personal stories are shared for different reasons, in different social contexts.
For example, positive or amusing stories are told for entertainment purposes;
they involve minimal risk since they present the storyteller in a somewhat
controlled position. By and large, most people don’t like to hear stories that are
painful or traumatic, unless they are accompanied by some successful resolution
(Thorne & McLean, 2003). This is one reason why we have designated “story
listeners” in our culture, called psychotherapists or doctors or clergy, whose job
is to “hold” these difficult and unresolved narratives.
Generally, the stories that people most often tell about themselves fall into one
of two categories (Dunbar, 2004). The first kind is the self-promotion story, in
which we advertise successes, triumphs, accomplishments, wisdom, and
valuable skills—all in the service of improving our image in the community.
Even difficult times are often presented in self-enhancing ways. Thus, when
people are asked to write down three memories that define who they are, they
often make light of previously disturbing or traumatic events, highlighting their
resilience and presenting highly entertaining, humorous, or fun stories—at least
as they are recast in narrative form.
The second kind of self-identity story includes those about trouble and
conflict, either internal or interpersonal. Far more than cries for help, the stories
often represent attempts to make sense of experiences that seem
incomprehensible. In both of these cases the stories form a primary vehicle for
defining one’s place in the world, as well as fostering further personal
development (McLean & Thorne, 2006).
Adding to the challenge of offering a coherent story is that such experiences
don’t usually resemble those we read about or see on screen. They don’t fit the
prescribed templates, nor are they neat and conform to scripted time parameters,
complete with dramatic music and complete closure. Life stories are “full of
digressions, overlapping subplots, unfinished lines of action, trivia, changes of
style and tone, dull stretches,” writes philosopher Herbert Fingarette (1996),
reflecting on the incoherent, hodge-podge of his existence. Our life stories are
chaotic, disorganized, confusing, and don’t ever end—even when we die and the
stories about us continue by those who remain. This is especially the case
because of all the varied stories about death and what it means. Depending on
your religion, culture, and location, you may subscribe to a story of death that
involves heaven and hell, a celestial kingdom, purgatory, soul sleep,
reincarnation, or food for worms.
Even though life stories are hardly as neatly organized as those presented in
the stories we often hear and see, especially presented in biographies, they do
help people to construct their own narratives in more coherent and meaningful
ways. In some cases, they inspire people to make life-altering decisions. When
one CEO and entrepreneur read Steve Jobs’s biography, he was so appalled at
the Apple chief’s single-minded devotion to his business at the expense of his
friends and family that he abruptly decided to sell his company so he could
reorient his life priorities more in the direction of cherishing relationships over
productivity. “If you’re going to fail at something,” the man said, “fail at
building the fucking iPad. Don’t fail at building children” (Austin, 2012).

WHAT BIOGRAPHIES TEACH

A biography, whether written by oneself or another author, is a recorded history

of a life. It can be oral, written, photographed, filmed, or documented through
images, symbols, or drawings. From the earliest cave paintings of stick-like
figures depicting hunts or battles, to Viking sagas and epic poems, heroic lives
were celebrated and memorialized. The first written biography ever discovered,
the Epic of Gilgamesh, documents the life of a Sumerian king from 2,000 B.C.E.
It was, however, the early chronicles of Socrates, Alexander the Great, and Julius
Caesar that really created a demand for life stories of the most acclaimed leaders
and thinkers.
In recording such biographical accounts, there’s always been tension between
critical studies versus authorized portraits that do little else other than glorify and
exaggerate alleged exploits. One other format, popularized by Shakespeare,
presented biography as historical fiction in the case of King Richard II and
Hamlet. In all their forms, the task is to make sense of a life, whether it belongs
to oneself or others.
In the history of chronicled life stories, Sigmund Freud ranks as one of the
most significant figures because of his virtual invention of a new genre of
medical case histories. In his classic stories of Dora, Anna O., and others, he
sought not only to document the symptomology and etiology of clients’ illnesses
but also to examine the rich context of their lives. Then he turned his sights on
historical figures to mine the depths of their psyches. “Freud resolved to bring
the walls of biography’s Jericho tumbling down with the new psychoanalytic
trumpet—the better to expose the would-be strumpet,” writes Nigel Hamilton
(2007, pp. 134–135), a biographer of biographies. What he is referring to is the
fearless, provocative—and sometimes misguided—manner in which Freud
attempted to “colonize biography as a province of psychology” (p. 139). Freud
attempted to dig deep into the forbidden aspects of life experience, particularly
with regard to sexual practices. In one of his projects he applied his method to
one of his heroes, Leonardo da Vinci, thereby shocking Victorian society by
openly discussing homosexuality, sodomy, and oral sex (Freud, 1910/1964).
Unfortunately, all of the conjecture was predicated on a single fantasy reported
by da Vinci as a child. Whether the artist was gay or not is beside the point:
Freud’s studies were as much provocation as objective reporting of life
experiences. This was even more the case with Freud’s most controversial
rewriting of history in the story of Moses and Monotheism, proposing that this
mythical figure was, in fact, Egyptian rather than Jewish (Edmundson, 2006).
From the 1930s onward, films have often replaced written biographies as the
primary popular medium by which to tell the story of a life. Some of the most
popular and critically acclaimed films are biographical profiles, whether of
Napoleon (1927), Sergeant York (1941), Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Patton
(1970), Gandhi (1982), JFK (1991), Malcolm X (1992), Che (2008), Lincoln
(2012), and Cesar Chavez (2014). With that said, the best-seller lists regularly
feature biographies of moguls, scoundrels, movie stars, political figures, athletes,
warriors, and other persons of interest.
This renaissance in the personal stories of the rich and famous began in the
middle of the 20th century when censorship laws were changed to allow writers
to talk about public figures with greater critical scrutiny. When provocative
writers like Henry Miller, Anais Nin, James Joyce, and Lawrence Durell began
describing their most intimate lives, a new era of transparency began in the
telling of life stories, complete with a balance between successes and failures,
the familiar and the forbidden. Thus, the lives of Howard Hughes, Alfred
Hitchcock, Sigmund Freud, Alfred Kinsey, Charles Darwin, Marilyn Monroe,
and Steve Jobs, to mention a few, contain as much about their dark sides as their
creative achievements.
The popularity of devouring the storied lives of famous people is certainly
driven by morbid curiosity but also because they present opportunities for us to
learn about worlds that are otherwise inaccessible to us. In some ways, they
provide models of a life’s trajectory, especially among those who have achieved
some kind of notoriety because of their deeds. Keeping in mind that the majority
of the developed world actually believes that someday they will achieve a
version of their own stardom, it is inspiring and encouraging to study the ways
that other people have managed to attain their status or wealth.
My own life felt saved by reading biographies as a kid. During my formative
years I devoured books about my childhood heroes like Babe Ruth, Jim Thorpe,
Daniel Boone, and Anne Frank. But it was once I entered college that a
biography of Freud completely enthralled me. I wasn’t sure about his theory, but
his life so inspired me—the way he stood his ground in the face of so much
opposition, his curiosity and sense of adventure, his hunger to know and
understand everything. I even found his flaws, blind spots, and neuroticism to be
charming and validating. Later, other inspirational stories about Albert Einstein,
Mahatma Gandhi, and Charles Darwin helped shape my interests in writing,
research, and pushing beyond what I think I know and understand. But more
than any other story that affected me, it was when I was 10 years old that I first
saw the movie West Side Story. I was completely blown away by the music and
the dancing, the cinematography and the characters. The tragedy haunted me,
even before I understood the subtexts of unrequited love and tribal conflicts.
Soon after that I saw Lawrence of Arabia and was spellbound by this amazing
life that was re-created on the screen. Again there was that theme similar to
Freud’s life, of standing up to authority and the status quo, that I most admired
and that still remains a source of inspiration. In effect, the guy put his life on the
line for what he believed.
Life stories are seductive precisely because of the lessons they offer. Even
athletic events are as much about the stories that unfold as their actual
competition. More women than ever are watching football, a sport featuring
physical violence, not because female viewers necessarily care that much about
the outcome of the game as they are intrigued by the stories of the players’ lives.
The number of women watching Sunday Night Football has increased 23% in
just 2 years, and one explanation for this rise is the popularity of the human
interest stories of the combatants, especially those who have faced adversity.
One woman confessed her attraction: “Like many other ‘real’ fans, I got into
sports in large part for the characters, stories, rivalries and heartbreak. We saw
interpersonal drama where casual fans saw only supersize freaks of nature
battering one another” (Baker, 2011).
Stories in theatres, books, and in sports arenas really are bigger than life, or at
least bigger (in some ways) than our lives. That we are offered a glimpse into the
rich, famous, and notorious satisfies more than curiosity: It sometimes provides
a beacon of what might be possible, as well as appeases our secret fears that each
of us is not nearly as strange as we think we are.

SECRET STORIES

As we will explore in greater depth in Chapter 10 about the inaccuracies and

deceptions that are often contained (or omitted) in stories shared in therapy, and
elsewhere, client memories are hardly factual accounts. What’s important is not
only what people choose to tell us about but also what is forgotten, neglected, or
kept hidden. These stories of omission are actually some of the best clues
revealing the “truths” of personal identity, as well as family life.
Within the context of family sessions, secrets are routinely denied and
disowned, as exemplified in this brief account of a 44-year-old woman who was
adamant that her family had nothing to hide: “There have been no family secrets
in the sense that you mean, as I belong to a very respectable family. There were
really no secrets at all...”
Wait for the other shoe to drop.
“...but I suppose that the closest my family came to having a secret was that
my father had a younger brother and sister who were hidden away until they
died, and never mentioned at all by my father” (Smart, 2011, p. 545).
I’d say that qualifies as a whopper of a family secret! So how does she
rationalize that this disclosure doesn’t count? She says it’s because she can’t
definitively verify the history and has no interest in doing so. It’s far more likely
that she was “trained” to pretend it never happened.
Most of us have learned over time that there are all kinds of secret stories that
form the basic structure of client self-identity, even if they are buried, hidden, or
glossed over. Even a partial list might include family secrets such as the
following: sexual affairs, sexual identity, mental illness, illegitimate births,
criminal or antisocial acts, ethnic/racial lineage, inheritances, alcohol and drug
abuse, and interpersonal grievances, as well as all kinds of ancestral myths that
never actually occurred.
It is an interesting and particularly challenging aspect of our jobs to decide
with clients, or negotiate with them, just how deeply we should dig into their
secret stories, whether in the words of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “’tis nobler to
suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of
troubles and, by opposing, end them.” Hamlet concludes that it is consciousness
and facing our secrets that “make cowards of us all,” and for good reason.
If delving into secret stories carries considerable risks, there is one final
category of self-identity narratives that is most commonly shared among
intimates. In some ways they represent the ultimate metaphors of transformation
that occur during journeys of enlightenment. And in some ways, all
psychotherapy can be conceived as a special kind of travel experience (Kottler,
1997).

TRAVEL STORIES THAT WERE TRANSFORMATIVE

One favorite genre of screenwriters is to adapt books or personal experiences

about epiphanies that take place during travel adventures that are life changing
for the protagonist—and potentially so for viewers who are enjoying the
experiences vicariously (Woodside & Megehee, 2009). There is a long and
distinguished list of popular films that highlight these transformations, creating
poignant and moving stories that are indelibly etched in our collective memories.
There are classic spiritual conversions like those highlighted in Lawrence of
Arabia, Seven Years in Tibet, or Eat, Pray, Love, as well as pure entertainment
fantasies like Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, and Back to the Future that travel to
alternative worlds or universes. There are comedies like Sideways; Trains,
Planes, and Automobiles; National Lampoon’s Vacation; Dumb and Dumber;
and Around the World in 80 Days, as well as adventures and tragic events like
Titanic, Cast Away, and Apocalypse Now. There are also a number of road trip
movies (think Thelma and Louise, Easy Rider, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,
Little Miss Sunshine), as well as more serious treatments: Accidental Tourist, The
Razor’s Edge, The Bucket List, Under the Tuscan Sun, Into the Wild, Lost in
Translation, and Up in the Air, all of which deal with a character who struggles
with some personal issues that are heightened (and often resolved) as a result of
the unplanned adventures.
More than any other genre of storytelling, tales of travel and adventure are the
best examples of re-created experiences that often bare little resemblance to what
actually transpired. They are often romanticized and sanitized versions of events
that, in the telling, come across as hilarious, exciting, and incredibly
entertaining. In fact, most trips that ever make their way into a story were quite
miserable, disturbing, and frightening affairs. And that has some very interesting
implications for the work that we do.
The word travel is derived from the French, travaillier, which means torment
or trouble. It, in turn, originates from the original Latin, tripalium, a particularly
cruel torture device in which the victim was spread-eagled and ripped apart on a
rack.
I spent more than a decade asking people to tell me a story of a travel
experience that changed their lives (Kottler, 1997, 2001, 2002, 2009). Take a
moment and consider one that immediately comes to mind. More often than not,
such stories involve facing difficult challenges that needed to be overcome.
People frequently tell stories of being lost, missing the bus, losing their luggage,
getting sick, being involved in conflicts, feeling frightened or disoriented, and
experiencing jetlag and sleep deprivation. The subtext of the stories is almost
always that something unexpected and stressful took place and the storyteller
was required to solve problems or negotiate some trial and tribulation in a
creative or resourceful manner.
In one such example, an edited book of travel stories by famous writers,
appropriately titled I Should Have Stayed Home, the editors (Rapoport and
Castanera,1994) collected terrifying tales of being chased by bandits, rained
upon by thousands of scorpions, and attacked by ants, all of which sound pretty
funny and endearing in the retelling of the events. But in truth, like most good
travel stories, they were frustrating and quite challenging as they were lived.
We make up stories that highlight our courage, flexibility, and willingness to
go with the flow. We make daily annoyances sound charming and exotic. We
gloss over the long delays, disappointments, and disturbances. We feature
ourselves in the heroic but self-deprecating protagonist roles. One of my own
standards (and I have a hundred others) occurred while I was working on a
project in Nepal in which we visit remote villages to rescue, support, and mentor
lower caste girls who are at risk of being sold into slavery or forced into early
marriage (Kottler & Marriner, 2009, Kottler, 2013).
Most of the villages we serve are in very remote regions of the country, carved
into Himalayan mountainsides or hidden away in areas that require lengthy,
vertical treks up and over high passes into isolated valleys. I look at photos of
our volunteer team and see smiling, proud faces beaming from the tops of snow-
covered peaks. I listen to the stories they tell of our adventures, speaking with
drama and delight about the obstacles they overcame, the grueling physical
tortures, the long days on the trail, the freezing temperatures at night, and how
much fun it was to deal with these “wonderful” experiences. Yet I remember all
too vividly the constant complaints along the way, the tears of frustration and
exhaustion, the requests to turn back, or, at one point, even begging for a
helicopter to lift them out of a blinding blizzard that stranded us on a high pass.
Their stories now reflect how “amazing” and “exciting” the whole trip was, even
to the point that some volunteers ask if they can return the following year. In
many ways it reminds me of what mothers remember about childbirth and how
they “forget” all the excruciating suffering; otherwise, of course, the world
would end because nobody in her right mind would ever give birth again!
My interest in this subject of travel stories first began when I listened
carefully to the way I spoke about some of my most interesting trips that never
fail to elicit a response similar to “Oh you’re so lucky. I wish I could go to some
of those places.” I invariably nod my head with a knowing look, as if to say,
“Yeah, aren’t I fortunate indeed.” And, of course, I am privileged to see such
incredible, exotic places. But the stories I tell of my adventures were actually
quite terrifying experiences in which my only thought was how to get the hell
out of there. I’ve almost died of hypothermia in New Zealand, fallen off a cliff
face in Switzerland, considered suicide while backpacking in Europe, escaped
Maoist rebels in Nepal, frozen to death on a glacier in Iceland and sea ice in
Greenland, lost beyond hope in a Malaysian jungle, contracted all kinds of
ailments and diseases in far-flung locales, been chased, stalked, robbed, beaten,
bullied, and abandoned.
 Did I mention that they were all great fun?
They weren’t.
Until I returned home and told the stories.
There are, of course, many different kinds of travel stories from the most
ordinary reports of routine, daily activities to those that lead to spiritual
transcendence. There are stories of close encounters of the adventurous kind.
There are stories of mishaps and difficult challenges. In all their forms and
permutations they are perhaps the best example of re-created experiences that
often bare little resemblance to what actually happened. They are often
romanticized versions of events that, in the telling, sound amusing, charming,
and good fun. In fact, most travels that make their way into a story may have
been quite miserable, disturbing, and frightening experiences. This is consistent
with much of the research on the subject in that we tend to tell stories when they
are related to events that are emotionally disturbing, unresolved, or self-defining
in some way (McLean, Pasuapthi, & Pals, 2007; Pals, 2006). When things are
going well, they don’t seem interesting or entertaining enough to share with
others in the same way of a dramatic tale that involves conflict and uncertainty.

INHABITING ONE ANOTHER’S KEYSTONE STORIES

In one sense we have much to learn and apply from this genre of travel stories.
Since they often do involve experiences that are annoying, challenging,
disturbing, and disorienting, they demonstrate the power of both selective
memory and narrative choices we make. That is often what we do in therapy as
well: We help clients to access aspects of their most difficult experiences that
were also quite powerful learning experiences for them and taught lessons they
couldn’t have learned any other way.
Based on his experiences living within indigenous cultures, psychiatrist Lewis
Mehl-Madrona (2010) has concluded that the best understanding of personal
identity is that it is essentially the story that represents all the accumulation of
stories that have ever been told about us. If this is truly the case, then one of the
most useful therapeutic tasks we can undertake is to help our clients create and
internalize a new story of their identity that maximizes their strengths, resources,
and resilience, their power to transform themselves into whomever and whatever
they wish to be.
Mehl-Madrona also mentions the ways that therapists become internalized
characters in the inner lives of our clients, referring to one client in particular,
who told him that she no longer needed to call him for an appointment because
he already lived inside her head. “She had enough stories about me and enough
stories about telling me stories and seeing how I had reacted that she could
construct a story about telling me her experience and watching me react” (p.
222). He even wonders whether after an extended period of time sharing stories
together our personal identities don’t undergo a shift in which communication
continues across time and space, asking questions and hearing answers without
ever being in direct contact again. We begin to inhabit one another’s inner
selves.
Each of us has several “keystone stories,” those we tell over and over again
because of some central role they play in our identity. They reflect the main
themes and values of our lives and hold within them the preferred vision of
ourselves. These stories are so often repeated as much to reinforce particular
features as they are to regale an audience.
Take inventory of your own favorite stories, those that you most frequently
share with others. They offer clues as to what you most want people to know and
understand about you—that you are resourceful or courageous or irreverent or
simply fun to be around. And pay close attention to the stories you tell about
your clients and your work and what they reveal about your core identity as a
professional.
 7
DISORDERED STORIES IN TRAUMA AND EMOTIONAL
STRUGGLES

ON JANUARY 15, 2009, US Air flight 1549 took off from New York headed for
Charlotte, North Carolina, with 150 passengers and five crew members on board.
Soon after takeoff, a flock of geese flew into the engines and the plane crash-
landed in the Hudson River. Although everyone on board miraculously survived,
and the captain was proclaimed a national hero for what was considered the
greatest successful ditching in the history of aviation, many of the survivors
were understandably traumatized by the experience, reporting symptoms of
insomnia, panic attacks, flashbacks, and recurring feelings of dread.
In a follow-up study, several of the survivors were invited to tell their stories
about what happened and its aftermath (Cummings, 2011). In addition, the
interviewers in the study were also asked to tell their own stories about what it
was like for them to hear and hold these narratives. This was, then, an
investigation into not only the felt experience of the trauma survivors but also
the experience of the listeners of their stories.
Not surprisingly, the survivors described the opportunity to talk about what
happened as “sacred,” “special,” and “therapeutic.” One normally reticent
individual was especially grateful: “Talking about it was actually a way for me to
release, not to keep it in, because I think I know myself enough: I keep it in, and
it was just burning a hole” (p. 388). We nod our heads in agreement because, as
therapists, this catharsis is something we’ve witnessed so many times in our
work. Indeed, the survivors reported that the more chances they had to tell the
complete, uninterrupted story to a respectful listener, the more it helped them to
recover and move on.
One really interesting part of the study was the reciprocal awareness, by both
the storyteller and the listener, of one another’s reactions during the sharing of
the story—how each felt powerfully impacted by the other. This was especially
the case for those interviewers who were most profoundly affected and reported
their own vicarious or secondary trauma as a result. They couldn’t help but ask
themselves what it would have been like for them or how they would have
reacted if they found themselves in similar circumstances. “I wasn’t listening,”
one interviewer said, “as much as I was putting myself in it” (p. 390).
 Through each telling, the survivors admitted that it wasn’t so much that they
altered what they said as much as they filled in more detail and presented the
story much more coherently. At least that was the case when they felt they had a
receptive audience. In some instances, the survivors admitted that they censored
parts of the story to protect the listeners if they seemed overreactive or appeared
nonresponsive or indifferent. Of course, the interviewers were aware they were
being observed carefully but nevertheless found it challenging to remain
attentive because at times they felt oversaturated—they’d heard enough—but
felt they needed to allow the person to continue.
When the survivors were asked about their observations of the storytelling
experience, it was interesting how well tuned in they were to their audience,
being fully aware when the listeners were bored, disengaged, awestruck, or
shutting down. They continually made decisions about what was safe and
appropriate to share and what crossed a line.
In our exploration of the role that storytelling plays in recovery from trauma,
we will be looking at some of the issues that have been raised in this study. We
know how important it is to allow clients to share the things that are bothering
them, to relive the disturbing incidents in such a way that they can construct a
more coherent narrative of the events and what it means for their lives. We also
know that people can become stuck in their stories and they never move beyond
them. Whereas one of our significant roles is to become a studious and attentive
listener of trauma stories, we do indeed become active influencers of what
unfolds. What our clients choose to tell us, and how they tell these stories, is
very much determined by how we react—or don’t react. Stories can be told in so
many different ways, highlighting lurid details or broad sketches, themes of
helplessness or resilience, despair or hope, cowardice or courage.
In this chapter we examine the stories of suffering that are shared by clients
and how we help to reshape them in such a way that they can be better integrated
into their lives. As such, we are not mere passive listeners to the accounts of
what transpired, but very active collaborators who assist in the process of
creating greater order out of chaos.

FROM FRAGMENTS AND CHAOS TO NARRATIVE COHESION

“I was devastated and broken,” admits one Vietnam combat veteran, “my life
quickly became one of suffering and drinking...One night, I found my way out. I
looked at my loaded .38 caliber revolver. My suffering would be over in a flash
and I would have the last laugh...Then I thought about my comrades who had
been killed and the despair they would feel with no one to tell the stories. I
started to cry and then decided to find a psychotherapist who could help me”
(Paulson, 2007, p. 197). The author, now a psychoneuroimmunologist, sincerely
believes that it was being able to tell the story that saved his life—and have the
story heard and honored with the compassion and respect that it deserved.
Eventually, he learned to recast the trauma he experienced as part of a heroic
journey, an initiation rite, in the tradition of other soldiers who faced death in
battle throughout history. With the help of his therapist, and subsequent study of
rites of passage among combat veterans, Paulson made links between this
universal experience and the central myth of all cultures that had been carefully
documented by Joseph Campbell (2008) as part of the “call to adventure.” This
helped him, and many others he has counseled, to come to terms with the
horrific things they experienced by integrating them into the classic
mythological story of surviving the initiation and returning to share the stories
and knowledge. This was all the more significant for returning soldiers from
Vietnam because they had been so shunned as “warmongers,” even spurned by
veterans from other conflicts for losing the war, and shamed for being duped by
politicians into fighting a war that seemed like “a cruel joke.”
After traumatic experiences, such as those suffered in war, survivors often
report haunting, persistent memories that unravel in fragmented, disjointed ways
rather than as any kind of coherent, meaningful event. It is through the process
of constructing a story about what happened that significant symptoms are often
reduced (Joseph, 2011; Neimeyer, 2004). The goal isn’t so much a reframing of
the difficult events as it is to help create some kind of narrative cohesion to the
story (Neimeyer, 2001). One example of this process involves the use of the
“moviola method” in which the traumatic episode is replayed in slow motion,
focusing in and panning out at various times to locate context and patterns to the
experience. The goal within therapy is to reinterpret and reevaluate what
happened with a particular emphasis on integrating the perceived losses and a
reappraisal of one’s identity in light of this search for new or different meaning.
Neimeyer (2012) mentions one illustration of this related to the supposed losses
that are felt through the death of a loved one, and the subsequent grieving stories
that are told. In fact, when someone dies, you don’t actually “lose” him or her
but rather just renegotiate a different kind of relationship. Deceased loved ones
continue to inhabit dreams, speak to the living through memories, just as we
continue to talk to them in our hearts and minds.
When Neimeyer first told me about this idea at a conference many years ago,
it changed everything for me. Until that point I’d been grieving the death of my
grandfather, a seminal figure in my life, for years. It really had felt like I had
“lost” the most important mentor in my life, the man I most wanted to be like.
And yet within moments after that conversation (or at least this is the story I now
tell myself) I remember thinking about all the ways that my grandfather was still
very much present in my life. I thought about him constantly. I can still vividly
remember what it was like to hug him and smell him. I still dream about him. I
relived our experiences together. I imagined what I would say to him during
times of difficulty and considered how he might respond to me. I talked with him
in my head—and he answered! Whereas I wouldn’t have described myself as
traumatized by his death, I certainly felt an emptiness with him gone, a hole that
felt like it was partially filled after I adopted a different story.

CONSTRUCTIVE NARRATIVES WORK THEIR WAY DOWN

It is through restorying distressing events that we first understand what happened

to us, and then understand the significance of what happened (Joseph, 2011).
The stories alone are not enough, no matter how they are recast, unless they are
combined with adequate coping skills and a more optimistic perspective.
Consider the difference, for example, between someone who insists he is a
victim of circumstances beyond his control (fate, luck, bad genes, Nature, others’
behavior) versus someone who genuinely believes she is a resilient survivor of
difficult challenges and has confidence in her ability to deal with things and hope
for the future. Joseph makes the point that whereas a pessimistic personality may
sabotage attempts to construct more resilient stories, once self-enhancing
narratives are created they “work their way down,” potentially transforming
personal identity and increasing coping skills. He mentions the metaphor of river
rafting as a useful image in that recovery from difficulties often involves a
bumpy ride with gut-wrenching rapids, tidal pools, and unexpected obstacles,
with no option to turn back but also with opportunities to experience an
incredible journey. Much of the research on trauma supports this idea that the
stress and negative symptoms can coexist with the potential growth than can
accompany them, making the goal not so much to provide a “cure” as a way to
deal with the important issues that arise (Calhoun & Tedeschi, 2014; Joseph,
2011).
There is also a danger in being too optimistic when people hold on to
unrealistic beliefs that their recovery will be both miraculous and complete.
There is no going back to the way things were, nor is it possible to undo what
happened. There are wounds to be carried, and it does take time to heal;
moreover, the annoying symptoms and distress often help motivate clients to do
the hard work involved in coming to terms with things. How often do clients
come to us without something that is seriously disturbing them? It is, in fact, the
disruption in their lives—and their stories—that can lead to constructive action.

STORYTELLING AS THE MEDIUM BY WHICH TO CREATE

MEANING

We know that a significant number of people who seek help in therapy are
suffering from the lingering effects of trauma, whether the result of catastrophic
events, grief and loss, illness, abuse, neglect, violent crime, combat, or exposure
to some disturbing event. We also know that the likelihood that someone will
recover from such a threat is directly related to the way they process the
experience in the form of a narrative to explain and make meaning of what
happened. In other words, it isn’t only the traumatic event itself that creates
ongoing problems, however devastating its effects, but also the relatively
inarticulate and limited way the experience is coded as a story to relive and tell
to others (Neimeyer, 2001, 2004, 2012). Indeed, one of the consequences of
trauma is that it interferes with a person’s ability to process what happened
except as a series of incoherent fragments that can be both confusing and
frightening (Sewell, 1996).
The experience of trauma occurs on multiple levels and dimensions, involving
both neurobiological processes and intense emotional flooding, as well as
problems making sense of the experience in a form that helps integrate it into
self-identity (Hyer, 1994; Stewart, 1995). There is often an ongoing feeling of
incompletion, confusion, uncertainty, and dread as a result of being unable to
find a way to make sense of what happened and move forward. The story that is
told about the incident has little coherent chronological flow, nor a distinct,
organized structure to the narrative.
He touched me at first...Well, no, not at first. He was reading me a story. I think it was time for me to
go to bed. Did I mention that I had skipped dinner. No? I guess I wasn’t that hungry for some reason. I
think I wasn’t feeling well. I left school early that day. Anyway, he was reading me a story, or maybe he
was making one up. Yeah, I think he was just telling me a story to stall or something. You know, now
I’m not sure whether...I can’t remember that well. It’s all kind of foggy, you know what I mean? When
he touched me...I will never forget one thing...his shoe was untied and I noticed his belt was undone.
But it’s hard to remember what happened next. I just remember thinking I skipped dinner.

It’s not uncommon that clients suffering the lingering effects of abuse or
trauma will struggle to describe what happened. Memories are clouded. The
narrative takes on chaotic characteristics—halting stops and starts, long pauses,
abrupt jumps in chronology, and a marked lack of coherence. It is difficult for
any listener to follow, which only reflects the client’s own experience.
Personal narratives can contribute as much to mental illness and the way
trauma is metabolized as it can lead to healing and growth. People who have
trouble in life are often stuck in a story that was sparked by traumatic
circumstances, then exacerbated by the meaning (or lack thereof) of the event
that was created afterward. Often these stories can hold people back or trap them
in a narrative of failure, shame, guilt, fear, confusion, or tragedy in which they
are very much helpless victims. Storytelling is often used by therapists from all
theoretical frameworks to help their clients identify and own their personal
experience with suffering in such a way that they make greater meaning from the
affliction or trauma, as well as to realize they are not alone in the struggle.

MEDICAL AND THERAPY PRACTICE AS A NARRATIVE ART

Whether in the practice of psychotherapy or medicine, the facts and symptoms

of a patient’s condition are embedded in a story: “First I felt this intense pressure
on my spine right after I bent over to pick up my baby. My first thought was that
I pulled a muscle or something but then I started to get scared that something
might have broken loose. My baby started crying and then I started to feel faint.
The next thing I knew I was on the floor with my baby cradled in my arms.”
Medical and health professions, in all their forms and specialties, are
considered “narrative arts” in that we tend to talk in stories just as our
clients/patients relate their own experiences in narrative form. There is an
interesting contrast between goals of the participants in the healing process in
that patients want relief, whereas health professionals want order and coherence,
if not a degree of certainty in diagnosis (Kirmayer, 2000). Yet when people
become ill, or experience some kind of trauma in their lives, “their stories
become ill too; the narrative structure and stability of their stories are
disrupted...Illness demands the creation of a new story, and the telling of the
story heals the disruption and creates a future” (Watson, 2007, p. 1284).
While it is certainly important to attend to the physical care in medicine, in
our field our main job is often to work within clients’ stories to help them
reconstruct alternative versions that provide the meaning that is so crucial for
their continued well-being. In that sense, “stories may bring our lives together
when we feel shattered, mend us when we are broken, heal us when we are sick,
help us cope with stress, and even move us toward psychological fulfillment and
maturity” (McAdams, 2013, p. 780). That is one reason why so much of our
great literature consists of authors attempting to make sense of the traumas they
faced and needing to tell their stories as much to heal as to inform an audience.
As examples, think of Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl, Victor Frankl’s
Man’s Search for Meaning, Loung Ung’s First They Killed My Father, or Elie
Wiesel’s Night.
So much of our knowledge, expertise, and wisdom related to the helping
professions is not only based on controlled experimental studies, evidence-based
studies, data-driven research, and theoretical and conceptual advancements but
also the first-person stories of real live human beings who have suffered various
emotional conditions and struggled with their recovery. Students’ first
introduction to the field is not only informed by their formal textbooks but also
vivid anecdotes by patients who describe their trials and tribulations, as well as
what they report mattered most to them. Collections such as those by Kaplan
(1964), Sacks (1998), Shannonhouse (2000), and LeCroy and Hoschuh (2012)
provide detailed descriptions of patients’ inner worlds, often revealing
breakthroughs that could never have been uncovered any other way. That is one
reason why the literature on first-person accounts of mental illness is so popular
and inspiring because of their stories of recovery, redemption, and meaning-
making that provide hope and faith for others who are suffering similar problems
(see Table 7.1).
TABLE 7.1

Examples of First-Person Accounts of Emotional Problems

Clifford Beers (1908) A Mind That Found Itself
Sylvia Plath (1963) The Bell Jar
Joanne Greenberg (1964) I Never Promised You a Rose Garden
Flora Schreiber (1973) Sybil
William Styron (1991) Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness
Patty Duke (1992) A Brilliant Madness: Living With Manic-Depressive Illness
Susanna Kaysen (1993) Girl, Interrupted
Tracy Thompson (1995) The Beast: A Journey Through Depression
Temple Grandin (1996) Thinking in Pictures and Other Reports of My Life With Autism
Lori Schiller (1996) The Quiet Room: A Journey out of the Torment of Madness
Kay Jamison (1997) An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
David Karp (1997) Speaking of Sadness
Emily Colas (1998) Just Checking: Scenes From the Life of an Obsessive-Compulsive
Sylvia Nasar (1998) A Beautiful Mind
Cameron West (1999) First Person Plural: My Life as Multiple
Lewis Wolpert (1999) Malignant Sadness: The Anatomy of Depression
Ken Steele (2001) The Day the Voices Stopped: A Memoir of Madness and Hope
Austin Burroughs (2002) Running With Scissors
James Frey (2005) A Million Little Pieces
Marya Hornbacher (2006) Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia
William Moyers (2007) Broken: My Story of Addiction and Redemption
Elyn Saks (2007) The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness
Terri Cheney (2008) Manic: A Memoir
Marni Mann (2012) Memoirs Aren’t Fairytales: A Story of Addiction

It has been one of the common themes of the world’s stories to present
poignant examples of trauma and emotional suffering, often featuring heroic
efforts to demonstrate courage, resilience, and recovery. Within contemporary
Western literature, for example, some of the classic works showcase individuals
who have been subjected to horrific abuse and somehow (but not always)
manage to thrive. There is a long and distinguished list of individuals who faced
extraordinary difficulties and chose to tell their stories as a way to promote self-
healing, as well as to tell others about what they suffered, finding meaning in
these experiences. Some of the classics involve tales of survival from the
Holocaust like Victor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning and Elie Wiesel’s
Night, but also explorations of mental illness (Augusten Burroughs’s Running
with Scissors, Truddi Chase’s When Rabbit Howls), child abuse (Nujood Ali’s I
Am Nujood, Dave Pelzer’s A Child Called It), and catastrophic illness (Kevin
Malarkey’s The Boy Who Came Back From Heaven).
The popularity of such works often reflects the intense interest that we have
trying to understand the mechanisms of recovery, especially during
circumstances in which people are challenged to the extreme. These stories can
either help us to work through our own unresolved issues or else prepare us for
future adversity. They act as a form of vicarious rehearsal for those catastrophes
that we fear the most.
Whereas viewing or reading accounts of others’ traumatic experiences can
assist with recovery in one way, it is far more powerful to help survivors of
trauma to tell their stories in such a way that they can speak out against future
injustices and abuse (Leseho & Block, 2005). One professional (Krause, 1999)
who specializes in working with victims of torture reflects on the incredible
power of holding the stories of those she sees. What she heard was appalling and
disturbing, but she recognized because she could do nothing to change the past
all she could do was listen.
Of course, we do far more than only listen. Although it is our attentive and
hovering presence that makes it possible for clients to share their stories in a way
they never have before, we also help them shape the stories according to
different parameters that emphasize themes of resilience and redemption. That is
part of what makes our job part of the narrative arts guild.

TELLING STORIES THAT RELEASE SUFFERING

One of the lingering effects of trauma is that it often feels like there is an
unrelenting need to tell the story of what happened and what it meant, whether
this occurs in conversations with friends and family, private journaling, or a
more public statement to a larger audience. Ultimately, it is this storytelling that
presents the greatest opportunities for healing (Joseph, 2011).
There are a number of studies that clearly demonstrate the benefits that take
place as a result of helping people who are suffering to tell their stories. As we
have seen, such narrative accounts can assist people to reframe their experiences
from one of tragedy to triumph, from victimhood to heroic survivor, from
helplessness to resilience and resourcefulness (Greenberg, 2008).
As one example, a physician (Lawlis, 2007) described how he uses stories to
comfort children who are experiencing catastrophic or terminal illnesses. He was
about to do a spinal tap on a 6-year-old boy who was suffering from leukemia,
but the boy was actually more immediately terrified of having another needle
inserted into his spine. The doctor asked the little boy if he’d like to hear a story,
and when the boy nodded, he began with “Once upon a time.” The child was
transfixed by the tale, created on the spot, about a disease that had taken over a
village but was being challenged by the hero who demonstrated courage but
eventually fell victim to the illness. But because the character in the story
learned how to deal with the pain, he was able to cure himself through a magic
potion. Lawlis reported that once the story was over, the boy first went to his
mother to reassure her that he would be okay and then took great pride in
subjecting himself to the procedure with minimal resistance.
Many stressful events, especially those that involve serious trauma, pain, and
activate extreme emotional arousal, often become stored in short-term memory,
mistakenly catalogued in temporary access, but with an assortment of chaotic
fragments, disturbing images, and disorganized patterns that lead to uncontrolled
reenactments. It is as though such individuals are condemned to relive the
memories over and over again until such time that they can somehow be
reintegrated and more fully processed (van der Kolk, 1994; van der Kolk,
McFarlane, & Weisaeth, 1996).
It is through storytelling, in a therapeutic or informal context, that facilitates
this initial acceptance of traumatic events as a reality of the past but one that
allows for the contextual creation of a new storyline that emphasizes themes of
growth, courage, flexibility, and resilience instead of previous ones in which
there was a lingering, entrenched self-perception of helplessness and
hopelessness. This is, in part, what led novelist Virginia Woolf to come to terms
(at least temporarily) with the sexual abuse she experienced by various members
of her family (Kottler, 2006). She not only invented the first stream of
consciousness stories, inspired as much by her own fragmented, traumatic
memories, as by her bipolar hallucinations. She was among the first women to
publically reveal herself as a survivor of molestation, telling her story as a way
to help others in a similar predicament. Although ultimately she succumbed to
despair and suicide, her creative genius as one of the greatest writers of her
generation was fueled, in part, by her attempt to come to terms with her haunting
child trauma.

HEARING/VIEWING STORIES THAT RELEASE SUFFERING

It isn’t only through telling one’s own story that healing and recovery take place
—we’ve seen how such a process can also occur vicariously. That is one of the
extraordinary facets of this phenomenon in that people can privately, silently,
unconsciously, and serendipitously experience major life changes as a result of
watching or listening to someone else’s story.
One of the signature features of group therapy is how participants can learn
and grow so much as a result of being an active observer of others’ sharing, as
well as any verbal disclosures. That’s one reason that we invite participants to
maintain journals about their experiences that they can share with us, providing
access to not only material that is said aloud in sessions but all kinds of thoughts,
feeling, ideas, ruminations, insights that have not yet been given a voice. One of
the things that no longer surprises us is that there seems to be no correlation
between how much group members talk in group and how much they are
growing and changing. When we read their private reflections, we often learn
that those who have been relatively silent, sometimes even appearing passive
and withdrawn, are also those who are quietly going about the business of
transforming their lives without the need to talk much about it. They often share
stories in their journals about how, as a result of listening to someone else in the
group, their worlds were rocked in a way that they could never have imagined.
This kind of vicarious or observational learning from listening to others’ stories
is hardly the exception but often the rule within therapeutic groups.
“Everyone thinks I am so quiet,” one client explained as one group was
moving toward the end of its tenure. “I know I haven’t said much in here. I don’t
know why ‘cause my friends and family tell me that I’m so crazy sometimes.
But for some reason I just haven’t said much and I know you’ve wondered
what’s going on with me.”
As might be typical, the woman apologized for her behavior, feeling like she
hadn’t paid her full dues since she had been privy to so many others who had
shared deeply about their struggles while she appeared to remain on the sidelines
as a spectator. “I just want to tell you all that this has truly been amazing for me.
I know I haven’t said anything about this—I don’t know why exactly—but since
I’ve been in the group listening to some of you, hearing all the amazing,
incredible things you’ve been doing, it gave me courage to take some steps I’ve
long been avoiding.”
What she’s referring to involved ending a long-standing destructive
relationship with a boyfriend who had been abusing her. She announced that she
was moving out of her parents’ home to live with a roommate. This last act was
particularly difficult, given her background as a Chinese immigrant in which it
was expected, even demanded, that she remain at home until marriage. Although
she never spoke about any of this in group, she found the support and
encouragement to take these dramatic steps as a result of listening and watching
other group members tell their own stories.

BENEFITS OF EMOTIONAL STORYTELLING

Ultimately the goal of any healing storytelling is to find (or create) meaning
from what transpired, despite the serendipitous, random, seemingly fateful way
that events unfolded. Previous self-defeating assumptions are often challenged—
that the world is not always treacherous and unsafe, that not all people are evil
and threatening, that what happened was not God’s will and should not be
accepted as such. Most critically, a significant reworking of the major plotline of
the story results in dispelling notions that the events must define who you are,
that you are not to blame, and that this is not the absolute worst thing that could
ever happen, no matter how difficult and challenging it might have felt at the
time (Janoff-Bulman, 1992). All of this is consistent with a lot of the major
constructs of cognitive-behavioral therapy and narrative therapy, which
commonly challenge beliefs and assumptions that are less than helpful.
When the opportunity presents itself, or is initiated, telling one’s story often
assists individuals to be more fully understood by others—or at least feel
understood—which is probably even more important. Recounting the events in a
reasonably coherent way, within the context of a safe relationship, can help build
greater support and closer bonds. This is especially the case when the feelings
associated with the traumatic events are related at an “optimal distance,”
meaning that there is a modicum of self-control that allows for mild to moderate
expression of emotions without triggering retraumatization: There is a difference
between catharsis of feelings in an accepting environment versus falling apart
and feeling ashamed afterward (Scheff, 1979).
This is a delicate situation indeed, considering the myth that emotional
catharsis, or release of pent-up emotions, is always helpful, as many early
theorists like Sigmund Freud and Carl Rogers once advocated. This formed the
conceptual foundation of “traumatic incident stress debriefing” in which it was
deemed useful to virtually require emergency personnel like firefighters, law
enforcement personnel, and crisis workers to talk about the traumas they
witnessed after an incident or catastrophe. In some cases it’s been found that it
may be better to just allow people to deal with things in their own way, at their
own pace, even “stuffing” their emotions if that is what is called for (Gist &
Devilly, 2002). This is especially true for men in traditionally emotionally
restrictive professions like law enforcement or fire fighting but also the case for
school settings in which children are forced to process their feelings before they
may be ready to do so. Sometimes people can become retraumatized by telling
their stories if they don’t maintain that optimal distance in which they can feel a
sense of control (Yifeng, Zumilas, & Kutcher, 2010).
A more moderate position has emerged with recommendations for when and
how service personnel should be treated using emotional storytelling as part of
stress debriefing strategies. It turns out that a lot of the criticisms occurred when
strict protocols were not followed and inappropriate target populations were
studied. Telling stories after trauma can be most helpful when survivors are
invited under safe and noncoercive circumstances; in other words, when people
have a choice in when and how they participate (Hawker, Durkin, & Hawker,
2010).
A more private version of therapeutic storytelling, one that doesn’t even
require an audience, is simply to write about one’s own deep feelings, disturbing
thoughts, ruminations, and fears. Even writing for just 20 minutes for a few
consecutive days has been observed to have significant health benefits, including
improved immunity to disease, increased feelings of well-being, and
significantly reduces depression and anxiety, as highlighted in Table 7.2
(Pennebaker, 1990; Pennebaker & Seagal, 1999).
TABLE 7.2

Reported Benefits of Emotional Storytelling

Fewer colds and flus
Reduced chronic stress
Increased immunity markers
Decreased symptoms of disease
Improved grades in school
Improved mood and well-being
Increased self-control
Fewer visits to the doctor
Reduced depression
Lessened pain
Lowered blood pressure
Improved adaptation to trauma
More positive attitude
Decreased negative thinking

For anyone who remains unconvinced by the benefits of expressive writing, it

is easy to try an experiment suggested by the researchers (Greenberg, 2008):
1. Plan for 30 minutes of uninterrupted time during several instances per
week. This is viewed as sacred time-no texts, e-mails, phone calls, or
other distractions.
2. Think about some disturbing event from your past, one that continues to
haunt you. Use your imagination to re-create the incident or upsetting
event, as well as how it unfolded. During this re-creation of the episode,
access vivid visual images, as well as sounds, smells, and physical
sensations that are connected to the incident. Describe all of these details
in your writing as you relive the experience. Tell your story with
particular attention to your strongest feelings. Forget about syntax,
grammar, spelling, and style and just get it all down as quickly and
thoroughly as possible, narrating the sequence of events and your
reactions.
3. For each of the following writing sessions, add to your story by including
new meanings and interpretations of what happened and your best
understanding of the experience. Continue to allow yourself to talk about
feelings of hurt, anger, resentment, fear, confusion, and other strong
feelings that persist.
4. In your final one or two storytelling sessions, focus specifically on the
growth and learning that occurred as a result of this experience. What
"gifts" did you receive that you now believe have helped to make you
stronger, wiser, and more resilient? Write a new story that highlights your
resources in coping with the situation and present an alternative way of
viewing yourself in the story that features you more as a heroic survivor
and less as a helpless victim.
Depending on the way the therapist invites the story, or helps to shape the
telling of it, clients most often focus on their complaints, devastating
consequences, annoyances, limitations, impairment, grief, loss, frustration,
disappointment, anger, shame, and sense of helplessness (Reicher, 1998). Yet
recent research has refocused attention on the growth and positive development
that can occur as a result of inviting alternative stories about resilience (East,
Jackson, O'Brien, Peters, 2010; Frank, 1995). In a classic solution-focused
approach, clients can be asked to supply exceptions to the problem ("unique
outcomes" in the parlance of narrative therapy), as well as to provide examples
of the social and relational support they find most helpful (Chadwick, 2004), or
to see the humor or "silver lining" in their predicament (Dean, 1995; Gelkopf,
2011).
In summary, whereas in theory and general practice emotional or cathartic
storytelling has been found to be useful and constructive, its ultimate effects
depend very much on how the forum is structured. As with almost everything
else that we do in therapy, it is critical that clients feel a sense of control to go at
their own pace, to go as deeply as they feel they can handle at any moment in
time, and to craft their stories in such a way that they are more balanced and
reflect the complex and often discrepant nuances of any disturbing experience.

IDENTIFYING CLINICALLY SIGNIFICANT MATERIAL IN STORIES

There are many different dimensions of assessing and identifying clinically

significant issues that may be present (or absent) in a client’s story of trauma
(Steward & Neimeyer, 2007). Such a task can be designed to teach clients how
to become far more analytic, objective, and detached when considering what
they have suffered, as well as learning how to integrate the different fragments
and elements.
These are several aspects of a client’s story that could be considered when
searching for meaningful content to explore in greater depth.
Attention to language usage. It is interesting when clients choose to describe
their experiences in third versus first person, distancing themselves from events:
“So, you kind of break down when that kind of thing happens. You just fall apart
because you can’t handle everything that’s happening at the time.”
Present or past tense. The tense that is employed can be revealing, whether
the client describes what happened in the past tense or in the present, as if it is
still alive (which, of course, it is): “I’m standing there, you know, just kind of
zoning out. I’m not really thinking about anything and then this guy just comes
right up to me and he...”
Detail. The amount of detail that is featured in the story, or left out altogether,
can signal interesting data. Some clients tell their story with rich and vivid
descriptions of not only what happened, how it happened, where, and exactly
when events occurred but can also access exactly how they were feeling at the
time; in one sense, they are flooded with too much data. On the other hand, some
clients tell their stories in such a sketchy way that there is almost a complete
absence of information: “I was walking down the street and this guy just walked
up to me and knocked me down. That’s about it.”
Protagonist role. How does the client portray himself or herself in the story, as
a heroic survivor who circumvented a number of obstacles, or a helpless victim
who was subjected to events outside of one’s control? “I was just completing a
report when this guy stopped by my desk—he doesn’t even work in my division
—and he just went off on me. He starts screaming at me and...I couldn’t help
it...I just lost control of myself. My face always turns red when I get scared. I get
these horrible blotches. I just feel so awful I don’t ever want to go back there.”
Thematic content. Stories can be offered in so many different ways, depending
on which points are emphasized. Some stories feature limitless gruesome,
horrifying details of the trauma itself, while others emphasize the recovery and
aftermath. “I never chose to be in this position. This is the last thing I ever
imagined, losing my job and my house and all my savings. But my family is
depending on me. I never would have left that job on my own; I felt trapped. But
now it feels like I have the freedom to do what I always wanted and never had
the courage to follow through. In some ways, this was a gift. Or at least that’s the
way I prefer to see it.”
Authorship. Who created the story? To what extent was it self-constructed or
handed to the client by others? “I’ve been told that I’ve got this depression that
will be with me all my life. I know I’ll never be whole, I’ll never be normal, I’ll
never be able to do some things that others can do. I just have to accept that and
lower my expectations.”
Clients frequently bring stories like this last one to sessions in which they
have been told certain things about themselves by others in power, whether they
were parents, teachers, doctors, or popular media. In some cases, they genuinely
believe that they are supposed to be incapacitated after facing some life
difficulty. They are given permission to fall apart and sometimes even
encouraged to stay that way. Often they don’t have the opportunity to create their
own meaning related to what they experienced, at least in constructive ways.
Neimeyer (2001) employs the use of a “biographical grid” to help traumatized
clients integrate what happened into their core identity and make better sense of
the experience. The process begins more generally with identifying key
developmental anchors and life events that have been significant, asking which
ones have been most influential. Secondly, clients are asked to explore the
themes that have been present during these seminal events, examining how they
are similar and different. This is not unlike conducting one’s own qualitative
analysis of the personal data. The third stage is then to make connections
between these past experiences and the unsolved traumatic memories that have
yet to be successfully included on one’s life history. This can involve taking
inventory of previous life challenges and difficulties, identifying strengths and
weaknesses that were accessed—or unavailable—in attempts to resolve them.
All of this is organized around the more global effort to construct a more robust
story that includes the unresolved issues.

CULTURALLY DOMINANT DISCOURSES

Contributions from feminist, social constructionist, narrative, and critical theorist

approaches to discourse analysis have brought greater attention to the ways that
the stories we “own” have actually been impacted, if not “colonized” by the
dominant culture, including the influences of media, social conventions,
language usage, and majority belief systems. This leads to stories that we
believe, and those we tell, that don’t necessarily reflect felt experiences,
especially for those who are members of a minority, disenfranchised, or
marginalized group.
Discourses of masculinity and femininity, for example, set up ideals that can
never be attained. For women, this meant being rail thin, perfectly coifed,
sexually desirable but restrained, caregiving, and compliant. Men, as well,
traditionally received mixed messages in that women claimed that they wanted a
man who was caring, communicative, sensitive, kind, compassionate—but also
successful. And yet to be “successful,” at least in the business world where
wealth and power are the cherished goals, a man must often be manipulative,
controlling, deceptive, emotionally withholding, and inscrutable (Farrell, 1986).
Of course, things continue to evolve in terms of more flexible gender roles, yet
many men continue to struggle with confusing mixed messages from cultural
scripts just as women have done for centuries (Englar-Carlson, Evans, & Duffy,
2014). Both men and women thus have their own burdens, heaped upon them
from familial and cultural expectations, even if they manifest their symptoms of
discontent in very different ways.
Taking the experience of depression as one example, men often express
themselves and tell stories about their condition in ways that are quite different
from women, masking the internal feelings of despair in physical symptoms like
headaches, insomnia, back pain, and other somatic complaints (Cochran &
Rabinowitz, 1999; Englar-Carlson & Stevens, 2006). By contrast, depression in
women is most often viewed as a medical condition that focuses on biochemical
imbalances rather than social, political, and cultural influences, ignoring the
disproportionate number of women who struggle with abuse, poverty, and the
stressors of caregiving (Lafrance & Stoppard, 2007).
Similar dynamics operate in the multiple stories about the etiology of eating
disorders, each of which lead to very different outcomes. The dysfunctional and
highly limiting perceptions that are brought to therapy often portray women as
powerless to alter the traumas of the past, the templates of their families, and the
genetic predispositions that are intractable (Jasper, 2007). In one classic study
that challenges these conceptions, an alternative story is introduced that takes
cultural influences into account (Becker, Burwell, Gilman, Herzog, & Hamburg,
2002). The researchers investigated the prevalence of eating disorders in Fiji, a
country in which women who are hefty are considered more healthy and
attractive. Prior to 1995, before foreign television was introduced into Fiji,
eating disorders and concerns about body image were virtually unknown. Yet
once Western shows and advertisements presented new ideals of women’s
beauty as defined by thinness, three quarters of women interviewed reported that
they were now unhappy with their weight.
Stories clients tell themselves—or those told to them through powerful
cultural indoctrination—lead to internalized identities as eating disordered,
abuse victims, depressed, alcoholic, traumatized, or any one of a thousand
dysfunctional labels that make recovery that much more challenging. Narrative
therapists have identified the sort of self-talk that often leads to endless guilt,
remorse, self-judgment, and shame, countering these distorted versions of what
narrative therapists call “internalized problem conversations.” Cognitive
therapists, and practitioners of many other approaches, also have their own
unique language to describe the ways that clients subscribe to irrational,
distorted, counterproductive internal stories about themselves. Apart from the
particular language employed, I think we are all mostly in agreement that trauma
is caused as much by the interpretations made about experience as it is by the
events themselves.

COLLABORATIVE STORYTELLING

Although the most common uses of storytelling related to trauma are usually
configured in terms of helping an individual client come to terms with
unexpressed and fragmented narratives, one of the more creative adaptations
involves a far more community-based effort that involves all members of the
family who have been impacted by the events, each of whom has a unique
perspective. After all, stories within families hardly represent individual
experience but rather a shared interpretation of events with multiple meanings.
If it is the case that writing or telling stories about past traumas contributes to
significant meaning-making and healing, then helping families work together to
construct a collaborative narrative of their experiences may assist collective
growth and development. Kellas and Trees (2006) describe treating trauma in
families through collaborative storytelling in which each member is invited to
share his or her individual experience of the difficult events that transpired
before working as a unit to create a consensus on the meaning of what happened
and why.
Whether one person in the family survived some form of abuse, neglect,
violence, catastrophe, or accident that impacted everyone else, or all the
members were subjected to poverty, a natural disaster, terrorism, crisis,
displacement, and homelessness, there are distinct advantages to helping the
family as a whole create and negotiate a collaborative story about what happened
and its meaning.
I was working with one man, Miguel, who had been living on the streets as a
form of self-punishment after suffering a cascade of traumatic events. He had at
one time been a drug mule for gangs, smuggling drugs into the country from
South Asia. He was desperately trying to keep himself afloat while supporting
his own drug habit, as well as his 10-year-old daughter. Eventually he was
caught and imprisoned, separated from the child who was the center of his
world. Nine years later Miguel was released and reconnected with his daughter,
finally ready to get his life back on a solid footing. But a few months later, his
daughter was murdered by her boyfriend, leaving Miguel devastated and filled
with rage. He plotted revenge against the murderer and certainly had the skills
and experience to follow through. He began living on the streets, dealing drugs
again, and was completely lost.
At the time I met Miguel he was living in a homeless shelter on Skid Row and
the story that he eventually re-created was now startlingly different. “I know I
could kill this guy and probably even get away with it. He took away the one
person I loved the most, the one person that gave me hope after I got out of
prison. But now I believe that God, in His wisdom, wanted to test me. I have
now forgiven my daughter’s boyfriend. I have let go of my anger. And now I see
that I have a way out.”
As Miguel said these last words, he opened his arms to signal the community
of other homeless residents in the mission where he was now staying. This had
become his new family. He created another version of the tragedies and
challenges he had suffered in his life, one that featured hope and resilience as the
dominant themes. He had worked with other mentors, counselors, and a sponsor
from Narcotics Anonymous, who had collaborated with him to construct a new,
different story of his life. My role was just to help him put the finishing touches
on his remarkable, heroic journey toward redemption. My job was to listen to—
and honor—his story, as well as to invite others within his adopted “family” to
play supporting roles and offer their own versions of what they had witnessed
with Miguel’s transformation.
The process of facilitating collaborative storytelling can follow any number of
pathways depending on one’s preferred approach and the client’s particular
needs. Yet several researchers have outlined the most significant steps that
should be included in any effort (Boss et al., 2003; Kiser, Baumgardner, &
Dorado, 2010; Pratt & Fiese, 2004).
• Setting up parameters and ground rules. This includes explaining that
each person in the family has a voice and contributes to the collective
story. Multiple perspectives are not only expected but welcomed.
Members are expected to listen to one another while doing their best not
to disagree, criticize, or contradict the respective narratives (at least out
loud). It’s also important to define the boundaries of how far and how fast
to go in terms of what is off limits.
• Preparing family members for attention and empathic listening skills. This
means setting the conditions, and soliciting agreement, that everyone
agrees to be respectful toward one another, even if their version of the
story is quite different than others. In Miguel’s case, we found ourselves
talking one night on the roof of the homeless shelter, with several of his
peers around, and it was not surprising that the conversation could lapse
into digressions, if not outright chaos. The main challenge was keeping
the focus on Miguel’s own story and enforcing an atmosphere of support
rather than criticism.
• Enforcing the rules. In some ways it is a setup to ask people to do things
for which they aren’t equipped, and it is certainly inevitable that there
would be a fair number of interruptions, “yes, buts,” and “I don’t
remember it that way.” It is one thing to establish rules and another to
actually enforce them—and this might be the most critical task of all to
ensure that each person is validated in his or her own experience and
perceptions.
• Challenging assumptions. Family members will enter the encounter
prepared to argue for their version of the story as being the correct one. It
takes a fair bit of explaining to help them to understand what
 constructivist and narrative interpretations are all about—that there is no
single truth, that there are multiple realities, that stories are influenced by
cultural and external factors, that they are often somewhat distorted based
on a number of variables, and so on. This conversation has to result in a
“buy-in,” that all participants are prepared to keep an open mind and heart
and truly listen to one another, even when what they hear might be so
different from what they imagined. This applies equally to our role in the
process when the consensual story might result in a version that is at odds
with our own personal beliefs. In Miguel’s case, for example, there was a
strong and rigid religious flavor to his story of recovery—that God was
responsible for the events of his life, that he had to turn over all control of
his life to God’s will, and that he was essentially powerless without divine
intervention. I had to get on board with this narrative or else risk being
left behind.
• Encouraging reflectivity. While it is important to reflect on one’s own
experience and its meaning, in this context the goal is to help members to
also consider and explore what it must be like for others, given how they
storied the events differently. This facilitates greater empathy,
compassion, and understanding. This step was crucial in Miguel’s own
ability to reach a state of forgiveness by imagining what it must have been
like for his daughter’s boyfriend to live in a gang-infested world that he
had also once inhabited.
• Negotiating multiple versions of the story. There will be as many different
perspectives on what happened as there are people in the room; in fact,
multiply that number by a factor of three or ten considering that each
person will hold on to several different versions of what happened,
depending on his or her mood and what is triggered by others. This is
where mediation and problem-solving skills come into play, helping
members to balance the inequities in power and control that accompany
their differences in age, position, and status within the family.
• Moderating affect. This therapeutic experience is clearly an emotionally
evocative one that can be quite heated and threatening at times. Given that
there is likely some dysfunction and impaired communication within the
family to begin with, the therapist must carefully monitor and attend to
volatile outbursts and help members to maintain some degree of control,
even in the face of extremely difficult remembrances. Throughout the
encounter, the point is made over and over that the goal is always to reach
a cohesive and collaborative story to which they can all subscribe and
support. The therapist will spend some time helping to keep the
 atmosphere calm and assisting individual members to regulate their strong
emotional responses that may short-circuit the process.
• Guiding the plot. Consistent with the principles that have been covered
earlier, the desired outcome is not only to collaborate on a unified story to
which the family members can subscribe but also one that offers some
resolution of the past and hope for the future. Whereas that will include
discussions of what could have and should have been done differently,
with the accompanying guilt, remorse, and regret, focus will also be
redirected to what can now be altered in the future rather than endlessly
dwelling on the past.
• Settling on a collaborative story. The consensual final version of the story
includes all relevant perspectives. This is negotiated based on careful,
sensitive, and respectful listening and the honoring of each person’s
experience of what happened and his or her own individual remembrance
of its personal impact. It also involves the therapist’s sensitive skills to
continually help members to hear one another, build consensus among
discrepant pieces, and help them to weave together a version that doesn’t
belong to any single person but to the family as a whole.
Although collaborative storytelling may sound like a very attractive
therapeutic option, traumatized families can be more than a little challenging to
help because of any number of difficulties that are often present (Courtois &
Ford, 2009; Kiser, Baumgardner, & Dorado, 2010; Van der Kolk, McFarlane, &
Weisaeth, 1996). Such families are more likely to have attachment issues,
relationship conflicts, and struggles with emotional regulation when they try to
address unresolved issues. They often have communication difficulties,
unrealistic expectations for themselves and others, and are prone to dissociation,
denial, and distortion. They are hyperreactive to perceived threats and can more
easily overreact to even relatively benign stimuli. On top of all that, their
individual and collective problems can create a cascade of despair and
hopelessness that make it difficult for any true healing can take place. It will be
difficult for them to ever move forward until they can come to terms with things
in the past.
Of course, there are particular challenges when doing any kind of family
therapy that are quite different from having just one person present in the room.
There is a marked loss of control, increased conflict and chaos, and greater risks
for things to spin in unexpected directions. It is also inevitable that the stories
that family members share will often contradict one another, direct blame at one
another, demonstrate different degrees of denial, and especially remember things
in quite different ways.
As one example, last night I received a phone call from my father who is quite
old and also suffering the lingering effects of a right-hemisphere stroke. He often
reminisces about aspects of our family history, and last night’s conversation was
no different.
“Do you remember, Son, when your mother died and you sat in the closet by
yourself and cried? I was just thinking about that today and couldn’t get that
image out of my mind. I was worried about whether that still bothers you.”
What I was thinking I didn’t say out loud, but what I remember about my
mother’s death is quite different from what my father related. First of all, the
incident he was describing actually occurred when he moved out of the house
and divorced my mother. I do remember sitting in his closet, holding a pair of
wing-tipped shoes he left behind, and sobbing uncontrollably. But as far as my
mother’s death that occurred a decade later, he was not present to view my
reaction in the hospital. I actually don’t remember crying at all but rather feeling
tremendous relief that her suffering was over, just as was my burden of taking
care of her. Now I expect my two brothers would remember their own versions
of that fateful day. We have since had enough conversations about the experience
that we now share a somewhat collaborative version of this seminal event in our
family’s history, but it would still take a fair degree of negotiation to bring our
respective stories closer together.

SOMETIMES IT’S BEST TO BURY IT

Although I’ve been making a rather strong case throughout this chapter, and the
book, about the significance of helping people who are suffering to tell their
stories in such a way that they can better integrate the experience, this may not
always be the preferred course of action. As mentioned earlier in the chapter, it
has been standard procedure to invite, if not pressure, trauma survivors to talk
about the disturbing events. Kearney (2002), however, suggests that there is a
difference between retelling the experience to promote healing and the
consequences of doing so when it involves reliving unspeakable, unimaginable
evil.
With respect to Holocaust survivors, for example, while there have been many
courageous writers who have chosen to tell their stories, such as Victor Frankl
(1959), Elie Wiesel (1972), Sara Bernstein (1997), Wladyslaw Szpilman (1999),
and Roma Ligocka (2002), many others have decided it’s best to put the past
behind them and never speak of it again. It is also hard to tell a story for which
there are no words to say what really happened. “How can one describe things,”
asks one survivor of the concentration camps, “that cannot be described?” In
Primo Levi’s (1958) account of his imprisonment in Auschwitz, he remembers
being taunted by the guards and told that even if anyone survived to tell the story
of what happened there, who would ever believe such monstrosity was possible?
Adding to the challenge is that therapists are notoriously—and sometimes
infuriatingly—optimistic and hopeful. We are all about selling the idea that
whatever happened in your life, it can all be resolved if only you take the time to
tell your story. With regard to unimaginable evil, such as what happened in
Hitler’s Nazi Germany, Pol Pot’s Killing Fields of Cambodia, Stalin’s purge of
the Ukraine, Mao’s Cultural Revolution in China, Leopold’s genocide in the
Congo, or other such extraordinary inhumanity, there is no possible way to
describe to anyone else what it was like, especially in such a way that the
listeners can truly understand and accept that there is no possible way to ever
fully recover or heal from such an experience.
After spending most of his professional life working with survivors of the
Nazi Holocaust, Lang (1995) eventually learned that as helpful as it might be for
some clients to give voice to their suffering, there are other times when silence
must be honored. He fully acknowledges that silence can sometimes signal
defensiveness, denial, and shame “but silence may also be a mark of profound
respect, a recognition that ordinary language is inadequate before certain vast
and terrible realities.” That is why it is so important for us to be exquisitely
sensitive to each client’s particular need to tell a story for which he or she is
prepared, without coercion or undue pressure.
I became a therapist in the first place because I love hearing and collecting
stories; it is what I do for a living as a clinician, teacher, and writer. More than
anything else in sessions, I’m hungry for the full and complete picture of how
clients ended up in their predicaments. It’s a fascinating mystery that captures
me in such a way that I feel helpless sometimes to back off and allow clients to
go at their own pace. I push and cajole, telling people that confession will set
them free. But I realize now, as I am writing these words, that I am doing this as
much for my own curiosity as I am to promote healing in others. I feel
apologetic as I look back on times when I kept the pressure going even when it
was clear that the client had said quite enough. I felt justified in doing so at the
time because I was such an avid believer that the more that was disclosed, the
better outcome that would result.
Much of the therapeutic work that I do these days takes place in remote
villages in Nepal, especially with children who have been neglected, abandoned,
or marginalized because of their poverty, caste, and gender. In my Western
training as a therapist I am used to encouraging clients to tell me the stories of
their lives, especially the parts that are most troubling and traumatic. I must
admit that among all the horrible things I’ve ever heard about what human
beings can do to one another, what I’ve heard in the girls’ stories about their
exploitation is beyond my comprehension. I hold these children in my arms, and
I can barely manage to contain myself before I find a place to hide and break
down sobbing. I desperately want to know what happened to them, not merely to
satisfy my curiosity but because I truly believe it might relieve some of their
anguish. Yet in response to most invitations to tell me about what happened, I
receive a firm shake of the head. The girls are ashamed. They are mortified to
their core. They were born “untouchable,” a member of the lowest caste,
considered unclean and worth less than a goat. In addition, they are only
worthless girls who have no value. These are the stories they have been told, and
those that they believe. I want desperately to alter these narratives, but I have
always thought that in order to do so I must first hear what happened.
I am a man, an older, White man at that, a man from America who exudes
privilege and status and unimaginable wealth. I am the one who supports them,
and so they would do most anything to satisfy me. A few of the girls manifest
inappropriate behavior. Most are completely deferential and compliant. But there
is one line they will not cross: They cannot, they will not, tell me what they have
suffered. In some ways, their silence has become more than a mystery; it is
sacred. And I have learned that I must honor their choice to remain silent.
Perhaps it is the only power and control they feel, to choose not to speak.
Most of my work includes an absence of personal storytelling that does not
seem culturally and situationally appropriate. Oh, we tell lots of stories and read
lots of stories to one another, but they are usually about the Hindu gods or the
Buddhist teachings. What I have discovered recently is that I don’t need to be the
one to hear the stories: They can tell them to one another. Indeed, during one of
our team visits, we arranged to bring our girls together from a half dozen
different villages so they might have a chance to meet and share their
experiences. Most of the children have never left their villages before, so this
was a great adventure. We paired them up and invited them to share their stories
with one another. Whereas they didn’t feel comfortable talking to me, or our
staff and volunteers, about what happened to them, they appeared more than
willing to talk to each other. Much later I learned that almost every single one of
the girls had faced unimaginable adversity.
I’ve since revised my theory, or at least my method, to be far more flexible
and adaptable, when working with trauma. There are indeed most people who do
need the opportunity to talk about what happened and integrate the experience in
sessions. There are others who would prefer to do so, but with a peer or someone
else who truly understands their lived experience; that is why support groups are
so popular. Finally, and this is a huge revelation for me, there are times when it is
best to remain silent.
Referring to his experience in Auschwitz and why so many survivors of the
Holocaust chose not to talk about what happened, Primo Levi wondered how it
is possible to tell a story about something that can’t be imagined, much less
spoken aloud? How do you describe to someone that all your brothers, sisters,
cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, neighbors, your mother and your father, and your
own children were tortured and murdered? And “even if you were there, you still
didn’t know what it was like for someone else there. Ordinary language cannot
convey what happened there” (Levi, 1958, p. 129).
While that may be the case that “ordinary language” cannot do justice to some
traumatic stories, alternative or extraordinary language can do the job. This
could cover the range from sand tray and other forms of play therapy, sculpting
and nonverbal enactments, to any other means of communication that allows
clients to control what they share and how they reveal their stories. It turns out
that there are so many different ways that people can “talk” about distressing and
traumatic events in their lives, via music, dance, drawing, photos, journaling,
social media, poetry, and dramatic enactments. This is one of the most
interesting aspects of how stories can be so transformative for people: The
particular medium is less important than the message.
 8
THERAPEUTIC VALUE OF STORIES IN CREATING
CHANGE

ONE OF THE challenges we face in helping to promote change in people’s lives is

that it is not entirely clear what defines it, much less how we know it has
actually occurred (Evans, 2013). We can’t even agree on whether it involves
behavior, thoughts or feelings, temporary or permanent shifts, or relief or cure,
much less find consensus on what is most effective in producing such outcomes
(Kottler, 2014). Even when clients are asked about what made the most
difference to them after sessions are completed, they are often confused and
uncertain about what happened and why, unable to specify what was most
helpful (Carey et al., 2007).
After decades of intensive research on the subject, it turns out that, at least
among many therapists, there is somewhat of a consensus about what is most
influential in promoting relatively permanent changes in client attitudes and
behavior. There may be different names and conceptual paradigms, but it seems
to be related to some common factors that feature: (1) the power of the
relationship, (2) characteristics of the client and therapist, (3) persuasive and
supportive ideas, (4) faith and hope, and (5) the translation of new insights into
constructive action (Bohart & Talman, 1999; Castonguay & Beutler, 2006;
Higginson & Mansell, 2008; Hubble, Duncan, & Miller, 2009; Kazdin, 2009;
Kottler, 1991, 2014; Norcross, 2011; Wampold, 2001). Embedded in many of
these influential elements are stories that are told, especially those that are
designed to inspire, motivate, enlighten, challenge, stimulate, and reveal
significant insights.
We will review some of the signal elements of those stories that are most
readily remembered by clients, as well as those that are designed to impact them
the most. A number of supporting examples will be presented from individuals
whose lives were transformed by a story they heard or viewed, most of them
occurring within their daily lives.

STORIES TRUMP SWORDS, DATA, AND ARGUMENTS

We can entice, cajole, plead, or beseech clients to change, but we can’t make
them do anything for which they aren’t ready. To have such influence, we must
first capture their attention, followed by some means to connect with something
they truly value, and then link that to whatever we imagine is good for them.
Most direct attempts to do so, through rational argument, presentation of data,
discussion of consequences, and so on, are sometimes not nearly as successful as
the introduction of a story that appeals to strong emotions and evokes an
alternative reality. That is the case I’ve been building throughout this book.
In earlier chapters, I discussed the power of stories to influence behavior and
change the world, even win battles and wars. This is an argument that has been
repeatedly offered since Euripides first reportedly said that “the tongue is
mightier than the blade,” famously rephrased in a 19th century play about
Cardinal Richelieu that “the pen is mightier than the sword.”
Journalist and novelist Christopher Morley (1919/2012) was considerably
more elaborative, in particular emphasizing the staying power of a story versus
weapons of warfare: “Printer’s ink has been running a race against gunpowder
these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up
a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow
him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim,
while a book can keep exploding for centuries” (p. 60).
It’s generally agreed that clients’ ability to recognize and regulate their
emotions is one key to lasting change (Burum & Goldfried, 2007). This is not
nearly as easy as it seems to the uninitiated, considering that although feelings
may be familiar they are also quite elusive and difficult to define (LeDoux,
1996; Mennin & Farach, 2007; Sloan & Kring, 2007). When you consider that
stories—at least really good ones—are specifically designed to arouse strong
emotional responses, they present clients with the opportunity to examine those
feelings that are elicited by stories, distinguishing between those emotions that
are primary versus secondary responses (Greenberg & Safran, 1987). That’s just
one reason why, in a survey conducted by the Society of Chief Librarians, they
recommend almost exclusively reading fiction rather than self-help books to
improve mood and well-being (Tobar, 2013). In one example from their list, A
Little History of the World (Gombrich, 1935, p. 2), a grandfather reviews human
history by writing a letter to his granddaughter that begins, “So let’s light a scrap
of paper, and drop it down into that well. It will fall slowly, deeper and deeper.
And as it burns it will light up the sides of the well...Our memory is like that
burning scrap of paper. We use it to light up the past.”
And isn’t that what stories can do, light up the past, as well as the present and
future?
Basically there are just two kinds of stories—those that provide windows into
other people’s experiences and those that act as mirrors to reflect our own lives.
So observes the protagonist of a young adult novel who feels wistful listening to
his friends reminisce about the last years of high school just before they
graduate. He observes that the reason we listen to others’ stories is so we can
imagine what they have done and felt and lived “but in the end the listening
exposes you even more than it exposes the people you’re trying to listen to”
(Green, 2008, p. 216). That’s not exactly a revelation in our field since we have
long ago recognized the ways that people project themselves into their
interpretations of what they hear, see, and experience. But it does act as a
reminder that the stories that are told are not necessarily the same ones that we
hear.

STORIES ABOUT THERAPY EXPERIENCES

An interesting dimension of our subject related to the role of stories in

promoting change inside and outside of therapy involves the reports of clients
about their own experiences. It turns out that the things clients share about what
happened in sessions are often quite different than those that are identified by
their therapists. Whereas we are fond of writing progress notes and sharing
reports that highlight events related to our brilliant diagnoses, insightful
interpretations, and skillful interventions, clients instead often talk about how
they felt heard and understood; alternatively, they also relate distressing
experiences of feeling wounded because they didn’t feel like they were
understood. There are, thus, a number of studies that investigate these
discrepancies between the stories that therapists tell about their work versus
those of their clients (Adler, 2012, 2013; Binder, Holgersen, & Nielsen, 2009;
Carey et al., 2007; Clarke, Rees, & Hardy, 2004; DeFife, Hilsenroth, & Gold,
2008; Frankel & Levitt, 2009; Hodgetts & Wright, 2007; Jinks, 1999; Lambert &
Shimokawa, 2011; Manthei, 2005, 2007; Paulson, Turscott, & Stuart, 1999;
Reese, Toland, & Slone, 2010). Most of them confirm clients’ versions of events
as they unfolded, that techniques and interventions account for only 15% of the
outcomes, whereas “common factors” like the relationship and client
characteristics lead to a whopping 45% of the positive results (Duncan, Miller,
Wampold, & Huggle, 2010; Miller, Hubble, Chow, & Seidel, 2014; Norcross &
Lambert, 2012; Roth & Fonagy, 2004; Wampold, 2001).
It would obviously be helpful if we were more attentive to what clients have
to say about their experiences in therapy, both in the past and present. There
have been some notable books on the subject, many of them largely critical of
our profession, such as Mockingbird Years (Gordon, 2000) and Girl, Interrupted
(Kaysen, 1993), plus all the films that have been made that essentially ridicule
therapists and our perceived cluelessness—One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
What About Bob?, Harold and Maude, Deconstructing Harry, and Analyze This.
The main theme of many of these stories, told from the perspective of clients, is
that we pursue our own agendas instead of paying close attention to what clients
want and need most.
Many years ago Irvin Yalom and one of his clients (Yalom & Elkin, 1974)
kept separate accounts of their time together in sessions, documenting their
respective stories about their experience. Alder (2013) sought to replicate this
study with a much bigger sample by asking clients to maintain a running account
of their therapy sessions in a journal. What best predicted satisfying outcomes
were those stories that referred to their sense of personal agency and power to
change rather than attributing changes made solely to their therapists’ behavior
and interventions. In addition, the more coherent the stories they told, the more
likely that things worked out well for them in treatment.
Just as in telling one’s life story, it really seems to help to view therapy as a
singular drama in which the client is featured in the primary and heroic role as
change agent, contributing to a greater sense of control and purpose (Adler,
2012). It is intriguing that one of the tasks we should be adding to our closure
agenda is more deliberate and strategic efforts to help clients formulate and share
a coherent narrative about their experience in sessions. After all, this is exactly
what we do to write up a case report or talk about what unfolded in supervision.
A significant part of our own growth and development as professionals
involves our own systematic reflection on what we learned from our sessions
with clients. They may involve the stories we create explaining what happened
and why, but just as often it may also relate to our own personal insights that
take place as a result of the therapeutic interactions. One of the themes I’ve been
exploring for a long time (Kottler, 1987, 1991; Kottler, 2010a; Kottler &
Carlson, 2006, 2014) is this kind of reciprocal influence that occurs as a result of
therapeutic and teaching relationships. Although the phenomenon is (hopefully)
not intentional or self-indulgent, we nevertheless experience tremendous growth
and learning, as well as vicarious trauma, as a result of our helping relationships.
In some ways, our clients impact us almost as much as we change them. This is
one of the gifts of our profession (just as it is sometimes a burden) that we end
up collecting some of the most remarkable stories of despair, hopelessness,
courage, and resilience, some of which feel like they penetrate our souls in ways
we can never forget.

STORIES THAT STICK

Among all the experiences we have, and stories we hear or see during any day,
why are so few of them remembered? Among the hundreds of shows we watch,
books we read, conversations we have, songs we hear, and other ways we are
exposed to stories, why do most of them quickly fade into memory while others
remain with us throughout our lifetimes? Why are clients able to recall, with
almost perfect detail, some stories you’ve shared with them while others seemed
to vanish as soon as they were spoken? It turns out that stories that stick have a
number of characteristics, the most important of which is that they lead to
solidified memories, those that not only adhere but remain relatively stable and
accurate—at least as originally processed and coded (Haven, 2007; Schank,
1990).
I can’t think of a more important question for us to consider, especially since
we are in the business of facilitating lasting changes. And what are the features
of such narratives that have that kind of influence and effects? A number of
models have been described that purport to demonstrate the essential processes
(see Fig. 8.1).

FIGURE 8.1 Models of human memory systems often present simplistic flow charts that show sensory
stimulation converted into pattern recognition, at least those parts that commanded attention. Then
processes within working memory “chunk,” rehearse, and encode meaningful information for later retrieval
from long-term memory. But what most of these systems leave out is the instrumental function of memories
converted into stories, and particular kinds of stories, that are far more likely to remain accessible in the
future.
 Although we covered a few of the mechanisms that lead to memorable stories
in previous chapters, it would be helpful to catalogue a more complete and
comprehensive inventory of the most influential factors that lead to maximum
impact. All too often, we “forget” some of the attributes that actually hold the
most power.

Emotional Coloring
As mentioned earlier, stories that are remembered often elicit strong emotional
reactions, whether sadness, joy, frustration, or amusement, as well as stories that
are disturbing in some way. They move people in such a way that they feel
helpless to do anything else but care deeply about the outcome.
Advertising experts have learned over time that the commercials that we
remember will, more likely than not, hook us into a story (Woodside &
Megehee, 2009). Think about some of the most memorable and effective
advertisements of all time, whether in the form of a printed page or 30-second
spot on television, and they involved a compelling storyline. Apple Computer’s
classic “Think Different” campaign was first launched during a Superbowl and is
widely considered the best ad of all time because it so dramatically told a
powerful story that has been repeated in different forms over the years. Coca
Cola’s “Mean Joe Green” commercial sequence is another example of a story,
told in under a minute, of a little boy who meets his hero. The goal in all these
scenarios is to move people, emotionally and personally, creating a close
association with the product that is positive and familiar.

Density of Sensory Details

Stories often work internally to form mental pictures inside the brain. In one
sense, the process is a simple one: The more vividly details are described, the
more sensory information that is provided in the rich descriptions of characters,
settings, context, and action, the more likely we can effectively store and retrieve
the information at some time in the future.
When Rebecca Harding Davis (1861/1985) first published her story about the
sordid work in the iron mills, it created quite a controversy and outcry from
readers of the Atlantic Monthly. This was partly because the author was quite
extraordinarily talented at describing the kinds of descriptive details that
transported readers into this world: “The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It
rolls sullenly in slow folds from the great chimneys of the iron foundries, and
settles down in black, slimy pools on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharves,
smoke on the dingy boats, on the yellow river—clinging in a coating of greasy
soot to the house-front, the two faded poplars, the faces of the passers-by” (p.
11).
Stories that come alive, and remain so in people’s minds, seduce us into the
descriptive world with a degree of plausibility and realism that suspends
disbelief, even when delving into the genres of fantasy, myth, or science fiction.
There is usually a single protagonist with whom we can identify as a like spirit—
if not in life predicament, then in a parallel struggle. The universal appeal of
characters like Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker from Star Wars, Bilbo Baggins
from Lord of the Rings, or Huckleberry Finn is that they are all on a quest,
looking for acceptance, companionship, recognition, and achievement. And it is
the richness with which scenes and characters are described that allows us to
visualize the fictional characters as real, as inhabiting our lives.
If Rebecca Davis described a vivid scene that invites us into the world of iron
mills during the 19th century, then Mark Twain (1885/2005) did something quite
similar in drawing a portrait of a memorable character who will forever haunt us:
He was most fifty, and he looked it. His hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you
could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. It was all black, no gray; so was his long,
mixed-up whiskers. There warn’t no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like
another man’s white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body’s flesh crawl—a tree-
toad white, a fish-belly white. (p. 30)

Memorable stories are those told with the kind of scene and character
descriptions that allow us to enter these worlds in such a way that our brain
actually is persuaded that we are participants in the action rather than mere
observers. And because the experiences feel like they are our own, there are
opportunities for realization, and even transformation, as we join the action
vicariously.

Novelty
People tend to remember those stories that are most unusual and challenge their
expectations (Atran, 2002), pushing a kind of “save button” in the brain (Gallo,
2014). The more strange, unexpected, and surprising the story (within certain
parameters and familiar structures), the more listeners or readers are stimulated
and attentive, even in settings such as trying to change attitudes and policies with
The World Bank (Denning, 2000).
The hunger for novel experiences is also one reason why there is such
increased popularity (until saturation) of shows, books, and films about zombies,
vampires, aliens, and mutants. We desperately want to believe that we control
our own destiny, that we can overcome threats of Nature and happenstance, that
we can truly understand what’s really going on most of the time—which, of
course, is impossible, so we cling to stories of the supernatural, as well as those
that open doors to worlds and experiences that are beyond our reach.
Mark Leeman worked in a homeless shelter, conducting intake interviews,
which basically involved asking people to tell the story of how they came to be
living on the street, having lost almost everything, including their dignity and
self-respect. He observed a phenomenon that is well known to any of us who
help for a living—that the most interesting stories belong to those who are
suffering and dispossessed. They are especially intriguing to us because they
describe experiences that are truly unusual or extraordinary. “The trouble lies in
the fact that the people living out these unusual circumstances [of homelessness]
are often also suffering in them. The disruption that makes their stories
interesting to the rest of us also tends to make them vulnerable, exposed, and
yes, even exploitable” (Leeman, 2011, p. 108).
We are taking something from clients when we invite them to share their
stories. It is for this reason that Leeman believes that there must be an equitable
exchange of stories between participants, a balance between the burdens and
benefits. By this he means that the healing and help that we offer in return for
their storied gifts we receive comes in the form of truly listening with
compassion and total attention, respecting and honoring their pain. “At my worst
moments,” he confesses, “I can condemn myself as a narrative charlatan: a
secure, healthy, and wealthy scholar collecting stories at cut-rate prices for my
personal and research gains” (p. 108).
The novelty of the therapeutic encounter is that stories are indeed exchanged
between one another in such a manner that the participants mostly listen
carefully to one another instead of constantly interrupting—or being interrupted
by the beeping/ringing/signaling intrusions of modern-day life.

Familiarity
As we have learned from the research on scaffolding in memory and learning
processes, information is best remembered if it is somehow linked to prior
knowledge or connected to other memories. Somehow, some way, a story—or
parts of a story—are connected to familiar names, events, images, experiences,
and structures (Foer, 2006). That, after all, is how memory champions are able to
recall so many bits of information through “index labels” that facilitate the
integration of new data into existing schemata. And that is also why there are
basically only a handful of plots that we encounter over and over again in
stories, regardless of their forms as myths, fairy tales, films, plays, novels, or
lyrical poems. There is “boy meets girl” or “hero defeats monster/villain” or
especially stories of redemption, all divided into three acts that present a
problem or struggle and eventually some resolution.
Even the seemingly most complex and lengthy stories can be reduced to a
rather simple, essential theme that resonates with familiar human struggles. In
his analysis of how stories take on a life of their own within popular culture,
Weich (2013) mentions how all 3 hours of the film Gladiator are really about a
guy who just wants to go home. The film Jaws is not actually about a great white
shark terrorizing people as much as it is about someone new to town who is
struggling with his masculinity. Weich even suggests that Monopoly, the most
popular board game in the world, isn’t so much about moving your piece around
the board and building houses as it is about fortunes won and lost. Select any
other film, novel, or popular story, and if you drill down deep enough, you will
find a theme that echoes familiar struggles.
In psychotherapy, as well, we hear variations of perhaps a dozen themes that
pop up again and again in sessions, whether recovering from past experiences,
dealing with present struggles, or planning for future goals. Many of the stories
we tell in therapy connect disparate parts of the client’s life, as well as things
mentioned in previous sessions. “What you seem to be ignoring,” a therapist
might begin, “is that you have faced situations like this before. You told me
about that time you lost your job, and a few weeks ago we talked about some of
the ways you’ve showed incredible persistence, in spite of some major
disappointments. I can imagine a time, not too far in the future, when you could
very well...” And so the story continues, with explicit connections to prior
themes and conversations, structured around a far more hopeful future.

About That “Resolution”

It is suggested over and over again that great stories must have some resolution
of the presented conflict: The hero wins over forces of evil, the couple live
happily ever after, the protagonist finds the Holy Grail, or manages to achieve
some kind of redemption after all the moral lapses. According to some
authorities (Egan, 1997; Kermode, 1966), the most defining aspect of a story is
its end. Since life always feels so unfinished (until we die), never certain when
things truly began and ended, they claim that memorable stories almost always
lead to resolution of the conflict. I would argue, however, that unfinished stories
can also be powerfully influential precisely because they aren’t satisfying; it is
their dissonance that sparks continued reflection.
We notice this phenomenon all the time in therapy sessions. Although we
were trained to end each encounter with some kind of neat closure in which
clients are asked to reflect on the work that has been completed that day and
perhaps to summarize what was learned or review important ideas, some of the
most memorable sessions that clients report are those that abruptly and
awkwardly ended with a blunt, “Oops. Time’s up!”
It turns out that the most influential and memorable stories are often those that
are unresolved, forcing you to continue to process the experience over time
(McLean, Pasupathi, & Pals, 2007; Pals, 2006). You remain haunted and fixated,
even stuck in the narrative, troubled by the ambiguity or uncertainty that is left
unfinished. You worry about the characters all the while you remind yourself
that they aren’t real, aren’t really a part of your life—but they are! You wonder
what you would do in such a situation. You find yourself working out possible
solutions, running them through your mind. And in some ways, you are
preparing yourself for possible adversity you might face in the future.
One reason for the popularity of “cliffhangers” to end television episodes and
movie sequels is not just to keep the audience literally hanging on and devoted to
future installments but also to keep them thinking about the story. One of the
most famous examples of this was the series ending to the original television
show Dallas, in which J.R. Ewing was shot and then the episode abruptly ended,
leaving viewers to wait a half year for resolution, guessing and talking about the
probable culprit. Other popular shows like The Wire, True Blood, 24, Lost,
Downton Abbey, and Breaking Bad made their living by keeping the audience
panting for what happened next.

Redemption
Unlike other settings in which stories might take place, we offer anecdotes not
merely for entertainment but also for enlightenment. Our goal is always to
illustrate some concept, drive home an important point, or to exert some
constructive influence.
Stories told in therapy have very specific purposes that are designed to inspire,
reveal, motivate, encourage, and, ultimately, to facilitate constructive change.
We all like happy endings, or if that isn’t possible, at least some kind of
resolution in which the main character finds some kind of peace and success.
There is some evidence that these kinds of stories create greater hope,
encouragement, resilience, and positive attitudes among clients (McAdams,
2013). The most popular myths, religious texts, biographies, films, novels,
documentaries, even song lyrics by the likes of Bob Marley, Johnny Cash, or
Rihanna, are all about hope and redemption.
 In a study of how people have been significantly changed by the stories
they’ve heard and read (Levitt et al., 2009), one participant mentioned a novel
that completely altered her view of the ways that communication could take
place in a marriage. She felt inspired to ask for more help when she needed it.
She learned to be more accepting and tolerant of people’s shortcomings and to
look more deeply into what they have to offer. And she felt better equipped to
practice forgiveness—toward herself and others. Did all of this really take place
as a result of this one story? Perhaps not. But it sure seemed to get her going.
Stories of redemption and resilience are most often introduced in direct ways.
“That reminds me of someone just like you,” a therapist would begin, “who
faced similar struggles, and yet found the will to completely turn things around.”
Or another version may be far more personal: “You might find this surprising but
once upon a time I also had some pretty similar troubles. In part, that is what led
me to this profession because I wanted so badly to feel a sense of control. It
turns out that it was my own suffering that ended up being one my greatest
gifts.”
There are also other pathways by which to teach meaningful lessons,
especially for those clients who may be resistant to the messages or perhaps not
yet ready to hear them. These more indirect means of storytelling often rely on
the use of metaphors to get the points across.

THERAPY IS A STORY

The process of psychotherapy is its own story (Barclay, 2007). Every session is a
chapter in the narrative, filled with memorable characters, dialogue, drama, plot
twists, and plenty of action. From the very beginning of our training we were
introduced to case studies as a way to create coherent (and simplified) stories out
of very complex interactions with clients. The whole of their presenting
problems and disturbing issues, not to mention their personality traits and
behavioral patterns, are coded into an abbreviated diagnosis. We pretend as if
this is truly an accurate representation of their experience when, in fact, it is
merely a convenience for us, or at least the insurance industry. We then spend
time collecting family history, developmental milestones, precipitating factors,
and other data from a whole lifetime of experience, and then collect it into a
single narrative that might be reduced to a few pages in a file. We are often
asked by supervisors or colleagues to summarize the case in a few minutes,
further abbreviating the story into a few key features.
Another way to look at therapy as a story involves seeing it as an ongoing
serial of weekly episodes, perhaps a drama, a tragedy, or sometimes a situation
comedy. There are certainly a number of similarities between a drama and
therapy, beginning with all the ways we have borrowed terms from playwrights
such as “family scripts,” “role playing,” “protagonists,” “psychodrama,”
“behavioral rehearsal,” and “acting out.” There are many other parallel processes
in that both endeavors essentially deal with conflict and tension in all their
various manifestations as inner conflicts (Hamlet), relational conflicts (Toy
Story), societal conflict (Titanic or Star Wars), or situational conflict (Apollo 13)
(Heide, 2007; Seger, 1987).
Dramatic plays, novels, or films also share with therapy a primary role of
posing an important question that confronts the protagonist, often with an
existential theme related to finding meaning in life or accepting responsibility
for one’s actions. They also both rely on empathy in which the audience (or
therapist) feels compassion for the protagonist and explores underlying
intentions and motivations. In a well-written story it is even possible to feel
compassion and sympathy for characters who engage in amoral or antisocial
behavior (Dexter, Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs). Finally, a good
story leads to some resolution of the problem in which the protagonist is
transformed in some way. “There is only one realm in which the characters defy
natural laws and remain the same,” observes one critic, “the realm of bad
writing” (1960, p. 60).
If you review your own favorite stories, films, and books, anything from The
Wizard of Oz and Star Wars to Casablanca, you may bring to mind those in
which the main character does indeed address “big” questions, or undergo trials
and tribulations, that ultimately lead to personal transformation. Likewise, most
people greatly prefer therapy stories that lead to resolution of presenting issues.
Of course, therapy rarely ends with neat, definitive endings that completely
resolve problems but often leads to a deeper understanding of them (Lawlis,
2007). Yet if we were to plot one representative therapeutic story, it might unfold
with the following chapter titles:
1. I Don’t Really Want to Be Here. The client acknowledges that he is an
unwilling participant in this encounter. The only reason he is here is
because he hopes that it will appease his family and get them off his
back.
2. I Don’t Trust You and I Don’t Think That I Ever Will. In a dramatic,
critical scene, the client discloses in a fit of anger that he finds this whole
enterprise to be ridiculous, if not a colossal waste of time. There is a
small breakthrough, in a sense, because he was honest enough to talk
about what he was really feeling.
 3. Where the Hell Did That Come From? Based on his distrust (see previous
chapter), and his slow and progressive engagement in the process, he is
beginning to pay closer attention to what is going on. He feels threatened
and vulnerable and lashes out as a way to create some safe distance.
4. I Hate You. No, I Love You. No, I Really Do Hate You. His ambivalence
about the therapy, and the relationship, is now jumping to the forefront.
He can’t help himself, but he feels himself admiring, respecting, and
drawing closer to his therapist.
5. That Was Interesting but I Have No Idea What Happened. The client
grudgingly acknowledges that things are getting better, that he is
changing, that something seems to be working, even if he can’t get a
handle on exactly what’s going on.
6. Are We Done Yet? His impatience for a quick “cure” leads him to push
harder to end this experience that is still fairly uncomfortable. He feels
uneasy about what he has shared about himself thus far, and especially so
about some things left unsaid (foreshadows next chapter).
7. There Are Some Things I Forgot to Tell You. Aha. The breakthrough!
Music swells. The action escalates. Things that have previously been
buried, guarded, or hidden come out into the light. This is an extremely
emotional dramatic scene. There are tears and, afterward, shame and
regret about the price paid for his lifelong style.
8. Hold Your Horses; I’m Going As Fast As I Can. The action literally
gallops at its own accelerating speed. One insight leads to another.
Connections are made that had previously been a mystery. Both
participants are left breathless in wonderment.
9. Are You Sure We’re Finished? I Don’t Feel Cured. As the drama moves
toward closure, apprehensions and fears arise about possible relapses. A
core question is addressed: Will the effects really last once this is over?
10. I’m Gonna Miss You. As the curtain closes, feelings of deep affection are
expressed, as well as mutual pride at what has been accomplished. The
end.
Of course, not all the stories of psychotherapy exactly follow this script. Some
end in tragedy. Some shows are just abruptly cancelled, without ever learning
how the story ends. And sometimes the action takes place in mysterious, subtle,
and metaphorical ways that makes it difficult to fully grasp what happened and
why.
THE USE OF METAPHORS FOR CREATING CHANGE

There is an ancient Jewish story (and if it has thrived for thousands of years, it
must be a wise one) that Truth was freezing to death. She was starving and
naked, searching for shelter. She knocked on every door of the village but was
consistently turned away because people were frightened by her nakedness.
Finally, in despair she retreated to a dark corner, where she sat shivering,
terrified, and alone.
Parable and Metaphor were walking down the cobblestone street, deep in
conversation, when they noticed Truth huddled in the alley. They felt sorry for
her so invited her to come home with them. They fed her, warmed her by the
fire, and then dressed her in story.
Once again Truth knocked on village doors, but this time she was warmly
invited inside for a sumptuous meal and to sit by the fire and join in the
companionable conversation. She felt not only welcomed but also honored as an
integral part of the gathering.
Naked truth does indeed make people feel uncomfortable. Clients withdraw
and close down when confronted with things they cannot face directly. Truths
must be clothed in a disguise to make it easier for people to examine painful
realities that have been avoided. And that’s where parables and metaphors
provide such a wardrobe.
There is a wide assortment of ways that these metaphorical strategies are
routinely employed (Gordon, 1978; Hammond, 1990; Lankton & Lankton, 1989;
Zeig, 1980), including the following: (1) embedding metaphors within hypnotic
suggestions to bypass resistance; (2) making indirect and subtle suggestions
without explicit advice; (3) providing examples of possible solutions; (4) tagging
or anchoring memories; (5) increasing hope, faith, and optimism; (6) reframing a
problem in a different way; (7) promoting self-reflection about issues; and (8)
introducing examples of universal experiences.
There are, of course, other benefits in that metaphorical stories capture
attention in ways that more direct anecdotes can’t touch. They can present
themselves in a variety of ways such as goal oriented, outcome oriented, artistic,
linguistic, guided, embedded, embodied, or directed toward behavior, values,
resources, affect, compassion, wisdom, well-being, or self-acceptance (Burns,
2001, 2007).
As one example, Hammond (2007) describes what he calls a “truism
metaphor,” one that is so familiar and universal that it can’t possibly be denied
or ignored. He was talking to a young boy who was extremely fearful because
his father was serving in a war zone overseas. He began the story by first asking
the child to remember a time when he slept over at a friend’s house or went to
school for the first time. Of course, there was a certain amount of fear and
apprehension, but the boy still managed to cope with those apprehensions. From
that point onward, he launched into a trance induction by reminding the child of
times he had been afraid of the dark, validating how normal and appropriate it
was to feel a certain amount of anxiety about the safety of his father. After
acknowledging the worry as understandable, considering the circumstances, the
story ended by reminding the child of constructive things he could do to stay in
touch and support his father: “Instead of scaring yourself, when you hear about
the war, imagine the fun times you’re going to have with him before long, and
imagine what you can do and send to him, to make him smile and laugh” (p.
111).

Metaphors Embedded in Stories

Ever since Milton Erickson began his influential teaching, metaphors embedded
in stories have become a huge area of investigation and practice. Several writers
(Barker, 1985; Gordon, 1978; Haley, 1973; Lankton & Lankton, 1989; Rosen,
1982; Zeig, 1980) have since developed the original ideas into a whole system
and catalogue for constructing powerfully influential metaphors embedded in
stories. One classic passage from Erickson demonstrates the groundbreaking
way that he might seek to “haunt” a client with a story that, once it took hold,
would continue to grow in power and influence: “And I want you to choose
some time in the past when you were a very, very little girl. And my voice will
go with you. And my voice will change into that of your parents, your neighbors,
your friends, your schoolmates, your teachers. And I want you to find yourself
sitting in the school room, a little girl feeling happy about something, something
that happened a long time ago, that you forgot a long time ago” (Erickson, 1982,
p. 1).
The client would then complete the story in her own mind, supplying details
and elaborations that may lead her into new or forgotten territory. Erickson’s
reported successes utilizing metaphorical stories usually took place during
hypnotic trance states when clients were even more suggestible. With defenses
down, conscious resistance on hold, clients would obviously be more open to
some of the more subtle features of Erickson’s complex and deliberately
confusing metaphors.
There are some advantages to the Ericksonian style in that the stories are less
threatening and yet more immediately engaging and intriguing, requiring clients
to use their own imaginations and do the work to make meaning of them. Since
Erickson rarely, if ever, explained or interpreted what he was doing,
responsibility for personalizing the stories remained solely within the client’s
domain.
Erickson’s stories could be described as brilliantly subtle or as maddeningly
obtuse, depending on one’s perspective. When beginning a trance, he might wish
for his patient to go at his or her own pace, simply allowing the process—and
whatever happened afterward—to unfold of its own accord. Under such
circumstances he found that often surprising and remarkable breakthroughs
might occur. For instance, a client was talking about something and then,
suddenly, Erickson would interrupt and appear to digress into a personal story.
“When I was four years old,” he would begin, “I didn’t talk. At all. I had a sister
two years younger than me. And she talked. A lot. But she didn’t say anything.
Lots of family members and friends were worried because I was a four year old
boy who didn’t speak. My mother always reassured them, ‘when he’s ready, he
will talk’” (Erickson, 1982, pp. 58–59).
The subtext of the story, of course, is directing the patient to go at his own
pace: “When you’re ready, you will talk.” Erickson used stories all the time to
“reframe” presenting problems in ways that made them more amenable to
change. This strategy later became one of the lynchpins of what was to evolve
into a foundation for brief therapy approaches popularized by many of his
students, including Jeff Zeig, Insoo Kim Berg, Jay Haley, Cloe Madanes, Steve
Lankton, Ronald Havens, Michael Hoyt, Ernest Rossi, Sid Rosen, Steve
Gilligan, Michael Yapko, and so many others.

Reframing Stories As Miracle Cures

When a patient was referred to Erickson because of a nasty case of psoriasis that
she complained covered her whole body, Erickson demanded to see the skin
disease (after all, he was a doctor). After examining her, Erickson shook his head
and announced with apparent disappointment that the skin irritation only covered
about one third of her body, not the whole thing. Understandably, the woman
became highly annoyed and offended to have her condition downgraded and
minimized. She argued with him, claiming she could see with her own eyes how
serious the psoriasis was and she didn’t appreciate the problem being cut down
by two thirds.
“That’s right,” Erickson responded to her. “You have many emotions. You
have a little psoriasis and a lot of emotions. You have a lot of emotion on your
arms, and on parts of your body, and you call it psoriasis. I call it emotions. So,
according to my diagnosis you don’t have nearly as much psoriasis as you think
you do” (Erickson, 1982, pp. 154–155).
The woman stormed out of his office in a fury but called a few weeks later to
report that the disease had magically disappeared. Like any good Erickson story,
this one is a miracle cure that was later explained (but not by him) as redirecting
anger in her body toward the doctor.
There have been so many attempts to deconstruct and analyze Erickson’s
stories (Bandler & Grinder, 1975; Haley, 1973; Havens, 2005; Keeney &
Erickson, 2006; O’Hanlon, 1987; Short, Erickson, & Erickson-Klein, 2005;
Zeig, 1980, 1994; Zeig & Lankton, 1988), adding a degree of precision that
always seemed pretty murky to me. I can’t claim to come close to understanding
all the nuances of “multiple embedded metaphor protocols” that are used to
address five different treatment goals. There are elaborate and complex
construction formulae that capitalize on features to access feelings, attitudes,
behavior, self-image, identity, family structure, or all of the above. The stories
take place, and the metaphors are layered, within hypnotic trance inductions,
making the procedures even more technically challenging.
In one example supplied by Lankton and Lankton (1989), they seek to alter
someone’s narrowly defined self-identity—“I’m a paraplegic” or “I’m having a
breakdown” or “I’m handicapped.” The goal is to provide a metaphor that
highlights personal transformation through an alternative story in which radical
change takes place. In the first step of the story construction, a protagonist is
created who faces some kind of insurmountable obstacle or conflict. The
character feels hopeless and stymied at every turn, perhaps having lost
everything that he or she has ever loved.
It was a time of hopelessness and despair. There had been an “event” as it was now referred to,
although the few survivors were unsure if it was caused by humans or Nature. Nadine had been
wandering around lost and terrified for weeks, hungry and exhausted. She wasn’t sure who she could
trust; there had been some frightening interactions with others who seemed even more desperate than
she was feeling. She was wondering if she should just give up altogether and let things take their
natural course.

The second step is unique to the Ericksonian method because now some
apparently irrelevant event occurs, one completely disconnected to the problem
or the story. Nadine finds a quarter on the ground and wonders what use it might
have in this new order of things. She stubs her toe on a brick that had fallen off a
chimney. There is a thunderstorm, but without lightning or rain. Whatever is
mentioned, it seemingly has little importance to the story. This is a common
approach in films and novels in which a seemingly insignificant object or event
later plays an important role.
The third step involves the protagonist giving up in defeat, utterly crushed and
despondent.
Nadine curled up alongside a crumbling wall, using the found brick as a pillow to rest her head. She
thought long and hard about what she wanted to leave behind, a last message to anyone who might
one day discover her body. What had her life meant? What was any reason why she might continue
living in a world when she had so little hope? She considered different options and then decided to just
carve her initials, the date she was born, and her best guess about what date it was on this day, her
last on this Earth.

In the fourth step, the story takes another dimension of complexity by

introducing a symbol that represents catastrophic defeat.
As Nadine lay her head down on the brick, she saw out of the corner of her eye a movement. It was a
rabbit! It seemed to be scrounging around for food, but there was so little vegetation left alive. She
couldn’t help but smile until the rabbit seemed to freeze. One minute it was there, and the next it was
gone. Vanished. Hiding, waiting, stalking underneath a pile of rubble had been a snake. It struck with
blurring speed and the rabbit was now devoured. Nadine sat up from her prone position, feeling like
she had been the one who had been destroyed.

The subtext of the metaphor is that although one segment of the story meets a
fateful ending, the protagonist survives. It is as if, on a subtle, disguised level,
the previous identity disappears and another identity of hope is born.
And remember that useless object found earlier, the coin? It now comes to the
rescue! Nadine will somehow use the object, a quarter, a pebble, a key, a brick,
to bring the crisis to some kind of resolution. All of this is designed to operate at
an unconscious level whereby messages of recovery and resilience and fortitude
are indirectly presented without explicitly addressing them. This is believed to
bypass resistance, a distinctly different approach than most “direct” stories.

PERSONALIZING AN APPROACH TO STORYTELLING

As clever and complex as the storytelling method might be in the Ericksonian

tradition, producing reported miracle cures, I’ve never felt comfortable pulling
off this kind of technique myself. I suppose one reason I became interested in
therapy and storytelling in the first place is because I so enjoy making sense of,
and finding meaning in, the themes. I love talking to clients about what the
stories trigger for them, how they personally relate to the narratives. I also don’t
like being “tricky,” manipulative, or indirect in my approach, perhaps for my
own reasons that may not optimize options for my clients. But whether a
therapist adopts complex Ericksonian metaphors or uses a more straightforward
approach, there are still limitless options to engage clients through the stories
that are created.
Burns (2001, 2005, 2007), for instance, has produced a collection of books
that take a far more generic approach to the use of metaphors in therapy,
organizing hundreds of options according to the desired outcome whether to (1)
alter behavior patterns, (2) promote self-acceptance, (3) reframe
counterproductive attitudes, (4) develop greater empathy and compassion for
others, (5) encourage self-care, (6) promote insights and wisdom, (7) set and
attain goals, (8) navigate complex relationships, (9) deal with negative emotions,
(10) build problem-solving skills, (11) teach decision making, or (12) handle
particular challenging situations (i.e., bullying, chronic illness, trauma, neglect,
abuse, chronic stress). Regardless of the particular objective, every therapist
develops his or her own unique narrative voice, a distinct way of telling stories
that capitalize on whatever meaningful lessons are considered important.
As we will explore in the next chapter that describes a number of ways to
increase our power and influence through stories, most of the options can be
reduced to basically four parts. First, we formulate some narrative that has a
direct or indirect connection to the client’s situation, experience, or problem.
Next, we present the story in a compelling and customized way that best fits the
situation. We elaborate on features or details that may not be clear or
immediately useful but that could come into play later. Finally, we invite the
client to talk about the story’s meaning and practical applications, although this
last step may be optional for some brief therapists who prefer not to delve in the
land of insight but rather preserve the story’s mystery and ambiguity. After all,
the goal of any therapeutic storytelling is to encourage clients to do the internal
work of meaning-making so that they are able to take the lessons learned and
apply them to their lives.
 9
TYPES OF STORIES IN THERAPEUTIC RELATIONSHIPS

THE QUESTION: What’s the major difference between stories told in therapy
and those shared in other contexts?
THE ANSWER: They are most purposefully crafted to feature transformations
from victim to hero.
Isn’t that what we really do for a living? Clients enter our realm with sad stories
of suffering in which they have been subjected to unspeakable and unjust
assaults on their being. They see themselves as wounded, helpless casualties of
neglect, abuse, conflict, fate, genetics, or simply misunderstanding. Their tales of
woe present them as trapped by the past, unable to do anything about what
happened, nor to imagine how things could be any different. And yet when
clients tell us what happened to them, their stories are not the same as what may
have actually occurred; certainly they are not necessarily what could have
happened.
Our message is simple: There’s not much that any of us can do to change the
past, but we can certainly alter the ways we tell the story—as a hero who
survived great adversity instead of as a helpless victim. That is what we do when
we introduce alternative possibilities for ways that life experiences can be
framed, regardless of the preferred language within a particular theoretical
orientation.
“Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives,”
writes novelist Salman Rushdie (1991), “the power to retell it, rethink it,
deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless,
because they cannot think new thoughts.” Whether described as reframing,
disputing irrational beliefs, challenging cognitive distortions, reflecting
disowned feelings, visualizing alternative outcomes, making different
interpretations, or restorying dominant narratives, they all involve alternative
ways by which to view lived experiences in far more self-enhancing ways.

OPENING NEW POSSIBILITIES

We are far more than teachers or coaches or expert change agents: In the truest
sense we are faith healers. Our clients already feel overwhelmed with too much
information and advice from everyone telling them what to do. They desperately
beg us for additional ideas, but, more than anything else, they are starving for
conviction. “Faith needs a story to sustain it,” argues Annette Simmons (2006, p.
3), “a meaningful story that inspires belief in you and renews hope that your
ideas indeed offer what you promise.” Deep persuasion and influence go far
beyond pushing clients to do things that we believe are good for them; it is
passion, commitment, inspiration, and yes, faith, that lead to lasting changes that
have become internalized.
One really remarkable thing about this phenomenon is that stories don’t even
have to be very long to be evocative. People often report how a quotation, a song
lyric, a particular saying, or even a sentence has such a strong impact. The
abbreviated story simply must contain within it some powerful image that
transports the listener/viewer to another place where imagination takes over and
completes the picture. Great authors have even experimented with ways to
present stories in six-word capsules.
“Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”—Margaret Atwood
“It’s behind you. Hurry before it...”—Rockne O’Bannon
“Tick tock tick tock tick tick.”—Neal Stephenson
And perhaps the most famous six-word story of all was attributed to Ernest
Hemmingway: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
In each case something is triggered within the reader or listener, perhaps
something deep and arousing, something that moves you to another time and
place, outside of yourself, and yet to a different place within you that opens up
new possibilities. Great stories are haunting. They are sometimes disturbing or
uplifting, but always penetrating and memorable.
We share different kinds of stories in therapy, some metaphorical, some
allegorical, some illustrative or self-disclosing. Yet often the stories we tell are
designed to elucidate or inform clients about certain ideas or realities that they
might be neglecting. Often the stories come from our own clinical experience,
but just as often they come from the research literature. After all, that is what it
means to be evidence based.
Meghan felt helpless in a family situation, unable to figure out a way to live
with ongoing conflict. She had sought help from her therapist to come to terms
with the struggles that were related to her sister, brother-in-law, and their
children. Meghan had always been close to her niece and nephew, but as their
parents’ relationship dissolved into a war of attrition, her concern for the
children’s well-being grew. She worried constantly about them and yet was
blocked direct access to them because of the chaos in their home.
“It was then that my therapist shared a story with me,” Meghan remembers.
“She told me how children who grow up in troubled homes and have difficult
family systems sometimes end up in difficult situations later in life and other
kids end up being fine. Then she told me about this research study in which it
had been discovered that as long as a child has one supportive, caring, influential
adult in her life—a grandparent, friend, neighbor, teacher, or an aunt—that was
often enough to help guide them and get them through a difficult time.”
Meghan vividly remembers the story of that research study because it gave her
hope. “I realized then that I could still be that one source of support for the
children. I could truly make a difference. I can’t believe the impact that had on
me, and it totally changed my thinking. It was astounding to me that one story
like that could change everything for me. But it did.”
It is always interesting when we hear reports like this from clients about what
helped them the most because often we may have no direct recollection of what
it is they seem to remember so well. It is sometimes the most casual things that
we offer that have the most significant influence.

WHEN THE STORY COMES ALIVE

Of course, psychotherapy is not really just about the stories. Sure, it helps to
share a tale that is well crafted and told with a certain amount of drama and
pizzazz, but clients won’t be listening much in the first place if there isn’t some
kind of established relationship. A good story can change a relationship, create
new bonds, build greater intimacy, help clients to feel understood, but only when
it is presented in a context that feels appropriate and that actually fits the
situation. After all, how many times in your life have you found yourself in a
situation where someone launches into a story like an actor who breaks into song
on stage, and you find yourself wondering, “Why are you telling me this?
Now?”
Needless to say, timing is as important as style and content when utilizing
stories in therapy, just as it is in teaching or supervision. It is just as easy to lose
an audience through a rambling or digressive story as it is to command its rapt
attention. Yet as we’ve covered, stories form the basis for how we learn therapy
in the first place—primarily through case examples.
Although you might (or might not) be nodding your head in agreement at the
previous statement, my point would carry a lot more weight if it was supported
with a story, perhaps even more so than a parenthesized list of names and dates. I
recall once trying to inspire a group of therapists in training when I could clearly
see that most of them were bored and disengaged. It was late in the day. Sugar
and coffee buzzes from the previous break had obviously dissipated, and I could
see people were starting to nod off. I abruptly stopped talking and stood in
silence. The audience rustled uncomfortably, unsure what was going on: Did I
lose my place? Was I organizing my thoughts? Had something or someone
annoyed me? Was I having a stroke? Maybe all of those were true, because all of
a sudden my mind did go blank, and I completely abandoned my agenda and
ignored the slides that were in the queue.
I had been talking about what leads to creative breakthroughs in therapy, and
reviewing the elements that are most associated with such stellar moments,
among them the ability and willingness to stay in the moment and go with
whatever is happening in the room. But I was talking about this in an abstract
way instead of actually living it. I wasn’t sure where I was going to proceed next,
but I decided to trust myself to speak what I was feeling—just as I’m doing right
now when I realized I was just as hypocritical by talking instead of showing. So
where is this case example going?
That’s exactly what we discussed as a group: I remembered the lesson learned
that some of the most interesting teaching, counseling, or supervision moments
occur when we let go of control and engage the client or audience relationally in
the moment. The story doesn’t have to be polished and perfectly constructed, but
it can literally be a work in progress that is created—and coauthored—as a
collaborative process. I recalled some of the feminist theorists I’d known who
insist that they really aren’t all that brilliant and creative, but they just know how
to access and empower the talents and resources of their clients who do all the
work. And that’s what seemed to happen in the room: There was tension,
uncertainty, and excitement, because whatever would happen next was
completely unscripted; it was like an improvisational drama in which each
person had a potential role, or at least the opportunity to play a part.
It turns out that learning to do therapy, or learning to teach and do supervision,
or anything else for that matter, is a lot more interesting and fun when the
concepts come alive, when they are illustrated in stories and case examples that
demonstrate the ideas and help us to code them in a memorable way.
I remember my college social psychology instructor who inspired me to go
into this field because he would tell the most remarkable stories about how
research was constructed. I remember vividly, with almost perfect recall, the
stories told to me by my doctoral advisor, when we’d sit in his fishing boat and
drink beer. In each case, I felt an intense relationship with the teacher, instructor,
or mentor that was cemented by the stories we shared. And I suspect the same
thing might be true in my relationship with you. If you are still with me, if you
are still fully engaged with me, it is most likely because some of the stories
resonate with you, enough so that you are curious about what might follow.
Yet curiosity is not enough to make a story come truly alive: It is also about
being attentive and responsive. In daily conversations, for example, it is often
more important to feel like your audience is listening than actually agreeing with
you. The evidence from several studies indicates that while it feels good to be
affirmed and validated after sharing a story, it is more important to experience a
high level of responsiveness (Pasupathi & Rich, 2005). It is the behavior of
listeners that alters both the trajectory of the story and self-perception afterward;
it’s how others listen that matters most. This is all the more interesting when
considering the current state of inattention in most conversations today with all
the distractions and interruptions from mobile devices.
Often our best experiences learning to be a therapist took place as a result of
metabolizing meaningful stories we read and heard, especially those that showed
ideas in action. If we take ethics in therapy as an example, a subject often
dreaded by students because of its potentially dry, arcane, complex, and
disturbing issues raised, there are all kinds of inventive ways that movies
(Armstrong & Berg, 2005; Bonds-Raacke, 2008; Bradley, Whiting, Hendricks,
Parr, & Jones, 2008; Koch & Dollarhide, 2000), enacted plays (Bodenhorn &
Starkey, 2005; Harrawood, McClure, & Nelson, 2011), popular literature
(Gibson, 2007; Graham & Pehrsson, 2009), song lyrics (Gladding & Wallace,
2010), fairy tales (Brown, 2007; Henderson & Malone, 2012), and case stories
(Corey, 2013a; Corey, Corey, & Callanan, 2011) have been used to make the
subject more problem based and contextually relevant. Henderson and Malone
(2012), for example, provide illustrations of ways that Little Bo Peep can bring
up issues of bartering, Cinderella can illustrate issues of privileged
communication, Snow White introduces “intent to harm,” and Rapunzel provides
opportunities to explore boundary issues. Obviously, at the very least, it is far
easier to remember the concepts when they are embedded in stories that are both
familiar and yet tweaked in novel ways.
Jerome Bruner (1986, 2002) noted that our nervous system evolved in such a
way to become specially tuned to notice, appreciate, and focus on any
information that is novel and any story that includes the unexpected. The more
surprising and interesting the story (or the way it is told), the more time that is
spent processing and internalizing the information embedded in the narrative,
and the more memorable it becomes. That is one reason you are so haunted by
books, films, song lyrics, and melodies that are so different from anything else
you’ve encountered previously. In other words, we invest more time and energy
when we are faced with something that is unfamiliar. This suggests that we
would have far more influence with our clients if we figured out creative ways to
intrigue them by departing from predictable patterns.

CLASSIFYING DIFFERENT KINDS OF STORIES

There are many different types of stories told in therapy (McLeod, 1997). There
are “habitual” stories, the ones we hear most often in which clients repeat the
legends of their lives, not necessarily accurate renditions even if they are
familiar. The “chronicle” is an empty, factual account of events without
interpretation or meaning. “Heroic” stories are tales of success, while “silenced”
stories have been historically unacknowledged and unspoken, usually about
some trauma or painful memory.
Stories can also be classified according to their themes, highlighting operative
ingredients of each. These include stories that inspire action (“You can do
this...”); stories that reveal strength, resilience, and resources (“I didn’t know I
could do this...”); stories that teach survival and adaptation; stories that help
make choices and clarify values; and stories that resolve dilemmas or conflicts.
Of course, stories shared in therapy usually don’t exist as solitary entities but
intertwine to one degree or another, shifting from background to foreground
(Frank, 1995, 2007). “Restitution stories” represent the traditional medical
model of something that is broken and needs to be repaired. This is the dominant
discourse in our journals, books, and conferences in that we tell stories about
treating a disorder or condition and producing successful outcomes. The
therapist is a heroic figure who does the healing work, related by clients
somewhat similar to the following: “My therapist referred me for medication,
and then she did something that made me feel better.” In this version, the client
is disempowered and treated as an object in the story.
In the “chaos story,” there is an opposite narrative in that it is a tale of
helplessness, confusion, surrender, and uncertainty: “I don’t know what’s going
on. They say I’m depressed but they can’t find...I just don’t know...They tell me
things will get better...but...” There is chaos not only in the content but also in
the telling.
Then there is the “quest story” in which the problem, condition, or illness is
seen as an adversity that will inevitably lead to growth and learning. This, of
course, could be as much a distortion as the others, and therapists may feel that
such stories minimize their role. Many others don’t even want to hear these tales
because they trigger their own feelings of vulnerability. Rather than speaking
about “gifts,” there is instead an emphasis on “opportunities” to perhaps reclaim
part of what is lost.
In earlier chapters I mentioned how an integral part of American culture is the
pervasive theme of redemption that runs throughout our literature, media, talk
shows, religious traditions, and daily conversations. McAdams (2006) studied
the cultural scripts endemic to American life, reviewing biographies, popular
television shows, even our Constitution that guarantees the pursuit of happiness
no matter how much one has suffered or been deprived, and concluded that
redemption is our national identity. As just one example, McAdams (2013)
perused a few issues of People magazine and found stories about (1) a baby
paralyzed at birth who learned to walk, (2) a kidnapping victim who managed to
escape, (3) a 1 lb premature infant who survived, (4) an ex-convict who started a
sanctuary for other women released from prison, and (5) a wheelchair-bound
multiple sclerosis patient who became a NASCAR driver. Indeed, redemption is
the story of psychotherapy in which the subtext is that no matter how much you
have been traumatized, neglected, marginalized, abused, or disappointed in life,
you can achieve a semblance of life satisfaction, if not a modicum of happiness.
FIGURE 9.1 Illustration of Don Quixote. The story of psychotherapy is often one about a quest in which
the protagonist-client rides off in search of a Holy Grail, whether in the form of monsters disguised as
windmills, spiritual transcendence, release from suffering, or greater meaning. As Joseph Campbell noted in
his studies of mythology across all cultures, the universal story is about resilience and rebirth, often with the
aid of a wizard, advisor, or mentor who helps protect the hero or heroine against temptations and destructive
forces.

It is not only within normal conversation and popular culture that stories of
suffering and redemption are featured, but that is also a common theme of stories
told within therapy sessions, or at least the way we prefer them to end. In one of
the few systematic studies of the types of stories that clients tell, Luborsky,
Barber, and Diguer (1992) used objective coding and an elaborate scoring
system to analyze the content of narratives. The researchers and their scoring
judges would select complete stories and then assess the themes that emerged. A
representative, brief excerpt looked like the following:
Yeah, I’ve stopped speaking to that married guy cause he got to be a real asshole. I mean I’m not
taking any shit from anybody this year—for the rest of my life. And uh, he just sort of stopped talking
to me, and uh, he didn’t contact me. (p. 279)

Just as this example is about a relationship conflict, so it was found that most
stories shared are about disappointment, disapproval, rejection, and conflict
related to some intimate relationship. In addition, the researchers determined that
clients in their study shared about a half dozen stories each session, averaging
about 5 minutes each. The stories seemed to primarily represent examples of
their difficulties, demonstrating to their therapists what it was like for them. It
was also interesting that most stories shared were about relatively recent events
(within the previous 2 weeks), even among those in psychoanalytic treatment.
They tended to focus on family members (85%) and were mostly negative
stories about their desires and expectations not being met by these loved ones.
Given these rough baselines, even though predicated on a relatively small
sample of cases, it was suggested that perhaps one predictor of therapy outcomes
may very well be related to the quantity and quality of stories that are told: A
paucity of descriptive life events may signal problems in the relationship.
Likewise, therapeutic relationships can often be enhanced when we may
carefully, judiciously, and selectively reveal personal stories of our own.

WHEN THERAPISTS SHARE THEIR OWN STORIES

Candace felt trapped in her job in a medical field after so many years of study.
Over time she became depressed and her life felt empty. Things became so
difficult for her that she reluctantly sought the assistance of a therapist. Things
did not go well at all, leading to serious doubts that the therapist could help her.
She actually rehearsed how she would end the sessions when, just before her
time was up, the therapist shared a story about another lady she knew who was
in a similar situation.
“I want to tell you about a woman I know,” the therapist explained, “who
strikes me as very similar to you. She was also unhappy in her work, and like
you, she didn’t see any other alternatives. This person had worked many years in
the computer science field in a very obscure specialty that didn’t prepare her to
do anything else. Yet she yearned for new challenges and more meaningful work
that would feel more rewarding.”
Candace had been half out of her chair at this point, ready to bolt for the door,
but she resettled herself as she curiously waited to see where this was going.
“So,” the therapist continued, “at one point the woman became pregnant and
this became an excuse for her to take a maternity leave after her child was born.
The time off gave her a chance to think about what she might like to do with the
rest of her life and, somewhat impulsively, she applied to graduate school to
become a psychotherapist.”
The therapist paused at this point, smiled, and opened her arms, adding, “And
she lived happily ever after.”
Candace cocked her head, wondering what the point of the story was. “Hey,
great,” she said. “So, are you saying I should become a therapist?” Then she
quickly changed the focus. “Are you still in touch with this woman? How is she
doing now?”
The therapist nodded slowly. “Yeah, I know her quite well. Because that
woman is me!”
Candace admitted that one reason she was so frustrated with the sessions so
far was because she felt so envious of her therapist sitting in the other chair. It
was in that moment, as a direct result of the therapist’s personal story, that she
decided that she, too, could pursue her secret dream.
Self-disclosure by therapists can be among the most powerful and influential
interventions within our repertoire, as well as the one that is most self-indulgent
and abused. It represents a special kind of storytelling since revealing oneself is
not necessarily the same as relating a coherent narrative (Gaines, 2003).
The type of stories we might share about ourselves, and their timing, would
depend on the preferred theoretical model with its accompanying “rules” related
to what is considered appropriate professional boundaries. Nevertheless, 90% of
therapists admit that they share stories about themselves at some time during
their sessions (Henretty & Levitt, 2010), and the other 10% are delusional
because there is actually no way to avoid it. In all kinds of subtle ways, we share
things about ourselves to our clients, through inadvertent slips, postings on
social media or information on the Internet, published articles, photos or
personal items in the office, wedding rings, religious jewelry, particular books on
our shelves, plus all the nonverbal cues of approval and disapproval that we
think we are hiding but are actually far more transparent than we imagine. As a
result, clients make up all kinds of stories about us based on the limited cues and
data at their disposal.
 Gibson (2012) finds it more than a little curious that although the practice of
self-disclosure is virtually universal it still is considered somewhat controversial.
Much of this may result from Freud’s original prohibitions against any kind of
therapist revelations or personal stories, seeing such behavior as evidence of
unresolved countertransference issues, if not dysfunction. Certainly, there are
risks involved, especially by those therapists who primarily meet their own
needs and cross inappropriate boundaries rather than address specific needs of
their clients at any moment in time (Zur, 2007).
When used carefully and judiciously, therapists who selectively reveal their
own stories are often viewed as more helpful than those who are perceived as
withholding (Barrett & Berman, 2001; Bitter & Byrd, 2011); they also encourage
their clients to be more revealing (Capobianco & Farber, 2005; Denney, Aten, &
Gingrich, 2008). Of course, a lot depends on the client, situation, and context, as
well as the kind of story that is told (see Table 9.1). Nevertheless, there are some
distinct advantages when personal stories are employed to highlight or illustrate
an important point, or just to let clients know they are not alone in their
struggles. In addition, self-disclosures provide other benefits such as to help
establish a reciprocal, intimate relationship; reduce power imbalances; and
humanize the therapist. They can also normalize client experiences, model
appropriate behavior, acknowledge mistakes that have been made, and suggest
alternative courses of action.
With that said, there are still times when therapists sharing stories about
themselves is both misguided and inappropriate, especially when it takes the
focus off the client (which it always does). There are also some cases in which it
would be ill advised, if not downright dangerous, to become too personal. This
could occur, for example, with clients presenting “borderlinish” tendencies or
who are already so insecure that they are used to not being the center of
attention.
TABLE 9.1

Some Types of Therapist Disclosures

• Personal information: “I actually have two children, both in college.”
• Modeling behavior: “I once had similar issues but chose to confront them directly.”
• Humanizing: “Most of my life I’ve struggled with self-acceptance. Why do you think I became a therapist
in the first place?”
• Inadvertent: “Hmmm. I didn’t mean for you to get that impression.”
• Teaching point: “It turns out that what you say isn’t all that unusual. When I was your age...”
• Potential options: “I’ve often found it useful to think through several possibilities, and then get input from
others I trust.”
• Confession: “I have no idea where this is going right now.”
• Immediacy: “I’m aware that I’m feeling some distance between us now.”
• Authenticity: “Sometimes I feel so excited to be alive I can hardly stand it!”
• Facilitate closure: “I’m going to miss our conversations.”

When clients are asked what they remember most about their sessions, they
often report that what stands out are things they learned about their therapist as a
human being. Some of this might have been transmitted in the form of brief
disclosures about their lives, or longer stories about struggles and triumphs they
faced, but often it is embedded in the perception of a real relationship that felt, at
least in some ways, reciprocal.
During my college years I struggled with depression and visited the
counseling center, where I saw a psychoanalytic therapist for several months,
and then in her private practice 2 years after I graduated. Since it was so long
ago I don’t remember much at all about what we talked about, or even what the
sessions were like (except I did all the talking), but the one incident I recall with
perfect clarity was the one time (and it was only one time) that she “slipped” and
started laughing when I related an incident of going skydiving, which she
interpreted as a death wish. I felt misunderstood at the time but also so delighted
that the mask had fallen a little, and I could see the person underneath. I was
eager for her to know me but also desperate to know a little about her as well.
I’m certain one of my weaknesses as a clinician, teacher, and writer is that at
times I share stories about myself that aren’t necessarily indicated or appropriate.
I confess that I deliberately included the previous paragraph as an example in
which a case could be made one way or the other: I suspect some readers might
wonder, “Why is he telling me this? I want to get back to the real content, the
important stuff,” while others are thinking, “I wish he’d say more about that
instead of just teasing me. Why was he depressed?” (It was about lost love).
In many ways we choose to model ourselves, and our therapeutic style, after
others whom we admire. The same could be said for writers or teachers. During
a transitional stage in my professional development, I had read Yalom’s (1989)
Love’s Executioner in which he tells the story of an obese woman he was seeing;
he found her repulsive and could barely stay awake in session. This was a time
when I was feeling more than a little burned out myself, and so I felt such
validation and support in Yalom’s frank and honest confession:
I listen to a woman patient. She rambles on and on. She seems unattractive in every sense of the word
—physically, intellectually, emotionally. She is irritating...I try to touch her with my thoughts. I try to
 understand why I avoid her...I tell her that I have felt distant from her for the last several minutes. Has
she felt the same way? We talk about this together and try to figure out why we lost contact with one
another. Suddenly we are very close. She is no longer unattractive. I have much compassion for her
person, for what she is, for what she might be. The clock races: the hour ends too soon. (p. 415)

Reading this passage had a huge impact on me. First of all, I felt validated that I
wasn’t the only therapist who found some of his clients to be incredibly boring
and annoying (I was soon to leave private practice). But far more than fortified, I
felt some hope and encouragement that I didn’t have to accept things in this way.
I loved (and hated) the way that Yalom was confronting me indirectly by owning
his own shortcomings: It wasn’t that his client was boring and unattractive;
rather, it was something in him that was getting in the way. This became an
impetus for me to look far more deeply at my life and work and initiate some
rather drastic changes as a result. Do I owe it all to this one story that I read?
Perhaps not. But it sure pushed me over the edge.

GUIDELINES OF REVEALING ONESELF

Regardless of the client, situation, therapist orientation, and context, there are
some reasonable guidelines that should be considered based on a number of
research studies and clinical reports (Bitter & Bryd, 2011; Bloomgarden &
Mennuti, 2009; Corey, Corey, & Callanan, 2011; Farber, 2006; Forrest, 2012;
Henretty & Levitt, 2010; Knox & Hill, 2003; Kottler, 2010a; Stricker, 2003):
• First of all, ask yourself whether there is another way to get the point
across without making it about you.
• Assess whether there is a possibility the disclosure might be more self-
indulgent than helpful.
• Provide a rationale for exactly what you wish to demonstrate as a result of
the personal story.
• Because the focus has been taken off the client, be as succinct and brief as
possible; relate the story directly to the client’s experience or issues.
• Given the culture, age, and gender of the client, make sure the story is
framed in a sensitive and appropriate way.
• As much as possible, model the type of disclosures that you would wish
the client to follow.
• Pay very close attention to the impact and effects of sharing a personal
story and make adjustments accordingly.
Among all the kinds of stories that therapists might introduce into therapy,
self-disclosures are among the most risky—and potentially the most abusive. We
have all encountered rather narcissistic and self-aggrandizing practitioners who
just love to talk about themselves and use valuable time in sessions rambling
endlessly about how wonderful they are.
I use stories a lot in my teaching and therapy (and writing), but often as a way
to model my own willingness to look deeply and honestly at my foibles and
limitations. My most frequently used example, of being a mediocre student and
socially inept youth, has more than a dozen different forms, depending on which
aspects I wish to emphasize—neglect by parents, reinventing myself, striving for
achievement, making up for past failures, searching out mentors, profiting from
therapy, and the list goes on and on. As much as I’m convinced that such
personal stories break down barriers, I fully recognize that I also risk losing a
certain credibility, not to mention losing my audience, even if the payoff is that it
makes it far easier for others to follow my lead.
Because there are potential difficulties and unintended consequences
associated with therapist self-disclosure, such a storytelling strategy is usually
not a first choice but rather selected after other options are exhausted. We don’t
want clients, who already feel insecure and marginalized, to get the impression
that they are less important because we feel the need to talk so much about
ourselves. Fortunately, there are so many other ways that stories can be infused
into our work, regardless of the particular setting and context.

HOW STORIES ARE USED IN HELPING AND HEALING

There are several common ways that therapists, health professionals, and
teachers bring stories into their work, a strategy that makes perfect sense given
the ultimate goal is to promote learning that sticks (Bergner, 2007). For
centuries, clergy and religious leaders have used scriptures and stories from
sacred texts to inspire or teach moral lessons. Indeed, there are numerous biblical
stories (Schwartz & Kaplan, 2004), just as there are some from Zen (Murphy,
2013), Buddhism (Metcalf, 2002), and other religious traditions, that can be
easily integrated into therapy and other educational contexts.
One could easily make the case that one of the main jobs of a parent is to
introduce children to stories that teach basic language and problem-solving
skills, as well as important lessons from the past (Reese, 2013). As mentioned
earlier, fairy tales and myths are so much a part of a child’s world, not only
because of their entertainment value but because they reveal underlying moral
lessons that help guide behavior and stay out of trouble. Whether as a parent,
teacher, or therapist, storytelling becomes a major vehicle to command children’s
attention in such a way that they remain open to the instruction embedded in the
narratives.
Some of our greatest public speakers, whether in the realm of politics, or
forums such as TED Talks, have mastered storytelling as their primary way to
hold audience attention and persuade them to consider alternative paradigms.
Although TED has been described as “deceptively unassuming,” it has clearly
brought oral storytelling to its most influential apex with more than 1 billion
views worldwide (Weich, 2013). Critics have attacked the platform as messianic
and formulaic. One reason is because most of the talks follow the same structure:
They begin with a story, usually self-deprecating, then follow with anecdotal
evidence and charming statistics to bolster the case made.
A number of sources provide guidance for speakers about the art and science
of introducing stories, offering advice that is somewhat counterintuitive (Gallo,
2014). For instance, PowerPoint, Keynote, Prezi, and other presentation software
have become the scourge of lectures and meetings, boring people half to death
with endless data and information that actually interfere with connections to the
audience. Slide software was supposed to be among the most powerful tools
available for teachers and speakers “but it’s actually a dismal failure,” argues the
author of Really Bad PowerPoint (Godin, 2001). It turns out that the slides
should only be used to simplify, clarify, and support the stories you tell, rather
than block the connection between the speaker and audience (Reynolds, 2012).
That’s one reason why the CEOs of Amazon, LinkedIn, and even the U.S
Secretary of Defense, now forbid the use of slides in meetings because they get
in the way of interaction and discussion which are so crucial for effective
decision making (Yu, 2014).
In an analysis of TED Talks that are considered to be most effective and
persuasive, one feature they all have in common is that they begin with a story,
or feature a story as the essence of whatever information is presented (Donovan,
2012). According to this systematic study, the best stories come in three
varieties: (1) humorous anecdotes to engage the audience in a shared moment of
laughter, (2) insightful tales that reveal and forecast the themes that will follow,
and (3) emotionally arousing narratives that touch something deep and make
people cry. In addition, it is suggested that a speaker begin with a very personal
story, usually one that is self-deprecating rather than laudatory so as to break
down barriers between the speaker and listeners. The goal of any such story is to
grab the listeners and keep them hanging on with baited breath until the end.
This is most effectively accomplished when we use the first 20 seconds to signal
that something extraordinary is about to unfold, whether in the form of a
provocative statement (e.g., “There really is no hope for any of us”), a why
question (e.g., “Why do you suppose some people seem to have it so easy why
others struggle so much?”), or an emotionally evocative personal anecdote that
makes direct contact with the listeners (e.g., “After the accident I realized that
nothing in my life would ever be the same”).
Ultimately, any story can be put to a simple test to determine whether it
includes the features that are most likely to make an indelible impression (Sachs,
2012). The author is referring specifically to what he calls the “story wars,” the
battle for consumer attention amid all the noise that takes place between various
advertising and marketing teams. Basically his message is that if you want to
convince people to buy your stuff, you’ve got to tell them a story that is both
convincing and yet resonates with timeless themes that “build legions of eager
evangelists.”
Contrary to the belief shared by those of us who have received training in the
scientific method and quantitative statistical analyses, a good story is often far
more persuasive than only providing data by itself. The advertising industry
knows this all too well when they craft commercial messages that essentially tell
a story of how someone’s life is enhanced as a result of using a particular
product. Sachs cites examples of how the success of companies like Old Spice,
Nike, and Apple, as well as political movements like the Tea Party and Occupy
Wall Street, achieved so much success as a result of the story they crafted that
went viral. There are lessons in these examples useful for therapists who are
interested in selling particular ideas to clients, especially those that will grow
over time.
Among almost all effective professionals, whether an advertising executive
creating a commercial, a courtroom litigator arguing a case before a jury, a
physician explaining the implications of Type II diabetes, an accountant
justifying why there are excessive expenditures, a coach motivating a lazy
athlete, or a therapist inspiring a client in despair, stories hold the key to
persuasion and influence. And it isn’t even necessary that we are the ones telling
the stories since there happen to be thousands of authors and film producers who
create additional material that clients can access outside of sessions.

THE USE OF BOOKS AS ADJUNCTS IN THERAPY

The vast majority of people who seek to make major life changes, whether
abandoning bad habits, giving up addictions, seeking relief from emotional
disorders, or altering dysfunctional behavior, do so on their own without the
assistance of mental health professionals. They most often seek the support of
family, friends, clergy, and coworkers. They journal and write down their
thoughts and feelings. They attend self-help or support groups. They find other
outlets like exercise or hobbies to distract them. And at least in terms of
constructive choices, they most often seek books to aid them or search for
helpful guidance on the Internet. Therapists certainly recognize the value of such
adjuncts to supplement sessions since close to 90% of practitioners regularly
recommend books to their clients (Norcross et al., 2003).
There is a long and distinguished tradition of helping professionals prescribing
books for healing and growth (see Table 9.2). Physicians, nurses, teachers,
clergy, librarians, and therapists, among others, have recommended certain
readings long before the term “bibliotherapy” was invented by Samuel Crothers,
combining the Greek words for “therapy” and “books” (Pehrsson & McMillen,
2004). There has also been a long-standing habit to inspire the faithful within
religions traditions and promote spiritual enlightenment by providing sacred
texts in the form of Tibetan scrolls, the Jewish Torah, the Christian Bible, The
Book of Mormon, or other religious tomes. In fact, one of the earliest known
reports of using stories to heal patients afflicted with mental disorders occurred
in the 13th century by prescribing the Qur’an (Jack & Ronan, 2008). Millennia
before then there was also an inscription over the library in Alexandria reading
“Healing Place of the Soul” (Detrixhe, 2010).
Although strictly speaking, nonfiction self-help books are not necessarily
storied experiences as many of them just provide practical advice, the most
persuasive among them include stories to illustrate their most significant points.
It is also often the case that what we tend to remember from such contributions
is not so much their list of things to do as the ways the information was
embedded in a memorable narrative. Ultimately, you can be the judge of that
assertion, depending on what it is you remember most from this book.
TABLE 9.2

Brief and Selected History of Books to Promote Growth and Healing

1272 Hospital in Cairo provided copies of the Qur’an to patients for treatment
1600 New colonists in America were provided with spiritual books to aid their adjustment to the New
World
1732 Benjamin Franklin credited with publishing first self-help book with Poor Richard’s Almanac
1800 Genre of self-help books emerged to support physical therapy in hospitals
1802 Benjamin Rush, the “father of psychiatry,” recommended reading as part of treating the mentally ill
1846 Minson Galt developed first guidelines for using books with the mentally ill
1900 European mental hospitals included libraries as standard “equipment”
1904 First professional librarian appointed to a mental hospital
1916 Samuel Crothers coined the term “bibliotherapy”
1918 American Library Association provided selected books to disabled and traumatized soldiers
1923 Sadie Peterson-Delaney launched the first formal bibliotherapy program in a VA hospital
1925 Josephine Jackson published The Therapeutic Value of Books
1937 Elizabeth Pomery completed first systematic research study on bibliotherapy (with mixed results)
1941 First formal definition of bibliotherapy appeared in Medical Dictionary
1943 Karl Menninger popularized the use of self-help books in the routine treatment of patients
1945 Clara Kircher developed a bibliography of children’s literature that was most appropriate for dealing
with difficult issues
1950 Reading groups developed by Jack Leedy and Sam Spector to stimulate catharsis and integrate new
insights into group and individual therapy
1961 American Library Association accepted definition of bibliotherapy in Webster’s Dictionary
1962 First symposium on bibliotherapy
1970 Founded organization “Bibliotherapy Round Table” to sponsor training
1990 Growth of book clubs often sponsored by authors, publishers, and librarians to talk about personal
experiences
2000 Americans spent over a half billion dollars on self-help books
2003 First authoritative guides for professionals using self-help books, including those by John Norcross
and John Santrock and colleagues
2005+Numerous scholars begin systematic investigation of outcomes and differential effects
2010+Explorations of using virtual reality modalities to help clients to work through problems during
storied scenarios in computer-generated environment

During the end of the 19th century and early part of the 20th century, reading
was considered the best antidote for mental afflictions, which patients reported
that they found both soothing and enlightening. Benjamin Rush, the American
credited with launching the bibliotherapy movement, advocated that mental
facilities should build libraries that contain resources for their patients. He found
books on travel to be especially “exhilarating” but also believed that those with
moral or philosophical themes to be helpful (Weimerskirsch, 1965).

PSYCHOTHERAPIST AS LIBRARIAN

It is one thing for therapists to prescribe books that may be evocative and open
doors to examine difficult issues, but librarians, clergy, teachers, and health
professionals may not be adequately trained and prepared to deal with the
possible consequences of what might be stirred up. And, indeed, there are a
number of processes that often operate, many of which fall neatly into the
province of our therapeutic training:
1. Helping clients to universalize the stories they read or view, realizing
they are not alone in their struggles.
2. Recommending selections that are cathartic for particular clients,
releasing tension as they identify with characters in the story.
3. Choosing stories, matched to the client’s issues, context, and needs, that
address sensitive and threatening issues in a more indirect, private, and
subtle way.
4. Exploring and deconstructing the underlying motivations of behavior in
characters, often revealing clues to clients’ own issues.
5. Selecting stories that provide valuable information that aids decision
making.
6. Discussing themes from the stories to generate new insights and
applications to the client’s life.
As one example, I was recently working with a young woman who, although
she enjoyed a lot of privileges and opportunities, persisted in feeling sorry for
herself. In our conversations it never seemed like I could get through to her
beyond a superficial level. It was as though she was only half-listening to me
and not taking much of what I said seriously. I also suspected that, for some
reason, she was enjoying being stuck.
It so happened I was reading a popular young adult novel, Fault in Our Stars
(Green, 2012), in which two teenagers, struggling with cancer, find comfort and
extraordinary growth in their relationship. It was a powerful and very
emotionally evocative story. I could only read one chapter at a time before I’d
feel myself losing control. I wasn’t sure what impact this story might have on
this woman, but it sure rocked my world. I wondered whether it might get her
attention in a way that I hadn’t been able to through conventional therapy.
Once the woman began the novel, our conversation thereafter focused on the
characters, rather than on her own situation. It was as though we were engaged
in a book club discussion, which made me feel a little uncomfortable, even as I
noticed how much more engaged and animated she was becoming. It turned out
that the story of these two teenagers, struggling with end-of-life issues, got her
attention in a way that nothing else could.

OUTCOMES OF STORY THERAPY

In an apocalyptic novel for young adults, one of the characters, a “bad” man in
authority who has been abusive toward the heroine, begins to act “out of
character” so to speak. “He’s hateful,” she thinks to herself. “But through all of
his violence and cruelty, she sees someone who wants to be good” (Baggott,
2013, p. 267). This theme of redemption, of the capacity to change one’s
identity, to become “good” and self-sacrificing for the benefit of others, is just
one example of the kind of moral lessons and subtexts that can result when
readers reflect on possibilities that may not have ever occurred to them before,
that perhaps could not be introduced to them in any other way that was nearly as
accessible and long-lasting. Later, in this same novel, another character speaks to
the heroine—and the reader—to offer the main theme of our current discussion
related to the “gifts” we offer to others through our life narratives: “Our stories
are what we have...Our stories preserve us. We give them to one another” (p.
284).
In meta-analyses of bibliotherapy, investigating their effects, it has been found
that often the outcomes rival those of therapy (Den Boer, Wiersma, & Van Den
Bosch, 2004; Hiria & Clum, 2006), although the effect sizes vary depending on
the quality and relevance of particular books (Jack & Ronan, 2008). I’ll say that
again because it so important: The effect size is directly related to the quality,
relevance, and appropriateness of the selected story. Often we may be inclined to
recommend stories that we favor instead of carefully and strategically picking
material that is ideally suited to a particular client’s interests and issues.
Unfortunately, research that has been conducted on the effects of prescribed
reading almost always look at the general phenomena rather than the impact of a
specific book (i.e., To Kill a Mockingbird versus How to Win Friends and
Influence People). That is one reason why the practice also has a few critics
(Pearsall, 2005; Polivey & Herman, 2002; Rosen, 1987) who are concerned that
reports may be exaggerated and that there is a lack of close supervision of the
change processes. One critic (Salerno, 2005) even believes that self-help books
are responsible for increased substance abuse, family conflict, divorce rates, and
perhaps the decline of civilization as we know it. Although perhaps an extreme
position, one reason for the skepticism has been the result of popular books
perpetuating myths that all you have to do to find happiness or get rid of all your
problems is to (1) visualize your goals in order to reach them, (2) repeat
affirmations to find your inner peace, (3) express your anger to make it vanish,
and (4) think positively (Paul, 2001). Although the effects of recommending
books might not be all that reliable and predictable, there is little doubt that such
a practice can be quite powerful (Bergsma, 2008).
In one study that looked at the specific impact of particular books, the
researchers found wide variations in outcomes because of the differences in
quality of the content and expertise of the authors (Redding, Herbert, Forman, &
Guidano, 2008). They recruited experts in the field to rate 50 different self-help
books according to their quality, accuracy, scientific grounding, and usefulness.
They discovered that those at the top of the list (with a quality score in the 90’s
out of 100) tended to be workbooks related to anxiety, depression, shame, and
shyness that had been written by experts in these specialties, whereas those at the
bottom of the list (with a quality score in the 30’s) tended to be written by lay
authors or media darlings, including information that was not empirically
supported, and without clear guidance based on consensual standards. For
instance, the lowest rated books recommended things like reading scriptures,
removing “energy blockages,” or following other advice for which there is little,
if any, scientific evidence.
Strictly speaking, of course, nonfiction self-help books are not really “stories,”
although perhaps the most impactful parts of the content may include seminal
examples of people using the strategies that have been described. And there
really have been few, if any, studies that look specifically at the relative impact
of recommending advice-driven self-help books versus evocative fictional
stories. Nevertheless, based on the results that have been described throughout
this book, it would seem that therapists could be far more open to expanding
their own horizons regarding which kinds of content they might employ in their
work with clients, including particular films, shows, performances, novels, and
other storied media that highlight relevant issues.
There are a number of distinct advantages, for instance, in utilizing fictional
stories within therapy, whether prescribed as homework or read aloud in
sessions, and whether in the form of poetry, fables, novels, myths, or fairy tales
(Bergsma, 2008; Burns, 2008; Briggs & Pehrsson, 2008; Brown, N. W., 2007;
Diana, 1998). These include many therapeutic ingredients that can’t as easily be
addressed through typical conversations and that often bypass resistance through
their indirect and subtle influence.

GUIDELINES FOR EMPLOYING BIBLIOTHERAPY

Clearly there is a consensus that innumerable opportunities for growth and

learning are possible outside of sessions when clients complete storied
homework assignments that complement and reinforce therapeutic work. Yet
there have been very few formal standards to inform ethical and effective
practice (Jack & Ronan, 2008).
The field certainly requires more systematic research and evidence-based
parameters, particularly with respect to which material is most suitable, under
what conditions, and how such interventions could be best implemented and
processed. In the meantime, here are some suggestions:
1. The first step is to value the process, recognizing that people change in
all kinds of ways, depending on their style, interests, and needs, as well
as their presenting problems. Some clients and issues are optimally
responsive to therapeutic conversations, others to intense interactions in
group settings, still others while completing specific tasks, while others
best appreciate reflective time spent taking in a story on their own terms,
pace, and in privacy, with opportunities to reflect on what they’ve read or
heard or viewed. It so happens that among all the options available,
reading/listening/viewing stories is the least intrusive and restrictive and
most cost-effective (Norcross, 2006).
2. Conduct a thorough assessment of the client’s interests, successes, and
disappointments with regard to previous attempts to work through
problems. Clients will honestly declare what they are simply not inclined
to do, despite the fervent enthusiasm of their therapists who are trying to
motivate them. Some clients will only read nonfiction, others romance
novels, and others will not read much at all and need other media options
to digest stories. It turns out that only one third of clients are ever even
asked by their therapists which self-help strategies have worked out best
for them in the past (Elkins, Marcus, Rajab, & Durgam, 2005).
3. Identify the specific needs of the client, matching books that are most
appropriate and accessible (Levitt et al, 2009). In other words, just as it
can be dangerous and have unforeseen side effects to routinely prescribe
general antibiotics to patients, so too can it be ill advised to recommend
books to all clients without considering their specific needs, interests,
situation, and the context within the sessions.
4. Understand the complexity, consequences, and impact of a particular
book and be intimately familiar with its contents, just as a physician
would know the likely side effects of a medication. Before you suggest a
film, TV show, book, or other adjunct, make certain that you have
considered the likely effects and impact on each client. Consult with
research-based guidance about which books or stories have shown to be
most helpful, and with the fewest unforeseen risks (see Table 9.3).
Although there are very few studies actually undertaken to examine the
effects of specific titles for individualized purposes, there is evidence, as
well as professional consensus, that some books or films are better than
 others (Hesley & Hesley, 2001; Lampropoulos, Kazantzis, & Deane,
2004; Norcross et al., 2003; Pardeck & Pardeck, 1992; Solomon, 2001;
Wedding & Boyd, 1998).
TABLE 9.3

Examples of Stories Recommended by Therapists

Title Topic
Wherever You Go, There You Are (Kabat-Zinn) Meditation
Authentic Happiness (Seligman) Well-being
7 Principles for Making Marriages Work (Gottman) Couples
The Courage to Heal (Bass & Davis) Trauma
Feeling Good (Burns) Depression
What Doesn’t Kill Us (Joseph) Posttraumatic growth
Autobiographies
An Unquiet Mind (Jamison) Mental illness
I Never Promised You a Rose Garden (Greenberg) Schizophrenia
Heart of a Woman (Angelou) Women’s issues
Leaving Microsoft to Change the World (Wood) Social justice
Darkness Visible (Styron) Depression
Novels
The Color Purple (Walker) Abuse
South of Broad or Prince of Tides (Conroy) Family conflict
A Million Little Pieces (Frey) Alcoholism
The Lovely Bones (Sebold) Trauma
The Bell Jar (Plath) Depression
Yellow Raft in Blue Water (Dorris) Racial identity
She’s Come Undone (Lamb) Eating disorder
Films
A Beautiful Mind Schizophrenia
Silver Linings Playbook Mental illness
Flight Alcoholism
Running With Scissors Family Issues
Girl, Interrupted Definitions of mental illness
The Hours Depression
TV Shows
Nurse Jackie Addiction
The Big C Cancer recovery
Friday Night Lights Family issues
Parenthood Parenting
Girls Women’s issues
In Treatment Psychotherapy

5. Avoid coercing or forcing clients to read books about which they are
hesitant or reluctant (Vare & Norton, 2004). In general, we sometimes
don’t pay close attention to the readiness levels of clients to engage in
activities that we might think are good for them. More than a few times I
have caught myself pushing and pushing and pushing: “No, really. I can
see that you are hesitant about reading this book because, as you say, it’s
not your thing, but I still think it would be a good idea. And I’d like you
to at least try it.”
6. Use the reading material in the context of the therapeutic relationship
rather than as simply an off-the-cuff piece of advice: “Oh, by the way,
have you read...?” Stories, or any other self-help strategy, work best
when they are integrated into a multidimensional treatment plan
(Bergsma, 2008).
7. Recommend only those books that hold accurate information and are of
sufficient quality (Redding, Herbert, Forman, & Gaudiano, 2008). The
books that ascend to the top of best-seller lists are not, by any means,
those that are the most appropriate and useful for clients in therapy. As
mentioned earlier, many of them contain wildly inaccurate and
misguided information or make promises that they could never come
close to keeping.
8. Carefully review the credentials of the author to make sure they are
qualified experts in their field (Redding et al., 2008). Some of the best-
selling authors of self-help books are more often media figures than
qualified experts in the field.
9. Follow up with clients as to how they are reacting to the stories and
discuss the ideas that are most significant (Campbell & Smith, 2003). It
is important to bring the stories into the sessions rather than just treating
them as an “adjunct” that occurs on the outside.
10. Carefully monitor comprehension of the assigned material. Many of the
 books recommended by therapists are too complex and inappropriate for
clients who already have trouble concentrating (Richardson, Richards, &
Barkham, 2008). That’s another reason why fictional stories may be
more compelling and engaging than self-help books.
In each and every one of these suggestions, and those throughout this book,
keep in mind that the stories suggested should involve an active process of
engagement with the content. It isn’t nearly enough for clients to simply watch a
recommended film or show, read a book, and then move on to the next thing,
unless the story is integrated into the therapeutic work.
In this chapter we have been focused primarily on the stories that are told to
clients, either in the form of therapist self-disclosures or recommended books or
films. The other side of the phenomenon, which is perhaps even more important,
is the stories that are told to us by clients. It has been said that our main role and
responsibility, beyond all else, is to help people to tell their stories in such a way
that they feel heard, honored, respected, and understood.
But what if the stories clients tell us about themselves are less than accurate?
What if they are fictions or lies? Does it matter if the narratives presented
represent gross exaggerations or omissions and, if so, what do we do with such
material? These are just a few of the questions we explore in the next chapter.
 10
BETWEEN TRUTH AND LIES IN THE STORIES PEOPLE
SHARE

LET’S BEGIN WITH an admission: There is no truth. None. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
Or, as the saying goes (whether attributed to Hunter Thompson or Mark Twain),
“never let the truth spoil a good story.” Professional storytellers refer to this as
“first person fabulous,” which is a license to exaggerate or outright lie in order to
make a tale more interesting or believable.
Indeed, most stories told and heard in therapy, or anywhere else, contain a
certain amount of “slippage,” a distinction between what could be called
historical versus narrative truth (Spence, 1982). Evidence is “sketched,” facts are
“bent” or “laundered,” and all stories are lies in the sense that they leave out
certain details and invent others to make the narrative more coherent and
comprehensible, not to mention interesting and self-promoting. The meaning of
stories can only be settled by simplifying, minimizing, distorting, restructuring,
and embellishing certain events and facts. There is an aspect of every story that
is refashioned for clarity and entertainment value, not to mention to support a
particular agenda. In the case of clients in therapy, that is often for the purposes
of winning approval, sympathy, and support for a position that may be tenuous:
“I don’t really need to be here,” “I’m right and everyone else is wrong,” or “I
don’t really have a problem.”

STORIES REPRESENT NEITHER A SPECIAL KIND OF TRUTH NOR

REALITY

Over time, memories become clouded, facts are shifted or altogether

transformed, and what remains is a mere skeleton if not an illusion (McGregor &
Holmes, 1999). It’s been estimated that when people tell the stories of their lives,
whether in therapy or during informal conversations, specific details are
distorted or exaggerated 60% of the time (Tversky, 2004). The good news,
however, is that the most “compressed” information or generalized truths of
one’s life are usually preserved and less likely to be distorted (Mar & Oatley,
2008).
The motivation to exaggerate or fabricate stories is not only driven by
deliberate strategies to deceive for personal gain but also by unconscious
processes of self-protection. Clients thus come to believe the stories they tell,
presenting themselves in an idealized way to win our approval or validation, as
well as avoid shame. They have a special kind of “truth” that may not have an
exact equivalent in the world outside therapy, where people spend most of their
time. It is a different or alternative reality in which it is expected, if not assumed,
that things told may not be exactly as portrayed.
For instance, in many cultures truth and lies within stories are considered
flexible entities (Livo & Rietz, 1986). Whereas stories in Western culture might
begin with “Once upon a time” or “You wouldn’t believe what just happened to
me,” in the Sudan a traditional story opening begins with a dialogue between the
teller and the audience.
Storyteller: “I have a story to tell.”
Audience: “Right.”
Storyteller: “I have a story to tell.”
Audience: “Right.”
Storyteller: “It’s a lie.”
Audience: “Right.”
Storyteller: “But not everything is false.”
Audience: “Right!”

Stories told for entertainment, diversion, or in therapy have their own rules of
veracity and different definitions of how much “facts” may be stretched.
Professional storytellers accept and acknowledge that a story is not a factual
representation of an historical event but “offers a blessed timeout from a world
that’s bound up in literal definitions of yes-no, black-white, true-false, right-
wrong, reality-fantasy” (Maguire, 1998, p. 23). After wrestling with the question
of what is truth and lies within stories, there is a consensus within our guild that
while it is important to be true to oneself and experience, the stories themselves
are not intended to be investigative reports but rather closer to journal entries;
they are not photographs but rather impressionistic paintings.
When Pablo Picasso was confronted by a critic regarding the abstract nature
of his paintings, he responded with confusion because he wasn’t quite sure what
reality would supposedly look like. The critic then took out a photograph of his
wife to show the artist. Picasso just shook his head and laughed. “She’s rather
small, isn’t she? And flat!”
WHAT IS TRUTH AND WHAT IS A LIE?

Truth, as we usually refer to it, represents a best judgment about the nature of
reality. Except when referring to mathematics in which a truth is verifiable, this
perception is, more often than not, someone’s opinion about something. Even
our history books and school texts are filled with stories that may not have much
resemblance to what actually happened. We celebrate a holiday to honor
Columbus’s “discovery” of North America, even though there were likely more
than a dozen expeditions by the Vikings, Siberians, and others who came long
before him, not to mention all the native tribes that already inhabited the
territory.
Even the most obvious so-called truths are subject to debate and
disagreement; likewise, supposed lies are also open to vast interpretations. Is it
the truth or a lie if you genuinely believe that you were abducted by aliens? Is it
considered deceptive, or “shading” the truth, if you claim that something is true
and you don’t know any differently? In one rather radical position (Bedeian,
1997), it is even proposed that most scholarly studies and journal articles are
fraudulent fictions “designed to confer credibility, legitimacy, and authority to
the author, by concealing and misrepresenting the processes that led to findings
being presented in that manner” (Dawson, Farmer, & Thomson, 2011, p. 161).
Perhaps this is an extreme argument, but it nevertheless puts into play many of
our assumptions about what is considered truthful and accurate.
Philosophers from the times of Plato and Aristotle have been proposing all
kinds of postulates about the nature of deceit. Lying is always wrong. Lying is
immoral but sometimes necessary. Lying is bad only if it is intentional. Lying is
desirable if it protects others from harm. It isn’t really a lie unless a statement is
deliberately and literally false. Lying is only wrong if you are caught. Yet there is
a consensus that lying is often defined as having several features: (1) there was
an intention to deceive, (2) words or actions were deliberately false or
misleading, and (3) someone was misled by the action and presented with
inaccurate information. It is this last consequence that proves most problematic
for those interested in improving themselves (Schauer & Zeckhauser, 2009).
Unless we are honest with ourselves about our abilities and options, as well as
realistic about what is possible and what is unlikely, we are going to make the
same mistakes over and over, never profiting from accurate feedback about
what’s working and what is not (Kottler & Carlson, 2014). The “false hope”
syndrome describes those instances when people repeatedly, persistently, and
stubbornly make commitments to change that they are unable to keep (Polivy &
Herman, 2002). They lie to themselves and exhibit overconfidence regarding
what they think they can do, setting up repeated failures. That’s one reason that
relapse rates are so high, not just because changing is so hard, but because of the
dishonesty and distortions that allow us to believe that we can do most anything
without adequate preparation and support.
Much of the permission and encouragement to lie routinely, even to therapists
and doctors who are being paid to be helpful, comes from our culture at large.
It’s become far more difficult to trust the veracity of stories we encounter in the
media. Whereas academics are required to submit their work for rigorous peer
review and replications, no such checks and balances are required for almost
anyone to “publish” stories in the public domain. Blogs and other vehicles allow
wannabe authors to post whatever they want, whether rumor, innuendo, or
relative facts. Sometimes fictional stories take on a life of their own, considering
that at one point one in four Americans genuinely believed that their president
wasn’t born in the United States and was not legally qualified to serve in office
(Condon, 2011).
News organizations that once upon a time lived or died based on their
integrity and objectivity now make a living filling people’s heads with biased
reporting that tells the audience what they already think they know or want to
believe. If that doesn’t compromise the relative “truth” of published or broadcast
stories, then the advertising industry, corporations, and billionaires put out their
own promotional campaigns to persuade and manipulate people to buy products
or ideas, based on faulty evidence and incomplete data.
Fakery and deceit are so much a part of daily life, even in mainstream media
and supposedly influential books, that we are no longer surprised by revelations
of betrayal. Classic memoirs such as Charriere’s Papillon, Irving’s
Autobiography of Howard Hughes, Carter’s Education of Little Tree,
Mortenson’s Three Cups of Tea, and Frey’s A Million Little Pieces are just a few
of those stories that have proven fraudulent. And lest we only place blame on
others for their lies, the majority of people tell at least two significant lies each
day and one third of all conversations involve some level of deception, 80% of
which are never discovered (Wiseman, 2007). In addition, 80% of college
students admit they have cheated or plagiarized—and perhaps the other 20% are
less than honest (Jones, 2011).
It is within this culture of deceit that one quarter of all golfers will cheat. The
majority of the population is less than truthful on income tax reports or
Facebook or online dating sites. Insurance companies realize that people
exaggerate their losses by an average of 15% (Ariely, 2012). In addition, two
thirds of citizens don’t trust their elected representatives to be honest and ethical
(Jones, 2011). There’s good reason for suspicion, given the number of publicized
accounts of people in prominent positions who baldly lie with a straight face.
The Yale football coach, Dean of Admissions at MIT, CEO of Radio Shack, New
York Times reporter, and FEMA Director are just a few examples of those who
padded their resumes with fictitious degrees they never earned. By the way, this
lack of confidence in political figures and leaders is even below that of
telemarketers and car salespeople! These figures are not really all that out of
line, considering that although half of people say that lying is never justified,
when they are asked the question a different way, two thirds will admit that they
do lie to avoid hurting people’s feelings (Associated Press, 2006); I’d also add
that they usually do so to protect themselves from shame or disapproval. It’s no
wonder that such behavior would carry over to other aspects of life, including
when people seek desperate help for problems that are not accurately presented.
As we have learned through the years of clinical practice, people have
different versions of their stories that they share in different ways, depending on
the audience and context (Clandinin & Connelly, 1996). First, “cover stories” are
fashioned in such a way to present the best possible impression and image
management. This is usually what we hear in the first few sessions when clients
desperately want our approval; they will likely blame others for their problems
and minimize (or exaggerate) the nature of their problems. Second, “secret
stories” are those told in secret places—the bedroom, the board room, whispered
to friends, and the therapist’s office. Finally, there are “sacred stories” that are
only revealed under the most private and safe circumstances, such as in therapy,
where they are often shared for the first time.

THE PROBLEM WITH LIES

Not only are truth and lies more muddled than we’d like to believe, but it is also
not clear whether each one necessarily represents good versus evil. In many
ways we owe the development of human intelligence to increased deception. The
more useful it became to fool potential adversaries, enemies, or prey, the greater
brain power was required to pull off the trickery. The pity, however, is that in
order to fool others effectively, it helps if we can deceive ourselves. And this is
what leads to all kinds of future problems navigating the world with inaccurate
information about our own strengths and weaknesses, as well as those of others.
We deceive ourselves mostly to attain illusions, desires, and hopes that might
otherwise be out of reach but also as a way to deal with the staggering amount of
information that bombards us, far too much to process effectively (Triandis,
2011). Our religious and cultural traditions provide a framework for sorting
through what is most “real” and authentic versus illusion. For example, 90% of
Americans say they believe in God, even though this faith in a Higher Power is
based almost solely on the testimony of a few books or sanctioned leaders rather
than direct experience. Ninety percent of Egyptians and only 20% of
Scandinavians say they don’t believe in evolution (Americans sit between them
at 45%), taking cues from their religious or political leaders (Wade, 2009). We
take the word of certain authority figures that things are organized a particular
way, even suspicious claims such as the world was created in 6 days, because it
makes it easier for us to negotiate our lives. We are allowed to hold certain
doubtful beliefs, or deceive ourselves about certain matters, because it appears to
help us. But this is only the case if the side effects from faulty or delusional
beliefs don’t end up sabotaging us in other ways by holding distorted or
unrealistic expectations. In some cases such ignorance can kill you.
Jack Wolford was famous throughout Appalachia for his religious fervor and
faith. He also believed that good Christians must handle snakes in order to test
their conviction and that, even if they are bitten, God will protect and heal them.
The Pentecostal minister convinced himself that he could safely survive the
lethal bite of an angry rattlesnake without any medical attention. This self-
deception proved fatal as he died from his wound, just as his father had refused
treatment years earlier and expired from identical circumstances (Grossman,
2012).

Better Than Average

If you have been told that the only way you can effectively change your life is to
embrace God/Allah/Jehovah as your savior, join a 12-step recovery group,
undergo reconstructive surgery, or become a vegan, then that closes off a lot of
other options that might also be helpful such as education, therapy, intimacy, or
confronting self-deceptions. That’s one reason why it’s sometimes helpful to
deconstruct the cultural practices that guide (or rule) our worldviews, especially
those that lead to oppression and marginalization of those without power—
traditionally women, minorities, the poor, and people of color. If you hold certain
assumptions about groups of people—rednecks, immigrants, surfers,
Californians, Christians, Muslims, Jews, lawyers, Asians—you may continue to
confirm those biases and beliefs, completely immune to exceptions or
contradictory information. It’s just easier to hold on to simple ideas, fortified by
self-deception, than to embrace a far more complex and nuanced world.
There are several ways that we deceive ourselves, beginning with self-
inflation and exaggeration of our own abilities. This is the “better-than-average
effect” since we tend to see ourselves as more highly skilled, better looking, and
more deserving of accolades than others (Trivers, 2011). For instance, 80% of
high school students consider themselves to be better leaders than their peers.
Even more amusing is that 94% of university professors think they are far better
than average in their teaching skills and research productivity (Guenther &
Alicke, 2010).
There is a part of the brain that is tasked with the unenviable job of storing
self-inflated information, the medial prefrontal cortex. This is the region that is
most commonly associated with deception of self or others, lighting up when
there are distortions of reality and also burying uncomfortable memories or
moral lapses that we’d prefer never happened (Valdesolo & DeSteno, 2008). The
size of the neocortex is also associated with the effective use of deception to gain
advantages in battle, resources, mate selection, or food collection (Byrne &
Corp, 2004). Basically the more intelligent the creature, the more likely it is to
have an armory of deceptive strategies.

Deception Can Also Be Adaptive

Lying and deception are common, universal, and even highly adaptive strategies
in some circumstances. We admire figures who used trickery or deception to win
their battles. Consider the ways we celebrate David’s defeat of Goliath or the
story of the Trojan horse.
Throughout the history of life forms on our planet there’s been an ongoing,
escalating war between deceivers and their intended victims. Many flowers are
pollinated through means of deception, attracting flying insects with false or
disguised signals. Likewise, all varieties of mammals favor deception, when they
can get away with it, in order to achieve advantages in mate selection or
acquisition of food or territory.
Every living thing has evolved defensive strategies to protect itself from harm.
These can involve the use of strength, speed, armor, camouflage, and
collaboration but also, most commonly, the use of guile, mimicry, and deception.
One third of all orchids, for example, rely on some form of deception to trick
flying insects into pollinating them without a nutritious reward. Many other
plants disguise themselves and mimic attractive food sources, just as they repel
enemies with other “lies” to discourage their attention (Schaefer & Ruxton,
2009).
There are certain species, like the bluegill sunfish, that will mimic females to
invade territory controlled by another male, and then impregnate the harem
while the other guy is occupied elsewhere. There are blister beetles the size of
tiny pinheads that organize themselves together by the thousands, to appear as a
single, large bee, attracting a lone male of the species and then feasting on it
when it attempts to mate (Trivers, 2011).
The ways that moths, butterflies, fish, or other species present false images to
fool enemies or potential mates isn’t all that different from strategies among
humans to accomplish the same goals. Men wear hairpieces to hide bald spots,
color their hair, drive sports cars, and pump up their bodies to present an image
of virility that is designed to inflate their potential attractiveness to potential
mates and discourage acts of aggression by competitors. Women undergo breast
augmentation, plastic surgery, dye their hair, wear make-up, douse themselves
with perfume, and choose enticing articles of clothing or jewelry to do much the
same thing. Any artificial means will be relied upon to maximize an image of
power, success, or beauty. On Internet dating sites, women consistently lie about
their weight, and men lie about their height and income (Ellison, Hancock, &
Toma, 2012).
So the question we are exploring is: What’s the problem with deceit,
especially as related to our subject of promoting change through storytelling? Of
course, without an accurate assessment of their own shortcomings, it’s fairly
difficult to target those behaviors in most need of change. Clients are also
inclined to selectively attend to limited information that interests them to the
exclusion of other critical data. This leads to making biased and ill-informed
decisions, misrepresenting themselves to others, and in turn, misinterpreting
others’ actions. They will keep making the same mistakes over and over,
sabotaging themselves and compromising potential success, but they can’t (or
won’t) see clearly what is so apparent to others.

WHY PEOPLE LIE

As we’ve seen, it is no simple matter to define a lie or truth. There are all kinds
of shadings and nuances—half-truths, white lies, embellishment, exaggeration,
fraud, bluff, misdirection, falsification, palter, hoax, concealment, smear,
deflection, spin, noble lies, and hurtful truths. It is far more accurate (and
truthful) to view them as a continuum rather than as absolutes that are often
propagated by moralists or religious leaders (see Fig. 10.1).

FIGURE 10.1 A continuum of lies.

 There are also many reasons why people choose to lie, and motive is certainly
at the heart of the matter (Phillips, Meek, & Vendemia, 2011; Solomon, 2009).
Lying can be used to avoid shame or punishment. It can be a way to express
power or exhibit aggression, as well as offer protection to someone else from
harm. It can also be used to sabotage others or reduce their standing, just it can
be employed to enhance one’s own social standing, prestige, or material gain. In
fact, students who cheat have higher grade point averages than those who do not,
and 85% of them believe that cheating is absolutely essential to success in life. It
seems a risk worth taking, considering that only 5% ever get caught (Kroski,
n.d.).
Men and women tend to lie for different reasons (Blakeley, 2009; Buss, 2011;
DePaulo, 2010; Dreber & Johannesson, 2008). Men will more often lie about
money issues and deceive potential mates about the depth of their emotional
feelings as a ploy for attention or sex. They will overestimate their number of
sexual partners, whereas women will underestimate them. Women are more
likely to spread inaccurate rumors and gossip, as well as engage in false flattery.
There are also lies told for altruistic reasons, that is, to protect people from
unwanted harm (Kaplar & Gordon, 2004). Doctors, for instance, will sometimes
prescribe placebos and thereby deceive their patients (45% admit to doing so,
which, itself, is probably a deceptively underestimated figure) (Sherman &
Hickner, 2008). They will also hide the complete truth about illnesses from their
patients in order to avoid adding to their burdens. So too will friends or family
members shade the truth or fib, not for some personal benefit but rather to
protect a loved one from disappointment or unnecessary pain.
So if the question is why people lie, then the most direct answer is because it
provides certain advantages—assuming you don’t get caught. From the earliest
age, infants learn that deception gets their needs met more quickly. They learn to
fake crying or pretend laughing because it inspires adults to do all kinds of crazy
things. By just 8 months of age a baby has already mastered strategies of
deception to bluff, throw temper tantrums, or disguise behavior (Wilson, Smith,
& Ross, 2003). Even though it comes to them naturally, they will also be trained
by their parents to lie more effectively and successfully, as they will be punished
for being caught.
In summary, it is surmised that self-deception evolved as an adaptive strategy,
even with its obvious costs, for two main reasons (von Hippel & Trivers, 2011).
The first is to make it far easier and more convincing to sell lies to others since
you don’t have to remember what is true and what is not. Secondly, if you are
caught in a lie, you will likely escape more severe retribution and punishment
because you actually believed what you said or did.
LIES AND SELF-DECEPTION THAT SABOTAGE ATTEMPTS TO
CHANGE

There are some peculiar settings where people choose duplicity. It makes sense
that in combat or commerce, disguising tactics, feints, and outright lies may
provide a short-term advantage, but at the cost of breaching trust in future
negotiations. But what leads people to hire a professional to help them and then
be less than frank about what’s really bothering them?
You would hardly consult a physician regarding serious pain in your chest and
report that its origin is actually located in your stomach or back. Nevermind that
diagnostic tests would quickly rule out this false self-report, but telling the
doctor inaccurate information about your own condition would only compromise
your opportunities for a cure. Similarly, if you were asked to reveal your
symptoms to better identify the source of the problem, you would hardly engage
in evasiveness or subterfuge.
So, then, here’s an interesting dimension of lies that prevents constructive
changes from occurring: Why would clients deliberately, consistently, and
elaborately deceive their psychotherapists? Why would someone pay for
somebody to help him and then not provide accurate information to make that
possible? And I’m not talking about minor details omitted or slight
exaggerations, but whoppers!
I once had a client who waited over a year to tell me what was really going on
with her. Until that point we spent more than 50 consecutive sessions talking
about issues mostly unrelated to why she really came for help. It took that long
for her to decide she trusted me, so she spent each hour making up all kinds of
stories about her life that were never true, or else stalling for time by refusing to
talk at all.
I worked with another man, also for a whole calendar year, who was suffering
from posttraumatic stress and major depression from the first Israeli-Arab War in
1948 (Kottler, 2010). We spent our sessions reliving each of his missions, talking
about the horrific things he witnessed, the enemies he killed, the deceased
members of his squad whom he mourned, and the guilt and remorse he felt for
the things he had done. Then I discovered that he made the whole thing up. My
best guess is that none of it ever happened!
This disturbing revelation led me to collect a whole volume of stories from
therapists who had been duped by their clients in a dramatic way (Kottler &
Carlson, 2011). I’m talking about clients who didn’t merely shade the truth a bit
but who faked problems, created false identities, claimed to have fatal or chronic
illnesses, hid or disguised aspects of their lives, or told wild stories about their
lives that never occurred.
There are a lot of different reasons why people lie to their therapists, some of
them fairly obvious. They don’t want to disappoint the professional in some way
or feel shame about aspects of their lives they’d prefer to ignore. In some cases,
they are buying some time until they decide whether they can truly trust the
professional. It actually makes pretty good sense not to spill your guts to
someone you barely know. But there are also some severe mental illnesses and
emotional problems that lead people to lie chronically, not just to their therapists
but to almost everyone else. Those with personality disorders such as borderline,
sociopathic, and histrionic conditions lie as a way of life, as well as a means to
gain power or control. And then there are those with florid psychotic disorders
who can’t really help it. Someone who is actively psychotic and hallucinating
isn’t exactly lying when he claims to see and hear things that are invisible to the
rest of us.
Whether in the context of therapy, or any other setting designed to promote
change, the effort is going to be less than effective if there is significant
distortion or deception about the exact nature of the problem and what led to it in
the first place. That is why one of the initial steps in this enterprise involves
taking the risk of being more honest with oneself and others. If this doesn’t feel
safe for a client to do, then it’s time to take stock of trust in the relationship. If
clients can’t trust their therapists with their baggage, without feeling shame,
there are limits to what can be accomplished together.

HOW TO (MAYBE) TELL WHEN OTHERS ARE LYING

First, the good news: It’s almost impossible for clients to lie without making
inadvertent mistakes. There is almost always some leakage of true intention, as
well as deception clues that may include inconsistencies, nervousness, lack of
detail, or nonverbal “tells.” Sigmund Freud believed, quite naïvely and
arrogantly, that anyone with eyes and ears “may convince himself that no mortal
can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal
oozes out of him at every pore” (Freud, 1905/1959, p. 94). Despite this
overconfidence, Freud was repeatedly fooled by his own patients who made up
whoppers of fabrication that were the basis for his earliest theories.
Freud failed to recognize that deception in therapy is not only commonplace
but actually sensible and appropriate, given the circumstances. Consider the
process. First, the client is pushed and pressured into revealing potentially
damaging secrets to a perfect stranger. Second, there is no reciprocity or
exchange of such intimate content. In fact, the therapist is infuriatingly
withholding and guarded, yet continues to pressure the client to share way more
than is comfortable or prudent. Then, keep in mind that the whole endeavor is
unnerving, uncomfortable, and often painful, triggering defensive responses to
perceived threats. Even with all these risks, there is no certainty that all the
disclosures will result in the client’s preferred outcome.

Why We Have Trouble Seeing Truth From Lies

The vast majority of people are absolutely terrible at identifying a lie when they
hear one. When we do manage to detect a lie, it is usually because we discovered
some factual inaccuracy at a later time rather than recognized deceit in the
behavior of the person. Even trained experts—judges, law enforcement
personnel, polygraph operators, secret service agents, psychotherapists—do only
a little better than chance. It also doesn’t matter how confident you feel in
recognizing lies, your age, gender, or job experience (Ekman, 2009a).
Psychologist Paul Ekman, who has devoted his life’s work to the study of lie
catching, cites a number of reasons for the consistent failure to recognize
deception, even when it is staring you right in the face (Ekman, 2009b).
1. We aren’t biologically well prepared to catch people lying. Through most
of human history we lived within public view. Until relatively recently, it
wasn’t a very useful skill in the same sense as recognizing a poisonous
plant. It is only in modern times that lying presents advantages and
greater opportunities for privacy, secrecy, and deception. The
consequences of being caught in a lie in the ancestral environment (e.g.,
“I didn’t find any food”) were catastrophic in that you’d lose all trust and
credibility in the community, leading to exile or execution. Nowadays
you can easily change locations, jobs, social circles, even refashion a
new identity. We also forgive and forget transgressions more readily.
2. We are actually taught to lie as children! “Who broke the cookie jar?” the
parent asks the child, setting things up so there’s no choice but to
respond with denial: “I don’t know. It wasn’t me!” Children are used to
ignoring their parents’ lies, just as they are taught to accept cultural lies
(e.g., Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the stork that delivers babies).
3. We’d prefer not to know the truth. It takes a lot less energy to be
relatively trusting and give people the benefit of the doubt. Imagine what
life would be like if your default position was to assume that everything
that anyone says or does has some ulterior motive. Paranoia would grow
rampant. It would be virtually impossible to function. That is one reason
 there is often collusion between the deceiver and the deceived in which
each person pretends that everything said is legitimate.
4. In our “civil” society, we are taught to be polite and avoid direct
confrontation, including challenging the veracity of what someone says
or does. We value respect for privacy and personal business, and avert
our eyes when someone does something inappropriate. Ask someone,
“How are you doing?” and you’ll get an automatic but inaccurate
response, “Fine.” We accept these little deceptions and misdirections as
just part of normal discourse.
5. Finally, we have rarely been systematically taught to distinguish truth
from lies, which is possibly decoded from subtle cues and “micro-
expressions” that reveal concealment. Rather than obvious signs, such as
blushing or Pinocchio’s nose growing, lies are often revealed through
body language, word selections, voice tone, pauses, amount of detail
provided, facial cues, and neurological responses such as breathing,
blinking, sweating, swallowing, and blushing (Gray 2011; Porter &
Brinke, 2010; Vrij, 2008).

Good Liars
There are indeed some people who are just naturally good liars, and a lot of them
end up in therapy when their luck runs out. They are either natural born liars, or
they developed the ability over time. They may also display pathological
features such as chronic manipulation and exploitation of others, among other
identified characteristics (Vrij, Granhag, & Mann, 2010).
As we well know, such individuals are excellent actors, able to show any
number of false emotional features that are not representative at all of what they
might be feeling inside; in that sense they are able to easily mask feelings of
scorn, contempt, anger, and frustration. In addition, they can do so effortlessly
without annoying guilt or shame. In fact, they take delight in fooling others,
considering it just part of a game between the weak and the strong.
It is certainly true that with training, practice, and systematic feedback, most
people can become better at ferreting the truth from lies, but even that claim has
not necessarily held up to scrutiny (Bond, 2008). Theoretically, there will come a
time when neuroimaging will provide reliable evidence of deception (but only in
the justice system) (Abe, 2011; Spence & Kaylor-Hughes, 2008). In the
meantime, if someone is determined to mislead or deceive us, most of the time
we won’t figure it out until long afterward. As we’ll discuss a little later, the real
question is how much this actually matters and what to do with the lack of
clarity about truth and lies in clients’ stories.

IN CELEBRATION OF SELF-DECEPTION

We need our illusions and myths; in some ways, we are sustained by them. The
important question we should be asking, offers philosopher Amelie Rorty
(2009), is: “How can we sustain the illusions essential to ordinary life, without
becoming self-damaging idiots?” (p. 74). She offers an answer in the form of a
rebuttal to Socrates’ admonishment that our greatest goal is to “know thyself.”
There are times, in fact, when it’s better not to know certain things about
ourselves.
It is certainly true that helping clients know their limitations helps them to set
realistic goals about what is, and is not, within reasonable expectations. This also
prevents despair and eternal frustration after frequent disappointments. But, on
the other hand, setting seemingly impossible goals, against all odds, is what
sometimes leads to so-called miracles. It is faith and trust, in the face of
obstacles, that lead people to undertake ridiculously difficult challenges without
concern for the consequences. This is what creates upsets in sporting events,
political elections, or turns the tide of battles when one side is hopelessly
outnumbered.
We entertain all sorts of illusions and self-deceptions that actually make
change possible. We tell ourselves that we matter, that our work is important,
and that we can do most anything if we only try hard enough. Forget that 99.5%
of the world’s population will never change their socioeconomic status during
their lifetimes; it helps to dream. Denial is a wonderful immunity for fear,
hopelessness, and ambivalence.
Here’s the paradox: If any of us were really, truly, completely, unabashedly
honest with ourselves, we’d never get out of bed in the morning. If we did
manage to stagger into the bathroom, we’d stare at our reflection and actually
see what is visible to everyone else—that we aren’t nearly as attractive, talented,
and capable as we prefer to believe. We’d have to confront all the
disappointments and failures of our lives. We couldn’t hide from the terrifying
realization that each of us is dying with every breath we take. We would offend
so many people with our utter frankness that we’d have no friends or speaking
relatives.
Lying to ourselves in the stories we tell ourselves and others makes it easier
for us to function on a daily basis. This is especially the case when someone is
reasonably proficient at this skill, which is highly connected to intelligence and
creativity since it requires a fair degree of inventiveness, consistency, and
persuasiveness. This begins early in life, since brighter children would be much
better at telling deceitful stories than their less intelligent peers.
Robert Trivers (2011) makes the point that lying only works when you can get
away with it; the consequences of getting caught can be dire, at least during
ancient times when your reputation, integrity, and status were at stake. Yet just
because lying to yourself helps you lie better to others doesn’t necessarily mean
it’s really in anyone’s best interests. And that is the primary reason that we swing
back to Socrates’ credo to “know thyself.” It is through honest, critical, and yet
compassionate self-scrutiny that clients are able to accurately assess behaviors
that are getting in their way, as well as upgrading those that would make them
more effective in their lives. “The man who lies to himself,” writes Fyodor
Dostoyevsky, “and listens to his own lie, comes to such a point that he cannot
distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for
himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love” (Dostoyevsky,
1880/1999, p. 53).

IF CLIENTS LIE, THEN SO DO WE

Throughout the history of our profession there has evolved a belief in the
relative truthfulness of case reports, research results, and evidence-based
practice—as if so-called empiricism and clinical observation are not subject to
distortion and inaccuracy. Journalists lie in the stories they write to maximize
sensationalism and drama. As only one example, New Republic journalist
Stephen Glass famously made up all kinds of quotations from sources that never
existed and even created fictional events presenting them as facts. Research
results have similarly been falsified by scientists and scholars, estimated to be as
high as 19% in self-report surveys in which researchers admitted they used
questionable practices to exaggerate their data (Fanelli, 2009). In fact, in the
previous sentence, I deliberately exaggerated the results to bolster my argument:
The actual reported figure is 14% as reported in the meta-analysis, but this is
based on defining “fabrication” as using “questionable practices.” If the
definition is restricted to actually making up results that did not occur in the
study, then the more accurate figure is 2% of respondents (which is still pretty
disturbing). Of course, even this percentage is based on self-reports that we
already know are subject to a high degree of inaccuracy.
Then consider all the exaggeration and deception within our own stories and
descriptions of practice, not just in clinical trials and empirical studies but
especially in case reports and even so-called classic and seminal case stories. For
example, those of us who were in graduate school a few decades ago remember
that our whole generation was first introduced to theories through the classic
“Gloria” film in which Carl Rogers, Albert Ellis, and Fritz Perls all interviewed
the same client (Shostrom, 1965). This was during an era when they still used
projectors with those huge film reels. First, we watched Rogers work with Gloria
and he was his usual warm, kind, charming, grandfatherly self: Then Ellis did his
usual thing, challenging and disputing Gloria’s irrational beliefs and self-talk; it
probably wasn’t his best work, but it was still pretty interesting. Then—and then
—there was Perls, who was a wild man. Within the first few minutes he called
Gloria a phony. He told her to go hide in the corner and kept pushing and
pushing her until she’d finally had enough and started to fight back, telling Perls
that she was sick and tired of him disrespecting her. As beginning students, we
were intrigued but appalled by this provocative behavior. Could this be what
therapy was really supposed to be like when you get in a client’s face and keep
pushing her? And in the very first session? All we could do was shrug and chalk
it up to our own ignorance.
It was at this point the instructor would change reels while we all waited with
baited breath for her to answer the question from the producer, Everett Shostrom,
about which of these famous therapists had been most helpful to her. The answer
was, of course, obvious: It had to be Carl Rogers. So it was more than a little
shocking to hear her say that although she enjoyed her sessions with the other
two theoreticians, she genuinely believed that Perls was the one who could likely
help her the most. We gasped in astonishment, accepting that disclosure as her
truth, but feeling mighty uncomfortable with the conclusion that didn’t seem to
fit what we had witnessed.
This “story” seriously haunted and bothered one student for most of his
professional life. How could this have been possible? Gloria’s report just didn’t
seem to jibe with what he had observed, so he decided many decades later that
he would conduct his own investigation into the matter (Rosenthal, 2011).
Rosenthal interviewed many of the witnesses present during the filming who
were still alive, including Albert Ellis, as well as examined the artifacts and
evidence, including a record published by Gloria’s daughter (Burry, 2008). It
turns out that this classic film was mostly smoke and mirrors! Gloria had, in fact,
been coerced into lying about what had happened because Shostrom, a disciple
of Perls, had been her therapist and pressured her to change her story. She later
retracted her original statement and became a lifelong follower of Rogers. It
leads one to wonder just how much of what we accept as truth in our field is
similarly the result of inaccurate or incomplete information.
Even when we take great measures to be as honest, accurate, and forthcoming
as possible, our perceptions of what occurred are strongly influenced by our own
beliefs, biases, and projections. Some of the most classic cases in our field
represent reports from their authors who had a vested interest in confirming their
own theories. In Sigmund Freud’s (1905/1959) case of “Dora,” for example, a
story was told of a disturbed young woman, Ida Bauer, presenting a variety of
psychosomatic symptoms that were believed to be the result of an unresolved
Oedipal complex. This seminal case contributed to Freud’s understanding of the
unconscious and the defense mechanism of repression. But a deeper examination
of the actual events leads to an alternative conclusion: that perhaps the story
actually represents Freud’s own fantasy, projective identification, and unresolved
countertransference issues (Kearney, 2002). This is a belief shared by several
others (Masson, 1984, 1990; Sholwater, 1997) that actually led to questions
about the accuracy and validity of memories that are supposedly “recovered” in
therapy (Belli, 2012; Pendergast, 1995; Terr, 1995; Yapko, 1994) but also
suggests how difficult it is to determine to what extent any story we hear or tell
is either factual or fictional.
Not only are therapists’ perceptions and memories of their cases imperfect and
distorted, but as we’ve seen, clients make up all kinds of stories, especially when
they are pressured and coerced to do so. In the case of Dora, Kearney interprets
Freud’s misguided and inaccurate diagnosis of his patient as an example of how
a story is created to fit a preferred theory rather than a clear description of
human experience.

ALL STORIES TOLD REVEAL A PARTICULAR KIND OF TRUTH

Ultimately, it may be far less important to determine whether a story is

completely truthful than it is to figure out what it reveals about the client and the
status of the relationship (Crandon-Malamud, 1991). As we have seen, there is
no single truth to a story, and once we abandon the illusion that it is possible to
excavate “truthiness,” we are free to appreciate and recognize the “aesthetic”
aspects of the narrative, especially related to its particular meaning and style
(Rosenbaum & Bohart, 2007).
It isn’t so much a limitation or weakness that client stories are less than
perfectly accurate in reflecting experiences, traumatic or otherwise, as that there
is a plurality of interpretations just as there are so many competing versions of
historical events, whether Pearl Harbor, the Kennedy assassination, 9/11, or
global warming. Certainly those in power, or on the “winning side” of a conflict,
enjoy the privileged position of sanctioning their preferred version of events,
which marginalizes minority views. But the good news is that therapists and
teachers are given power precisely because our job is to help people confront
their self-deceptions and challenge the ways they have rewritten the past to make
sense of what they imagine the future must hold. All stories shared in therapy
represent an organic process of evolution rather than a “published” complete
version of events.
Whether we are listening to client stories, or sharing our own, the truth and
veracity of the narrative isn’t found in the details but rather in the themes that are
both hidden and revealed. In the next chapter we explore some of the ways that
each of us can become a better storyteller, using anecdotes and parables to
promote significant changes in our clients.
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a
gigantic insect.
—FRANZ KAFKA, Metamorphosis
Granted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his
sight; there’s a peephole in the door, and my keeper’s eye is the shade of brown that can never see
through a blue-eyed type like me.
—GUNTHER GRASS, The Tin Drum
I am an invisible man.
—RALPH ELLISON, The Invisible Man

11
CREATING MORE POWERFUL STORIES

FEW OF US realistically aspire to become world-renowned novelists, but we have a

lot to learn from those writers who know how to set up a story from the very first
passage, even the first sentence, commanding attention, and sparking an
insatiable curiosity to find out what happens next. In all their forms and
variations, great stories evoke powerful feelings in the listener, viewer, or reader,
feelings that lead one to wonder what will happen next.

AN AUTHOR OF ONE’S OWN STORY

Every therapist is a collector of great stories, field-tested over years, refined and
fleshed out with each retelling. Anyone can tell a story; the challenge is to do so
in such a way that the audience is enraptured and hypnotized to follow where
you lead. We are talking narrative tapestries, works of aesthetic beauty that draw
clients in with such alluring seduction that they lose themselves—or perhaps find
themselves in the story.
The ability to collect and create powerful, moving, memorable, and influential
stories requires systematic study and considerable practice. It takes remarkable
skill to hold people’s attention for more than a few minutes, much less persuade
them to do things for which they may feel reluctance. And the success of a story
is all predicated on making people truly care about what happens as things
unfold.
Andrew Stanton (2012), who wrote the screenplays for Toy Story, Finding
Nemo, A Bug’s Life, and others for PIXAR, believes that a good story promises
that it will lead somewhere meaningful that is worthy of your time. He wrote
WALL-E without any dialogue or verbal narration, but he succeeded in drawing
the audience into the story, making them care about the outcome. In doing so, he
broke every rule: In Toy Story, there are no songs, no love story, no villain or
happy village, not even a likeable character in Woody, the protagonist. But he
succeeded in making the audience care about what happens next. That’s our job
as well, to tell a story in such a manner that clients remain committed until the
end.
One goal of therapy is, to paraphrase Dickens’s David Copperfield, to become
the hero of one’s own life. In order for that to occur, it is first necessary to
control and author one’s own life story. So often, however, clients are hardly the
authors of their own stories, given that they have been told them by their parents,
teachers, and culture in such a way that they hardly feel in the driver’s seat.

WHERE DO WE FIND OUR STORIES

The answer, of course, is everywhere. We find stories in the media, in books,

films, shows, and plays. We discover stories in all that we notice and observe.
We collect favorite stories from others who impressed or touched us. But mostly
we find them in our own life experiences, and particularly in those that are most
poignant from childhood. These were the times when we were most innocent,
impressionable, and vulnerable. It was a time of wonder but also of confusion,
terror, and insecurity. Childhood is, in the words of consummate storyteller
Garrison Keillor, “the small town that everyone comes from,” the shared
experience that presented all of us with our most indelible memories. It is
through storytelling that children learn the most significant lessons of mastering
language, familiarizing themselves with family history, navigating cultural
expectations, and understanding the sanctioned values (Reese, 2013).
Most of all we find stories in our own personal adventures, our triumphs and
tragedies, and in our own suffering. Novelist Pat Conroy reflects on the
traumatic childhood that fueled the prolific and haunting storytelling that has
become his hallmark, documenting the secret abuse within families. He talks
about how writing his first acclaimed novel, The Great Santini, led to a
breakdown that almost robbed him of his sanity. “In the single most creative
burst of my career,” he recalls, “I completed that last chapter by writing almost
nonstop for twenty-four hours. Every word seemed summoned and anointed
with a limitless power over which I had no control” (Conroy, 2013, p. 64). Like
so many other great writers, the plots for his stories were conceived within the
trials and tribulations of his own life. It was the kind of noble suffering that
became the source of his creativity, even if it almost destroyed him.
STORIES THAT WE TELL

As discussed earlier, it’s not as though the plots of stories are limitless. Whereas
scholars of the genre have identified five, seven, or perhaps a dozen basic plots,
Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy reduced them further: “All great literature is one of
two stories; a man goes on a journey or a stranger comes to town.” British poet
A. C. Benson has condensed all stories further into one basic plot: “All the best
stories in the world are but one story in reality—the story of an escape.” He is
referring mostly to escape from bad guys, monsters, traps, and prison but also
escape from oneself. Our job is to reverse that narrative, to create, construct, and
tell stories not of escape but of redemption.
Before we talk more specifically about how to improve the quality and power
of storytelling, it is first interesting to consider all the ways that our own most
influential narratives were often born from a feeling that we later connect to an
experience, either one that we think we remember or perhaps one that was
created. You’d only have to review a sampling of relatively universal memory
triggers that have been part of our shared cultural experience (depending on your
age) to access your own stories of seminal events, such as when John Kennedy
or Martin Luther King was assassinated, when the Challenger Space Shuttle
exploded, or when the Twin Towers of 9/11 were hit. Likewise, most of us have
seminal stories to tell that are sparked by any of the memory triggers from
childhood, such as being teased or bullied, fighting with a best friend, feeling
rejected by a first crush, or falling off a bike. Incidents such as these leave an
indelible mark and, while traumatic at the time, provide the ingredients for many
of the stories we share about who we are and where we came from. We may not
remember exactly what happened, but we hold dearly onto our impressions that
form our own truth.

HOW TO TELL A GREAT STORY

We have seen how oral storytelling is an art form that has evolved from ancient
times. Among practiced sages in any culture and time period, they have learned
ways to encode the narratives in the rhythms of language. The power and drama
of a story, its potential to impact and influence listeners, is related not only to the
themes and plot presented but also the way in which the narrative is told.
Thousands of minute-by-minute decisions are made during the recitation that
involve a number of linguistic patterns and choices (Livo & Rietz, 1986). These
include several elements, which may seem rather basic and obvious but are
nevertheless ignored or minimized most of the time when therapists may just go
through the motions of telling a story they have repeated many times before.
There is, thus, a consensus among professional storytellers, including film
writers, novelists, lyricists, and journalists, about what matters most to capture
and maintain interest. Before we look at some of the main features (see Table
11.1), we can distill most of them into one main theme: All great stories are
about transformation during an “internal journey” (Cron, 2012). They can—and
should—have plenty of action but what most sustains interest in a narrative is
the subtext related to the protagonist’s own inner struggles.
TABLE 11.1

Basic Narrative Plots

Fighting a Hansel and Gretel, Beowulf, Jaws, Alien, Predator, Dracula, Frankenstein, King Kong,
monster Godzilla, Star Wars, The Silence of the Lambs
Rags to Cinderella, Ugly Duckling, Superman, David Copperfield, Pretty Woman, Slumdog Millionaire,
riches My Fair Lady, Rocky, Shrek
The quest The Odyssey, King Arthur, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Lord of the Rings, Apocalypse Now, Finding
Nemo, Saving Private Ryan, Harry Potter
Voyage Goldilocks, Gulliver’s Travels, Alice in Wonderland, Time Machine, Back to the Future, The
Wizard of Oz, Robinson Crusoe, The Hunger Games
Comedy The Taming of the Shrew, Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, When Harry Met Sally, The Big
Lebowski, Monty Python, The Hangover
Tragedy Romeo and Juliet, Bonnie and Clyde, Macbeth, The Great Gatsby, Titanic, Les Misérables
Rebirth A Christmas Carol, Beauty and the Beast, The Frog Prince, The Matrix, Seven Years in Tibet,
Good Will Hunting, Dances With Wolves

Apart from the specific elements of great storytelling that will be reviewed,
you are already well aware that how you present the story is just as important as
what it is about. All too often in our field we spend our professional lives
imitating our mentors and standing in the shadows of the figures we admire
most. Likewise, we may feel obligated to tell stories that we have rehearsed and
shared so many times that they have lost some of their power and passion.
Indeed, the hallmark of an outstanding storyteller—as well as comedian or
musician—is the willingness and openness to improvise, to be so fully present in
the story that it takes on a life of its own. As one example, the greatest enemies
of any storyteller are mobile devices and opening doors. What Hungarian folk
singer and storyteller Andras Berecz is referring to are the inevitable distractions
that occur in the room when someone leaves or enters, or attention is diverted
from other external sources. The way he deals with such intrusions is by
including in the story whatever is happening in the room in that moment, thereby
making the narrative even more vibrant and relevant (Meier, 2013).

FINDING OR DEVELOPING A PERSONAL STYLE

From our earliest training we often felt pressure to follow carefully in the
footsteps of our instructors, supervisors, and mentors. We were strongly
encouraged to select a particular theoretical framework, if we were given a
choice at all. We were drilled in specific skill exercises, then critiqued afterward
on how well we followed instructions. During internships we may have been
required to conform to specific protocols and supervisor preferences. During the
apprentice and journeyman years afterward, we accumulated continuing
education primarily by attending workshops and reading books in which the
presenters or authors persuaded us to follow their path and abandon any illusions
that we could come up with anything better. Throughout most of our early years
in the profession we tried to imitate our heroes and heroines as best we could.
In my early years, many of the stories I told in therapy didn’t even “belong” to
me; I borrowed examples and anecdotes from others since I didn’t think my own
were nearly interesting or compelling enough. When I read some of my earliest
books, it is hard to recognize myself in the prose since I was essentially just
channeling my senior coauthor or mentors. Whether I was standing in front of an
audience, talking to a client, or relating some incident to friends or colleagues, I
felt like I was reading lines from a script that had been created by someone else.
But I realize now there was something else going on: I was experimenting,
trying out different styles, searching, exploring, investigating different options. I
was trying to discover my own voice.
It has taken me a long time, far too long in my opinion, to find my own style
as a storyteller. As I think back on how I found my voice, it certainly began by
imitating those whom I admired, especially writers who developed a singular
way of expressing themselves. I still make time to read so much fiction, as much
to appreciate the prose as for diversion or entertainment. It has only been fairly
recently that I decided to reinvent myself once again and envision what I do as a
clinician and speaker is tell compelling stories that make people laugh and cry
and look deeply inward. I decided to step back from my most beloved stories
that I’ve heard and read and wondered why they affected me so profoundly. I
started watching, then scrutinizing, the most talented storytellers, which is pretty
easy to do now that they are available on YouTube and TED talks. Finally
(although that sounds like I’m at the end of this journey when I actually feel like
I’ve just begun), I started experimenting with ways to create, structure, and
“perform” storytelling in my own voice and style, which now permits me to be
far more improvisational and unrehearsed. This creates an added sense of drama
when neither my audience, nor myself, really knows what is going to come out
of my mouth next.

A REVIEW OF SOME FUNDAMENTALS

Storytelling is clearly an art form, but like many such aesthetic pursuits, it
involves a number of technical skills. The intention or motivation to tell a
captivating, interesting, and persuasive story is certainly important, but it is not
nearly enough without mastering some of the basic features. Let’s review what it
takes to create and share the kind of story that will likely have maximum impact.
These components have been distilled from the expertise of some of the greatest
lyricists, screenwriters, novelists, and professional storytellers. But let’s keep in
the big picture in mind. An analysis of the most inspiring presentations almost
always include four features: (1) they are emotionally resonant and speak to the
heart, (2) they are novel and unique, (3) they offer something new, and (4) they
are truly memorable in that they present material in ways that won’t easily be
forgotten (Gallo, 2014).
A hook. Stories begin with a “hook,” or some feature that captures attention
and curiosity, as well as elicits some strong emotional reaction, whether caring,
empathy, or even fear. As one powerful example, the novel The Lovely Bones,
begins with the rather startling line, “My name was Salmon, like the fish; first
name, Susie. I was fourteen when I was murdered” (Sebold, 2002, p. 1). It’s safe
to say this opening would hold the reader’s attention.
Relationships. Just as therapy itself is all about the influential power of the
relationship, so too do the best stories make some intimate human connection
between listeners/readers and the characters. People want to feel something
about what happens in a story, and they want to care about the outcome.
Stir the senses. The more parts of the brain you can stimulate, the more likely
the story will stick. In general, people tend to be “overstoried” so to speak,
saturated with them to the point that it takes something novel and somewhat
unique, or something that floods the senses, to be remembered. As with any
other form of learning, novel experiences have the potential to be most
impactful.
Intonation. In the telling of a captivating tale, certain words are stressed for
emphasis or dramatic effect. For example, in the sentence, “I lived for that
moment,” it makes a difference if “lived” is stressed versus “that” or “moment.”
Pitch, flows of speech, junctures, and pauses also convey nuanced meaning.
Articulation. Every single word in a story is pronounced orally, with infinite
variations. Consonants and vowels may be short or long: “What doooo you
want?” versus “What d’ya want?” Depending on the phrasing and emphasis, you
can communicate different implied meanings that can be interpreted in a variety
of ways.
Dialect. The use of dialogue is a central feature of any good story in which the
descriptive narrative is suspended in favor of verbal action. This gives listeners
(or readers) the opportunity to more actively form their own impressions of what
is happening. When switching roles or voices, it’s often helpful to use distinctive
dialects and voices to differentiate characters. Showing what is happening
through conversation is preferable to merely describing it. Compare, for
example, these two “descriptions” in a story:
“The guy just wouldn’t get off my case. He kept pestering me, bothering me, pressing me. It was
driving me crazy.”

Versus
“So,” the guy says to me, “Are you going to get it done or what?”
“Well, I was thinking...”
“Come on, man! You are so lame. Enough thinking. It’s time for some real action.”
“I understand that but...”
“No more buts. You are with me or on the sidelines. Which is it going to be?”

The listener interprets from this brief dialogue that the protagonist is being
pushed and bullied about something for which he feels reluctant. But in this
example, the listener is now an active partner in the story. Some of the best
writers (think Elmore Leonard, Barbara Kingsolver, Don Winslow, Toni
Morrison) rely on conversations between characters to move their stories
forward.
Tense. All stories take place within time parameters, usually in formal past
tense. There are also options to speak in the present tense to create a sense of
immediacy: “So, here I am, standing by the doorway and this guy is approaching
me with this slimy grin. I say to him, ‘Ah, can I help you?’”
False starts. In the vernacular of professional storytellers, false starts refer to
the awkward stops and starts and convoluted language of unrehearsed, informal
narrative. A good story is polished in the sense that it is a performance with
minimal hesitation or interruptions, flowing with purpose and rhythm. Milton
Erickson would often deliberately stop and start a story as part of his hypnotic
inductions to maximize confusion effects. One such example of me channeling
Erickson might sound something like this: “When you go outside to look for a
particular beetle I want you to pay attention to all the different species you might
find, over 3,000 of them. But I want you to look for a special one...no, not that
special...well, a little special. It’s called a long horn beetle—not its scientific
name, of course, which is spelled Cermanbycidie...No, I think it’s Cer-AM-
bycidie...No, actually it’s spelled C-E-R-A...no, make that C-E-R-I...No, that’s
not right either: It’s C-E-R-A-M-B-Y...Well, never mind. Doesn’t matter. Just
find one and bring it back to me.”
The story is only a small part of Erickson’s intervention, which is deliberately
designed to frustrate and confuse the client, all part of his fiendish plan. Most
superlative oral storytellers use dramatic pauses and false starts to maintain an
atmosphere of tension and uncertainty.
Sound effects. These are the equivalent of “special effects” in a play or film in
which you make the story come alive. Especially when speaking to a large
group, you might give yourself permission to be a little wild and crazy. When
Jeff Zeig, founder of the Evolution of Psychotherapy Conferences and steward
of the Milton Erickson Foundation, wanted to push the creative limits of his
craft, he decided to take acting lessons so that he might become a more
entertaining and effective storyteller.
Gestures and movements. As mentioned with respect to sound effects, all too
often we inhibit ourselves by sitting in a chair and calmly and dispassionately
telling a story. Yet it is through drama that we command attention, which
includes using your body, mimes, gestures, and movements to act out the action
with maximum effect.
Authenticity and immediacy. Whether we cite as examples Garrison Keillor of
Prairie Home Companion; Ira Glass of This American Life; Chris Rock or
George Carlin in stand-up comedy; Bob Marley, Eminem, Adele, or Bob Dylan
in lyrical music; Alfred Hitchcock or Stephen Spielberg in films; or J. K.
Rowling or Stephen King in suspense novels, each of them developed a
signature narrative style that reflects their particular range and skills. Good oral
storytelling is about finding or creating your own authentic voice.
If you are moved in the telling of a tale, so too will the audience feel this
passion. Since retelling a story (which we often tend to do in sessions) is like
being a performer on stage, it means accessing the original feelings and allowing
them to bleed through. When I tell stories to groups about my work in Nepal, I
frequently and effortlessly bring myself to tears, thinking and feeling vividly
about the plight of children I have held. I go there in my head—and especially to
my heart. I imagine myself completely immersed in the experience, reliving a
particularly poignant event that moved me—and continues to do so.
Details. Details. The brain is primarily a visual organ among its other
functions, built to store images that might be useful for us to practice skills,
tasks, and roles in the future without investing the energy of actually doing them
(Ramachandran, 2011). A good story is crafted in the details, describing
characters and settings with loving care, enough to create indelible images. We
are trying to create a picture so vivid it’s as though the client (or audience) is
there with us, accessing all the senses—seeing the action, feeling the emotions,
hearing the voices and sounds, even smelling the scents. As I mentioned in an
earlier chapter, this isn’t all that far fetched, considering that using scent-
embedded words and images actually triggers the olfactory part of the brain.
Almost all successful storytellers are masters of detail. “A novel for me is an
immersive experience,” reveals George R. R. Martin, prolific author of the Game
of Thrones novels, “where I feel as if I have lived it and that I’ve tasted the food
and experienced the sex and experienced the terror of battle. So I want all of the
detail, all of the sensory things—whether it’s a good experience, or a bad
experience, I want to put the reader through it. To that mind, detail is necessary,
showing not telling is necessary, and nothing is gratuitous” (Rosenberg, 2011).
Focus. Focus. Focus. People often tell stories that ramble all over the place.
Listeners wonder to themselves, “Where the hell is this going, and why is it
worth my time to pay attention?” Just consider how often you are bored out of
your mind listening to people tell stories that don’t seem to be going anywhere
or that take way too long to get to the point. It’s fine to sketch characters,
describe scenes, build toward a climax, but make sure your audience stays with
you.
If there is one consistent rule in sharing stories in therapy, it would follow the
same standard as everything else we do—that is, to have a specific rationale and
desired outcome as a result of the intervention. In the case of stories, it certainly
helps to define the goal intended—whether that is persuasion, inspiration,
support, illustration, insight, or empowerment and to keep that in mind
throughout the narrative.

IT’S ALL ABOUT ENACTMENT AND DRAMA

One of the most challenging and transformative aspects of telling stories occurs
when the “performance” is really, really dramatic. Clients are often tickled and
enthralled when they see us really getting into a story. They feel special that we
are putting so much energy and creativity into the story, using different voices
and gestures, imagining ourselves as acting in a one-person play or performance.
Some therapists even find it useful to keep props on hand that can be used to
embellish stories and make the narrative become even more alive.
All of these devices, all the techniques and strategies, all of the mechanisms of
narrative power, serve one purpose above all others, and that is to create
suspense. All great stories offer tension and the sound of approaching footsteps
that something is about to happen. In the words of British playwright William
Archer, “Drama is anticipation mingled with uncertainty.”
Among all these suggestions, and many others to follow, the number-one
attribute of a great storyteller is much the same as an exceptional therapist:
someone who pays very close attention to others’ reactions, making adjustments
to coincide with the audience’s level of engagement. There is nothing that is
more puzzling than sitting in an audience, listening to a story, when it is obvious
that everyone in the room has checked out—and yet the speaker continues to
follow the script without doing what is needed to bring others along.
Stories told in therapy and teaching are neither finished products to be recited
nor static entities that have been rehearsed and performed. Rather, they represent
organic developmental processes based on careful observations of client
responses and level of engagement, re-created and adjusted according to the
moment and context. Rather than repeating a favorite story that has been told
many times before in basically the same way, the goal is often to tell the tale in
such a way that it feels special.
Ordinarily, the recommended sequence for employing stories in session begins
with the sharing of the anecdote, in whatever form such as a retelling of a
favored tale, fable, saga, or legend; a reading from a published source; a personal
story from one’s own life; or a created metaphor that reflects the client’s salient
issues. The next step involves some kind of elaboration in which the therapist
makes sure that the client sees the relevance and personal application of the
narrative to his or her life and situation. This is followed by a discussion of the
issues raised, making connections between the presented themes and real-life
applications.
One alternative approach takes a completely opposite view in that by
explaining and interpreting a story we dilute its magic and mystery. Following a
more indigenous tradition, we could also deliberately not clarify or elucidate
what was shared, forcing the client to live with, and make sense of, the
ambiguity. As we are well aware, clients tend to spend a lot more time thinking
about issues when they are left to struggle with their confusion and create their
own meaning from what they think they heard. This has been one hallmark of
some therapeutic approaches in which clients are presented with some novel,
interesting, or provocative intervention and then left to figure out what it means
on their own. Some of our field’s most inventive and influential practitioners,
including Virginia Satir, Fritz Perls, Milton Erickson, Carl Whitaker, Jay Haley,
and Irvin Yalom, were famous for introducing complex and confusing stories
that their clients were left to sort out for themselves.
STORIES ARE RELATIONAL

Before we apply many of these principles to other storytelling settings in which

therapists might find themselves, it is critical that we remember that stories
represent connections between the teller and the listeners. Like any teaching
enterprise, whether in the classroom, work setting, athletic field, or therapy
office, process is as important as content. It is about the relationship as much as
the stories told, especially the kind of relationship in which there is trust, caring,
and respect. Within narrative therapy, for example, although the essence of the
process is about honoring and “thickening” clients’ stories, such an approach
always takes place in a relational context in which meaning is derived from the
mutually lived experiences of the participants (Richert, 2003). This is what has
been called the “relational meaning” of stories, which is quite different from
what clients may verbalize (Safran & Muran, 2000; Wachtel, 1993; Yalom,
1980). In the parlance of narrative therapy, the stories that clients bring to
sessions are highly restrictive and “problem saturated.” It is primarily through
the relationship created that these dominant stories are challenged and
reauthored to reflect more accurately not only the client’s experience but also the
context of the story in the larger culture and especially within the therapeutic
relationship.
Stories are never told in isolation. Almost by definition they involve a teller
and an audience that are connected in a relationship. Especially in therapy, or
any other helping relationship, the stories help to create relational bonds. “We
come together as a community,” writes Louise Gilbert (2011) about her personal
struggle and recovery, “in our sitting room, in sacred space or in a coffee shop.
We share our joy and pain, our surprises and disappointments, successes and
failures and we try to make some sense of it all. We listen to find some way to
connect. We give reassurance or advice. Sometimes we say nothing because just
being there is enough. Storytelling is that moment in time when we are not
alone.”
One expert on storytelling (Yashinsky, 2004) relates an anecdote in which
television was first introduced to a remote African village. For the first few
weeks with this rather novel storytelling device that presented images and sound
effects, the villagers were transfixed. They abandoned their traditional
storyteller, who sat alone by the fire. But after the novelty wore off, one by one
the villagers returned to the old man, a phenomenon that seemed quite peculiar
to the anthropologist who lived in residence. The anthropologist asked one of the
villagers why on earth they would lose interest in the television, given that it
brought stories from all over the world and told them with so many dramatic
visual and auditory effects. The villagers agreed that indeed the television knew
many stories but what was far more important to them was that the storyteller in
the village knew them: They had a personal relationship.
As mentioned, stories are thus never static entities, at least the good ones.
They are adapted and contextualized for the audience, depending on the setting
and mood. Yashinsky (2004) describes an experience of telling one of his
favorite stories to a group of Inuit children in Northern Canada. It was his go-to
story, the one that never failed to elicit gales of laughter when the character falls
into a mud puddle. But this time it failed miserably as the children looked at him
with blank stares. Why? In this land of ice and snow the children had never seen
a mud puddle before and didn’t know what it was. Once he changed the story to
falling into a snowdrift, the kids thought it was hilarious—and far more relevant
to their lives.

TELLING STORIES TO GROUPS AND LARGE AUDIENCES

Most of the focus of this book is about storytelling in the context of therapy,
even though many of the strategies apply equally well to talks in front of large
audiences. You’ve no doubt noticed that most speakers are not very good at this.
They are boring. They drone on far too long. They read from notes. They show
too many slides with too many words, which they sometimes even read along
with those who are present. They even turn their backs to the audience, as if the
focus should be on the words on the screen rather than the person who is
speaking. Using media and resources can indeed enhance any story or talk but
only when used judiciously and strategically. And if the average attention span to
sit passively and listen is about 20 minutes, then talking any longer than that is
more about self-indulgence than about actually connecting to an attentive
audience.
Therapists are ideally suited to tell improvised stories because we are used to
thinking on our feet, going with the flow, reading what is happening in the
moment, and making continual adjustments. It never ceases to amaze me how a
speaker or a storyteller can look out at an audience and see so clearly that people
are checked out, bored out of their minds, not at all engaged, and yet they
continue with their planned agenda anyway! The best at their craft see stories as
collaborations between themselves and the audience, altering the trajectory,
pace, and style according to what appears to be working best.
We are well aware of the “primacy-recency” effects when people tend to
remember how a story begins and ends but forget a lot in the middle. That’s why
it is so important to begin any talk or presentation with a story that will touch
listeners and keep them engaged. Instead, what has become the norm is that
speakers begin with their slide presentations, which violates every known
principle of narrative engagement: It is predictable, distracting, and actually
interferes with the ability to connect with the audience. “It is a spectacle of
inertia,” observes one media expert, “a kind of audience assassination”
(Alexander, 2011, p. 10).
The best presentations that use visual aids are those that leave the audience
breathlessly waiting for the next surprising slide or image rather than counting
down the monotonous slog of words and numbers on the screen. It is like
presenting a puzzle with individual pieces that the audience is required to put
together.
When telling a story to an individual client, group, or large audience, we
might begin with the “hook” to set up interest. The context might be about
finding strength and resilience in the face of despair and hopelessness. The
choices might include telling a metaphorical tale, a story we create to illustrate
key ideas we wish to introduce, or a far more personal example, such as one that
comes from my own life.
“Things have never been the same for me since that day I died and was
brought back to life.”
Pause.
A slide shows me curled up in a sleeping bag, only my long curly hair is
visible sticking out of the top. There are several other people huddled around me
with concerned looks on their faces.
I describe how I ended up in such a life-threatening predicament, hypothermic
and on the edge of death with my core body temperature plummeting to critical
levels. I had been hiking in New Zealand and crossed an estuary that I had been
told would be at low tide, but, in fact, I was up to my nose in freezing water. By
the time I reached the far shore I was hallucinating and then passed out
unconscious. I awoke to find myself naked, surrounded by other naked bodies (I
wondered whether this was heaven) that were warming me to bring me back to
life. After I recovered, I spent a full day in bed, sobbing and remorseful over my
stupidity, terrified that my family almost lost me.
At this point in the narrative, it almost doesn’t matter where I go next—I’m
pretty sure the audience will follow, wondering about how all this happened, as
well as the aftermath. The themes we will explore together might be about how
life-threatening events or trauma get our attention to deal with things we might
have otherwise ignored or minimized. But the main point of this example is that
I would make sure that the audience is watching me and my emotional reactions
as I share this memory. The last thing that I want them watching is something
else displayed on a screen.

STORIED PLOTS

Screenwriting coach and film director Robert McKee (2003) has noticed that in
the worlds of commerce and most professional settings, presentations rely way
too much on slides and data and not nearly enough on stories designed to move
people on a deep emotional level. If the goal is to persuade people to do things
for which they feel hesitant or reluctant, or to be truly engaged, the intention is
to appeal to the heart, not just the intellect. McKee speaks with special authority,
having mentored dozens of Academy Award–winning writers and directors. He
advocates to aspiring storytellers in any context to avoid banal and predictable
plots that follow simple chronology. Instead, he celebrates the mind’s ability to
assemble bits and pieces into a coherent narrative: “Fear is when you don’t know
what’s going to happen. Dread is when you know what’s going to happen and
there is nothing you can do to stop it” (Fryer, 2003, pp. 53–54).
It is this dread—of cruelty, pain, abuse, loneliness, neglect, abandonment, and
yes, death, that is often denied and disowned, that finds its way in the most
compelling and riveting stories. “Ever since human beings sat around the fire in
caves, we’ve told stories to help us deal with the dread of life and the struggle to
survive. All great stories illuminate the dark side” (Fryer, 2003, p. 54). This is
what McKee describes as the “truth” of the human condition in the search for
balance and resolution; all of this is predicated on self-knowledge and personal
clarity to access one’s own experiences to reveal truths with honesty and
compassion.
Since there are only a finite number of plots that are employed in stories, they
are often reduced to a few main themes that basically follow a familiar formula.
In the media, for example, a news report usually begins with “The Hero Against
Difficult Odds”: someone wins the lottery, a game or reality show, or rescues
someone else. A second variation reflects cultural values of self-sacrifice in
which the subject of the story took personal risks for some greater good. A third
revolves around natural disasters, humans versus Nature (extreme weather
events). And a fourth involves some kind of conflict with authority or
bureaucracy, presenting a story about tribal conflict, class warfare, racial strife,
political squabbles, or grasps for power. Conflict also features prominently in
other popular stories that represent either interpersonal conflict (war, arguments,
murder, theft, crime, sports) or internal conflict (addictions, self-destructive
behavior, tragedies, and triumphs). That’s it, folks; that’s what forms the basis
for almost all news stories.
 Regardless of the plot selected, which in the case of therapy often involves
stories of a quest or rebirth, there are still unlimited variations of themes that can
be explored or highlighted, depending on the context and audience. While it may
be true that Cinderella, Shrek, My Fair Lady, and Slumdog Millionaire follow a
similar template of rags to riches, they present the material in very different
ways.

APPLICATIONS TO SPECIFIC CLIENT POPULATIONS

It’s worth mentioning again that one mistake that therapists often make is to tell
“stock” stories, those we’ve told a dozen or more times before. It is as if
someone hit “play” on a playlist, and we dutifully recite the standard version of
our favorite story to illustrate some theme that seems to fit. The truth is that
sometimes we are just lazy and it’s easier to function on autopilot. Yet in order
for a story to have maximum impact, it is imperative that we customize it for the
audience, not only make it directly relevant to their interests and presenting
problems but also craft it in a way that is suited to their culture, gender, and age.
Storytelling is an especially useful and creative therapeutic strategy with
children, both through traditional methods of delivery as well as digital delivery
systems that employ computers, Internet, video, mobile devices, social
networking, cameras, and other multimedia (Sawyer & Willis, 2011). Adapting
ideas from the classroom, there are all sorts of inventive ways therapy could be
transformed from its current rigid parameters and established rituals that
emphasize talking in opposite chairs. Imagine clients being asked to reveal and
explore their unresolved issues and seminal experiences through prepared
narratives in whatever form feels most interesting to them.
It has been standard practice to ask new clients to bring in family photo
albums to talk about their history and relationships. As technology has evolved,
such images and videos are now stored in one’s pocket on phones and digital
devices. On a different level, individuals, families, or groups can be assigned the
task to share their stories through a variety of media, some of which transcend or
bypass oral language. This has been one significant contribution of various kinds
of play therapy that help people to tell their stories through visual, audio, digital,
or expressive arts (Burns, 2005; McClean, 2007; Pehrsson, 2005; Pillary, 2009).
Other approaches to working with children and adolescents emphasize
collaboration and coauthorship of healing stories with clients. One structure, for
example, emphasizes asking a series of graduated questions to deepen the
narratives as trust and intimacy are developed (Slivinske & Slivinske, 2014).
Initially children may be asked to make up a story, or listen to a story, about
characters involved in some kind of adventure or challenge. The first-level
questions invite them to talk about the problems faced by the characters, thereby
“externalizing” them in the tradition of narrative therapy methods. The next level
of inquiry asks them to talk about someone they know, a friend or family
member, who might have similar problems to those represented in the story.
Each subsequent level of questioning invites clients to go deeper, as they begin
to personalize the experience. Specific questions are asked such as the following:
• What did you learn from this story that has been helpful to you?
• What are some strengths that you have that might be useful to you in a
situation like this?
• What might you have done differently than the characters in the story?
• What are some skills and abilities that you have that might have served
you well in a situation like this?
• What are you going to do differently based on the lessons of this story we
created together?
There is obviously a strength-based philosophy running throughout this
approach, one that is designed to identify resources, gifts, abilities, and skills that
clients can access in order to address their own problems that may parallel those
represented in the story (Walsh, 2007). Yet there are also many other modalities
to tell stories that can also be employed within the context of any client’s culture
and situation, including music, dance, art, play, and other forms of enactment.
In one such project introduced in a school setting, children and adolescents
were invited to create digital stories that demonstrated their most useful coping
strategies when faced with difficult problems. Students sketched plotlines,
narration, and dialogue on storyboards and then produced and directed products
in whatever form was most appropriate and appealing. Interestingly, it was
precisely the breakthroughs in storytelling technology that appeared to most
interest the students. They were encouraged to focus as much on the creative
delivery of the narrative as the therapeutic content, which seemed to open up
new avenues of disclosure and personal sharing.

A SAMPLE OF STORYTELLING STRATEGIES

In some ways it limits options and creativity to present a catalogue of

storytelling techniques and interventions because the excellence of the craft is so
much related to personal style and context, as well as discovering and
developing your own unique voice. Some of the most significant contributions to
literature, film, music, media, and other storytelling modalities occur through an
original narrative voice.
Nevertheless, surveying the landscape and reviewing possible pathways can
stimulate new possibilities and encourage practitioners to experiment with
various options that have been tried before. For instance, related to the use of
metaphorical stories as healing agents, I have already mentioned several
examples of resources that present hundreds of different options that have been
organized according to therapeutic goals (Barker, 1985; Burns, 2001, 2005,
2007; Donovan, 2012; Gallo, 2014; Gordon, 1978; Hammond, 1990; Karia,
2012; Lankton & Lankton, 1989).

Working Through Abuse and Neglect

The particular means by which stories are offered—as anecdotes told in sessions
or introduced through books, films, music, or any other media—is much less
important than the actual content, as long as they focus on communicating social
knowledge (Mar & Oatley, 2008) and are directly (or at least indirectly) related
to client needs and goals. They can involve reading and telling stories that have
been published, creating and customizing stories for the clinical situation or, in
the case of children suffering from major trauma, helping them to construct their
own stories of imagined worlds in which they feel empowered and healed, as
well as having their experiences acknowledged.
In the first of several storytelling techniques that will be reviewed, Pomerantz
(2007) describes how she helps children to work through their abuse or neglect
by collaborating with them to tell (and draw!) stories that feature alternative
resourceful identities. In one example of this technique in action, I was working
in a remote Dalit (lower caste) village in Southern India, which housed a number
of children who had been both traumatized by a tsunami and neglected or
abandoned by their parents. Many of the children (and their teachers) had all but
given up hope that they would ever recover from these brutal experiences; the
children themselves were understandably reluctant to talk about them. But when
they were encouraged to draw pictures of their families and then make up stories
about adventures they would share together in the future, a whole new world of
hope opened up, one in which they were finally favored by the Hindu gods and
permitted to pursue multiple options for the future. I took instant photographs of
the children and their storied drawings as a remembrance of their dreams, one
that they could literally hold in their hands.
FIGURE 11.1 The best stories are those that move people emotionally, especially those that are evocative
and dramatic, that touch listeners in a personal way that seems relevant to their lives. In one sense, when
therapists tell stories we are as much entertainers and performers as we are helpers and healers.
© Olimpik/Shutterstock
FIGURE 11.2 Children in a lower caste village in Southern India were invited to tell stories about their
families. The children then asked me to draw a picture of my family and tell a story about them.
Photo supplied by author.

Reauthoring Stories
One place to begin is with the standard operating procedure of narrative therapy
as originally conceived by Michael White and his colleagues (White, 1994,
2007; White & Epston, 1990). In their language, clients enter with “problem-
saturated” stories, those that only keep them stuck in feelings of powerlessness
and helplessness. Whether a solution-focused therapist honing in on “exceptions
to the problem,” or inviting clients to explore “unique outcomes” in the jargon of
narrative therapy, the goal is much the same—to collaborate on alternative
stories that emphasize examples of resourcefulness or constructive action rather
than focusing only on what has been going wrong.
When working with those with chronic conditions, intractable problems, and
debilitating illnesses, often clients see their primary role in sessions is to tell
stories only about their discomforts, frustrations, failures, disappointments, and
annoying symptoms. A woman suffering from cancer uses every single minute
of the hour, plus any extra time she can beg, borrow, or steal, to complain
endlessly about all that she has suffered. She is devastated by the deterioration of
her physical appearance. She is wracked by fatigue, nausea, dizziness, insomnia,
and digestion difficulties—the list goes on and on. If given the chance, she could
fill hours, days, weeks, with a litany of all that has betrayed her within her body,
not to mention her disappointment in friends and family who are not nearly as
supportive as she’d prefer. From the first moment she walks to the door, until the
time is over and beyond, she will tell story after story about the trials and
tribulations of her chemotherapy, surgeries, and radiation treatment. And she
believes that this is what therapy is for—to dump out all her complaints, even
though she often leaves feeling worse for wear.
Yet when the woman is asked a few simple questions designed to reshape
these stories, she is predictably resistant to abandoning the usual pattern. “When
was a time this week when you felt reasonably good, in spite of everything you
have to deal with?” “Tell me a story of a time when you felt really supported by
someone?” “Describe a time in the last week when you didn’t give in to the
cancer and fought back against it.” “What is an example of other times in your
life when you have faced difficult challenges yet redoubled your effort to deal
with them?” “Tell me about one time this week, even for a minute, when you
‘forgot’ you had cancer and felt almost normal.” These are the prompts and
probes that encourage clients to restory their problems in far more adaptive and
functional ways.

Prescribing Novels
Earlier we examined how and why fiction can often be more impactful and
influential than self-help books or nonfiction: Readers tend to suspend their
critical voices and simply jump into the story as if they are a part of the action
and identify with the characters. This results in far more emotional arousal, and
insights, when people see themselves revealed. And there is convincing evidence
that the effects of fictional narratives become integrated into beliefs on a
relatively permanent basis (Appel & Richter, 2007).
An African American woman, for example, shares how reading novels like
The Color Purple helped her to find her own identity: “When I came of age in
the early 1980s, there were few other complex mirrors of the Black female
experience in literature that I had access to, so to see myself revealed in the
characters written by Walker and Strange was therapeutic and edifying in a way
that reading the characters of White writers that I also loved, like Judy Blume
and Sidney Sheldon, was not.” In an article that appeared in the Atlantic Monthly
about books that have changed people, others described how they found their
careers, recovered from grief, felt empowered as women, challenged their
prejudices, expanded their worldviews, or found their primary identities, all as a
result of a novel they read (Fung, 2012).

And Movies, Too!

Because of the intense immersion experience of film, stimulating multiple
senses, some therapists prescribe films to their clients, especially those directly
relevant to client struggles and conflicts (Hesley & Hesley, 2001). After viewing
a particular movie, for instance, a mother and teenage daughter watching the
film Thirteen about adolescent belligerence and acting out in a multitude of
ways, the family would be encouraged to talk about what struck them during the
viewing and how they relate it to their own experience.
The influence from films and books can move in both directions, either
opening up new avenues for exploration or closing down options because of
myths that are perpetuated in popular media that are neither accurate nor
particularly instructive (Wedding & Niemiec, 2003). We are certainly well aware
of all the ways that therapists are portrayed in films as clueless, hapless idiots
who are not only terribly narcissistic and self-important but also fairly
incompetent, if not unethical.
Given that we want to be as careful recommending a film or book as we
would prescribing a medication, there are whole catalogues of films that
therapists recommend to their clients in order to confront issues; promote
insight; or deal with particular issues such as abandonment, abuse, addiction,
grief and loss, codependency, family conflict, physical illness, and gender or
sexual identity, as well as a host of emotional or mental disorders (Solomon,
1995, 2001) (see Table 11.2).
TABLE 11.2

Selected Films That Depict Mental Illness or Emotional Disorders

Perks of Being a Wallflower Sling Blade
Girl, Interrupted Silver Linings Playbook
A Beautiful Mind The Fisher King
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest Ordinary People
The Hours Shutter Island
Mrs. Dalloway As Good As It Gets
Black Swan The Prince of Tides
Born on the 4th of July We Need to Talk About Kevin
The Aviator The Soloist
Lars and the Real Girl What’s Eating Gilbert Grape
Rain Man Fight Club
Vertigo The Virgin Suicides

Clients often want to talk about the films they’ve seen, or the books they’ve
read, but another more proactive variation is actually to prescribe them to
highlight particular issues of exploration or to facilitate identification with
characters who are struggling with similar issues. In Silver Linings Playbook,
about two individuals suffering from rather quirky emotional disorders, there are
powerful themes related to the hunger for acceptance and understanding, the
search for intimacy, resolving loss issues, and the negotiation of family
pressures. Even in historical films such as Lincoln, there are obvious avenues to
explore adaptations to depression.

Use of Art Forms to Tell Stories

From the very beginnings of our profession, art has played an important role in
diagnosis and treatment through various projective instruments in which clients
are essentially asked to tell stories about what they see. The whole field of art
therapy emerged, in part, to allow people to bypass verbal speech and express
themselves through all kinds of artistic media, whether painting, drawing,
sculpting, making collages, creating films, or taking photographs (Wadeson,
1980). And this doesn’t include all the other kinds of expressive therapies in the
form of interpretative dance and movement.
Like many of the different modalities in which therapy is delivered, art
therapy techniques require additional training to help clients tell their stories. A
number of recent resources (Edwards, 2014; Hogan & Coulter, 2014; Malchiodi,
2006, 2012; Rubin, 2010) are also available for those practitioners wishing to
augment their skills.

Stories in Action
Stories don’t even need words or drawings at all but can involve only action.
Serlin (2007) uses her training as a movement therapist to invite her clients to
express the stories of their lives, past and present, through the language of their
bodies. In the tradition of Virginia Satir, who was fond of encouraging families
to act out their relationships and conflicts through “sculpting” methods, clients in
groups or individual sessions can be instructed to talk through action.
Another sort of enacted story involves the use of rituals and ceremonies that
signify an underlying theme or narrative, such as those that are common among
indigenous people. Mehl-Madrona (2010), a Native American psychiatrist,
makes the point that within contemporary practice we rely on our own set of
ritualistic ceremonies that we call “mental status exams” or “court-administered
ceremonies of commitment” that are not all that dissimilar from those among
native peoples, only with a different intention.
Ritualistic enactments represent stories of the past that invite participants to
relive significant events in a culture. The “Nightway Ceremony” described by
Mehl-Madrona re-creates the sacred journey of a hero from the Dene tribe of
New Mexico in which past mistakes and errors of judgment are forgiven and
rectified through divine intervention. The dance helps people to experience their
own vicarious forgiveness for lapses, but it does so within the context of
community bonding. Many of the world’s religions offer similar rites of
forgiveness for past sins, such as confession within the Catholic Church or Yom
Kippur within Judaism.
Therapists such as Bradford Keeney (Keeney, 2007; 2009; Keeney & Keeney,
2012; Kottler, Carlson, & Keeney, 2004) who work within indigenous traditions
routinely integrate rituals in their sessions, many of which represent
individualized enactments of stories in their life. As one example, Bradford
Keeney described helping an Ojibwa medicine man who had never had a vision
(and felt like a fraud) by inventing a ritual in which the healer would collect
twigs in the forest and carefully arrange them under his bed in a circle, beneath
his heart, with an offering to the gods (Kottler & Carlson, 2003). That night he
had a powerful vision in which he imagined himself inside a huge tent that held
all his ancestors. His grandfather stepped forward and dipped his finger into a
bowl to paint a line of blood down the middle of the medicine man’s forehead
and nose. When he awoke, he actually had a visible line exactly where his
grandfather it placed it in the dream!
Although Keeney or any self-respecting shaman would never think of
interpreting or explaining an assigned ritual, the task was specifically created in
such a way to preserve its mystery. According to this particular approach, stories
and ritualized enactments can actually lose their power once they are understood
rather than simply embraced as a direct experience. They are designed,
paradoxically, not to make sense of things but rather to accept that which cannot
be reduced to rational or logical explanation.

Writing or Telling the Next Chapter of Life

Lisa Severy, a counselor who works with university students, frames all of life
experience as a series of stories that build on one another, each a separate
chapter in a lifelong saga (Murphy, 2012). She begins her sessions by asking
clients to tell her about their favorite story and then to explain what they think it
was about and how it influenced them. Perhaps not all that surprising, she has
noticed over time that their description of themes they find in the stories are
more about them than they are about the film or book they cited. Since most
people find it rather daunting, not to mention time consuming, to talk or write
about their whole life autobiography, she prefers clients to just tell the story of
the next chapter of their lives. Instead of reducing a complex and rich set of
experiences to a reductionist summary, she encourages clients to expand and
broaden the narrative to include all their unique cultural, stylistic, and individual
features. She also finds that such therapeutic tasks not only prove helpful to
clients in clarifying and reaching their goals, but she finds it so personally
satisfying and fun to be part of such a process.
In a similar vein, every session of therapy represents a separate chapter in an
ongoing story that represents what occurs in the journey. Clients can be invited
to think about, and take responsibility for, this “story” they are living and
recording, whether in the form of journal entries or a portfolio of sorts that
contains artifacts from the journey.

Prescribed Life Stories

When dealing with specific clinical issues, it can often be useful to recommend
biographies about prominent or famous people who struggled with similar
problems (Clifford, Norcross, & Sommer, 1999). As mentioned in Chapter 6 on
how personal identities are shaped by biographies, such books have been found
to help clients to identify with those who tried multiple options to address the
difficulties, help them to feel less alone in their struggles, reduce shame, inspire
and encourage them from others who have suffered, and promote deeper
understanding of what might be going on.
In the context of one particular issue as an example, parental alienation
syndrome, Baker (2006) offers book reviews of several recommended stories
that have proven most useful. Each is a true story of a custody battle or family
conflict that sometimes ended poorly because of the participants’ stubbornness
and rigidity, and sometimes turned out quite well when certain strategies were
followed. The stories became subtle ways of introducing alternative ideas
without having to “hard-sell” them in sessions.
Each of us remembers as a child or adolescent how reading stories about
people we admired inspired us to reach beyond our own limited goals, or even
help us to form new aspirations we had previously never considered. As adults,
such influence from biographies can be no less powerful. Reading about Lance
Armstrong’s recovery from cancer in It’s Not About the Bike, the incredible
resilience and courage of Louie Zamperini in Unbroken or Anne Frank in The
Diary of a Young Girl, the power of healing within dysfunctional families in Pat
Conroy’s The Death of Santini, or survival from an incredibly dysfunctional
family in Jeannette Wall’s memoir, The Glass Castle, all provide solace and a
kind of instruction manual for how to make the best of difficult circumstances.

Digital Storytelling
One of the most exciting, novel, and creative adaptations of storytelling involves
the use of digital media. This emerging form of narrative is a kind of textual
system in that people can express themselves in an emotionally evocative and
authentic documentary style using a variety of media, including video,
photography, music, voice, mobile devices, social networking, phones,
computers, and tablets, “offering people a repertoire of creative skills to enable
them to tell their own unique stories in a way that captures the imagination of
others—whether close family members or the whole world” (Hartley &
McWilliam, 2009).
Perhaps one of the most innovative storytelling methods involves helping
people without any particular technological competence to master the media of
their choice. Preschool children keep memory books of drawings and photos,
older children learn video editing, or older adults learn how to blog or use social
media to tell their stories (Pillay, 2009; Sadik, 2008; Sawyer & Willis, 2011).
Topics and assignments can vary, depending on the particular needs and interests
of clients, but they often involve exploring possible resolutions of their conflicts
or solutions to their problems through digital experimentation that expands their
options.
I was working with one client who was making limited progress in our
sessions. We mutually decided it might be best for him to take a sabbatical, so to
speak, and experiment with an alternative therapeutic experience that might be
more beneficial. The man decided to take a temporary leave from his job and
travel the world for a few months. He was by no means wealthy or privileged; in
fact, he had never ventured beyond a few hundred miles of his home.
Rather than planning a structured itinerary, he decided that he would just go
wherever the spirit moved him. He had been relatively technologically avoidant
most of his life. He still had a flip phone when the rest of the world moved on to
mobile devices. We spent some time talking about how he wanted to tell the
story of his adventures and revelations during the sojourn and decided that
sending postcards to friends and relatives probably wouldn’t do the job. He spent
the time preparing for the trip learning how to master the basics of Facebook and
social media. He invested in a new mobile device. He had someone help him set
up a blog. And for the first time in his life he felt like a writer and storyteller,
recording and “publishing” his experiences through photos, videos, texts, blog
entries, and posts on social media.
Once he returned from the quest, the time we spent in sessions was often used
to integrate what he’d learned and to make sense of what happened. We
reviewed the chapters of the “book” he’d written during the trip, identifying
themes that would assist and guide him during the next stage of his life.

Sharing Circles
Within many indigenous groups, there is a tradition of gathering together the
community in order to share stories about the past, as well as present events and
experiences. These are often sacred rituals in which stories are offered as gifts to
the people, preserving important traditions as well as creating new ones. These
are treated not only as opportunities for instruction but also for healing, a process
that has since been adopted from First Nation people of North America and
applied to other contexts such as feminist groups (Baldwin, 1998).
Although there are many different adaptations of these story circles,
participants are encouraged to speak from their hearts, to listen to and honor the
stories that are shared, and to allow each person to have a voice rather than just a
few elders (or those who ramble). Sometimes a feather is used as the instrument
to signal who may speak without interruption, sharing whatever is in his or her
heart or mind. The circle may continue until each person has a chance to share a
story, with everyone present waiting respectfully for a turn.
I was once invited to speak at a conference that was attended by many Native
American counselors and therapists who worked on local reservations and
pueblos. I did my best to honor their traditions and offered content that I thought
would be most appropriate for this setting and context. Yet I felt a bit uneasy
standing on a stage presenting a lecture, considering how at odds this was with
the indigenous practices of the local tribes. The audience was politely responsive
and the reactions seemed to be largely positive, even if it was a rather traditional
format.
When one of the other invited speakers was forced to cancel at the last minute,
I was asked if I would be willing to give another talk to the group during that
time slot. I felt like this was a chance for a “do-over,” an opportunity to be more
sensitive and congruent with my native colleagues in attendance. I agreed to do
another program, again about the power of storytelling, but only if I could
facilitate a sharing circle instead of a formal presentation. I had no agenda and
very little structure. I simply organized everyone in a circle and announced that
we were “open for business,” that anyone who wished could tell a story about
some challenge they were facing in their life and work, and how they managed
to find the strength and resources to deal with the difficulty. Then I just got out
of the way.
I would rate this program as one of the most fulfilling, stimulating, and
interesting “presentations” I’ve ever done at a conference. During the 90 minutes
we spent together more than a dozen different participants, almost all of them
Native American, shared a story about the incredible hardships they faced in
their work, the lack of support they felt, the intractable problems they faced, and
yet how they managed to make such a significant difference in their
communities. We laughed together. We cried together. Mostly we held one
another, physically and emotionally. And that was enough. More than enough.

CREATING YOUR OWN STORIES

One of the most fulfilling aspects of our profession involves those special
moments in session when we realize we are saying something for the first time.
For those of us who have been in practice for many years, much less decades, it
is hard to get past the sometimes repetitive and rehearsed nature of conversations
that take place. At times it feels like we have heard and seen it all before,
especially when we listen to ourselves repeat the same stories we have told a
dozen—or a hundred—times before. Then there are those other instances when
something truly magical seems to take place: We find ourselves in a totally
unscripted interaction telling a story we have just made up on the spot, or having
created a metaphor purely from imagination and a few cues in the room. That is
truly our growth edge, no matter what our level of experience.
George Burns (2001, 2007), a scholar and collector of healing stories, features
whole volumes of resources on the subject, after which he cautions clinicians not
to use them as they were presented but rather to treat them as case examples that
might be followed. Once we start thinking of ourselves more deliberately and
proactively as storytellers, it is far easier to become mindful of potential ideas
that can be converted into therapeutic tales. Whether dictating them, or jotting
notes on slips of papers or in mobile devices, the skills of storytelling develop
with systematic practice. We become more acute observers of our own
experience, more dedicated hoarders of tales that seem potentially inspiring, and
completely re-envision our professional role in ways that lead to more
interesting and creative breakthroughs.
 12
BEYOND STORIES

A COMMUNITY OF frogs was making its way through a deep forest, searching for a
new locale to settle down. They had been forced to relocate because the trees
that provided them shelter were disappearing after the huge, two-legged
creatures arrived in the area. They had been exiled from their homeland and
forced to explore new, unfamiliar territory. The frogs were tired and hungry after
such a long journey, so they were less vigilant about the dangers that might
befall them. Two of the frogs, Nigel and Victor, were assigned as scouts,
traveling ahead of the rest of the group in search of a place they might rest for
the evening or perhaps even become a permanent settlement.
Nigel and Victor were concentrating on their task, searching the woods
carefully, when they found a huge log blocking their path. They looked at one
another, shrugged as frogs are inclined to do, and then launched themselves over
the obstacle to find themselves landing in a deep pit.
By the time the rest of the group caught up with them, they found Nigel and
Victor jumping frantically to extricate themselves from the cavern. It seemed
that no matter how hard the two scouts tried, they couldn’t make it more than
halfway up the steep walls. Yet it was growing dark and the two frogs were
depleted from the long journey. Nevertheless, they kept trying with increasingly
futile efforts.
Their companions above found this a pitiful sight. They were gathered around
the pit, watching helplessly as their friends tried unsuccessfully to hop out of
their prison. They shook their heads in sorrow and called down to Nigel and
Victor, “There’s no way you’ll ever get out of there. It’s just too deep and you’ll
never jump high enough.”
Nevertheless, the two frogs at the bottom of the pit tried their best to jump as
high as they could, careening into the sides of the walls. They looked pitiful in
their feeble efforts to escape. Their friends only shook their heads in sadness,
calling down to them again.
“Please. Please. Please stop torturing yourselves. You are only making it
worse for all of us. You are just tiring yourselves and making us all feel terrible
because we can do nothing to help you. You may as well just give up so the rest
of us can be on our way.”
 Eventually, at the urging of his companions, Victor did indeed give up and lay
down to die. The poor fellow collapsed onto his back, kicked his legs a few
times, and then expired with a deep sigh.
The audience above started screaming down to their remaining scout, jumping
up and down, begging him to give up as well. “Please Nigel, don’t make it so
hard on yourself—and the rest of us. Just give up so we can move on.”
Strangely, their discouraging words only seemed to make Nigel more resolved
to try harder. In spite of the screams of the onlookers to surrender to this
hopeless situation, Nigel kept trying to jump higher and higher, gaining ground
until finally, remarkably, he gave it one last extraordinary effort. He took several
huge gulps of air, croaked as loud as he could, launched a running start, flexed
his legs, and leaped as high as he could right out of the pit!
The spectators just shook their heads in exasperation—and awe. They couldn’t
believe that anyone could be so persistent, so stubborn, so courageous in the face
of such insurmountable odds.
Once Nigel recovered from the Herculean effort, be brushed himself off and
staggered upright. Everyone gathered around him, cheering and patting him on
the back. Once the celebration ended, one of the frogs asked Nigel, “Why did
you keep trying to get out of the pit when we told you it was hopeless. Didn’t
you hear us telling you to give up?”
Nigel looked at him for several uncomfortable moments, then turned in a
circle to stare at everyone else, making them feel very nervous by the silence. To
some extent, they’d been used to this because Nigel was very quiet and rarely, if
ever, said anything. He was well liked in the community because they found him
such a good listener even if he didn’t have much to say.
Finally, Nigel started to croak incoherently and make gestures, eventually
making himself understood. “Don’t you know that I’m deaf?” he said to them. “I
couldn’t actually hear you yelling at me, but I saw you all jumping up and down.
I thought you were encouraging me and cheering me on, so I kept trying and
trying until I made it out.”
Now I don’t know what you take away from this classic Sufi story, but the
beauty of such parables, Zen tales, and similar teaching stories is that they leave
the work of meaning-making to the listener or reader. It is this active process of
collaboration between the storyteller and audience that helps people to
personalize and internalize the salient messages and core themes.
In other words, it isn’t the stories themselves that make a difference but rather
what lies beyond them. If you take away from this frog story that there is
incredible power in collective support to overcome adversity, even when it is
only an illusion, then we have singled out one of the most remarkable aspects of
therapeutic relationships. Just as clients can feel support from others, even when
it is only in their own minds, so too do clients often feel they are understood by
us when this is also just an illusion. The truth is that most of the time we barely
understand ourselves, much less what is really happening with our clients. But as
long as they feel understood, as long as they feel supported, then that is what
makes all the difference.
It is our job to provide the resources, experiences, stimulation, environment,
and yes, perceived support, for clients to jump out of their own pit. The stories
we offer them often provide the vehicle for them to find something, or even
create something, that helps them to escape the prison of their own making. We
may not understand how and why this happens, but the fact of the matter is that
stories touch people in ways that almost nothing else can come close to.

AS WE COME TO THE END OF OUR STORY

If there’s one thing you have to love about stories, it is that they always have
endings, even if they are ambiguous. Since we are now in the last chapter of the
story that composes this volume, you can feel the conclusion is drawing near.
And this is so unlike the experiences of daily life in which there are rarely clear
resolutions: Almost everything remains unfinished, incomplete, without
definitive answers to the questions that plague us most. “You get older,”
Garrison Keillor (2007, p. 237) observed, “and you realize there are no answers,
just stories. And how we love them.”
Considering that storytelling is universal around the world, and across history,
and that it is so critical to our survival as a way to make sense of experiences and
code memories, it is interesting that so many people have allowed this critical
life skill to lapse. It turns out that exceptional storytellers are able to read minds,
or at least infer what others are thinking in such a way that they can infuse their
characters and plot with multiple states of mind. “When the audience ponders
Shakespeare’s Othello,” evolutionary psychologist Dunbar (2005) cites as one
example, “they are obliged to operate at fourth order intentional levels.” In other
words, with four characters on stage at one time, there are four different minds
interacting, each with its own intentions and motives, plus a fifth level operating
in the interactions between them. What he means by this is that a great
storyteller must not only keep track of the consistent and distinctive beliefs,
values, and behavioral patterns of each character but also know something about
what the listeners or readers are likely to be thinking. It so happens that, as a
profession, therapists are ideally suited to read minds, even though we may not
develop ourselves as professional storytellers as systematically as we could. As
you’ve no doubt noticed, I’ve been making the strongest case that I can that
there are few skills more important to our work than being able to offer a
compelling, inspirational, and instructional story.

STORIES ALSO DISTORT REALITIES OF LIFE

Yes, stories are indeed incredibly powerful and influential for promoting
constructive changes, but that also makes them potentially dangerous. Stories are
just stories: They represent compressed, abbreviated, distorted, limited
descriptions of subjective experience. They do not represent any kind of truth, or
even accuracy, but often just a convenient illusion that can keep people stuck in
the past and severely restrict possibilities for the future.
Nigerian novelist Chimananda Adichie (2009) cautions against the dangers of
any single story. She recalls reading stories from Britain and America as an
African child that always featured blond, blue-eyed characters playing in the
snow and talking about the weather, descriptions that were beyond her
imagination, much less experience. She was impressionable and vulnerable, as
most children are, and this consistent theme of Western children’s books only
reinforced the idea that she would have no voice of her own. According to
Adichie, power is the means by which a single story of a people, an individual,
or an event becomes the definitive narrative. It is how people become
dispossessed or marginalized. It is how people become shackled, and it robs
them of their dignity.
One of the challenges therapists face is the unrealistic beliefs and defining
narrative that clients often bring to sessions, not only about their ludicrous
expectations regarding the way the process is supposed to work based on media
glamorization but also about the ways their lives are supposed to be lived. They
read or see biographies of famous people and feel like their own lives are
failures by comparison. Likewise, spy thrillers and mystery stories may teach
problem-solving skills and reveal hidden human motives, but they also remind
us how boring our lives are when compared to the characters in the stories.
Those individuals who watch a lot of television tend to overestimate the dangers
and risk of crime in the outside world, believing that their favorite shows reflect
some semblance of reality in which there are murderers, serial killers,
supernatural beings, treacherous colleagues, backstabbing neighbors, and
demented criminals running amuck (Gerbner Gross, Morgan, Signorielli, &
Shanahan, 2002; Shanahan & Morgan, 1999). In addition, they tend to believe in
simplistic concepts of clear causality, easily identifiable heroes and villains, a
just world in which everyone gets just what he or she deserves, and happy
endings in which good always triumphs over evil (Appel, 2008).
When people read or hear stories about people doing anything particularly
crazy, stupid, or irresponsible, it may increase the likelihood that they are also
more likely to act out in comparable ways (Appel, 2011). For instance, women
who read romance novels may assume that their own relationships should follow
those templates. It turns out that those who do read such stories are more likely
to engage in risky sex practices because characters in the stories are so
frequently “swept away by their passions” (Diekman, McDonald, & Gardner,
2000). One of the most frequent behavioral addictions that therapists are now
struggling to treat is working with men who live in the fantasy world of online
porn, spending hours each day in a world in which people act out all kinds of
sexual practices that they now desire from their current or future partners,
expectations that are doomed to disappointment (Maltz, 2009). And that doesn’t
even include the negative effects that result from living in a storied fantasy world
that actually prevents connecting in a real-life romantic relationship. Considering
this is now a $100 billion industry, we can only expect that these challenges will
continue to grow and that therapists will become even more motivated to
develop effective strategies for treating clients who are overimmersed in a
fantasy sexual universe (van Rooij, Zinn, Schoenmakers, & van de Mheen,
2012).
If it’s indeed true that stories in general, and books in particular, are among
our best friends, then we need to be awfully careful which friends we choose, not
only for ourselves but for our clients (Mar & Oatley, 2008). Stories have such
powerful influence on client self-perceptions, as well as the ways they view the
world. Likewise, our own views of the change process are similarly shaped by
the stories introduced to us by mentors, supervisors, and teachers.
To add to the potential difficulties, sometimes therapists tell themselves (and
their clients) stories about what they hear in session, presenting a somewhat
authoritative, definitive interpretation of the client’s own story, whether in the
form of a dream, fantasy, or personal disclosure. After asking a child to make up
a story using a structured process originally developed by Kritzberg (1975) and
Gardner (1971), it is suggested that psychodynamic practitioners then offer
interpretations of deeper meanings that would be evident. For instance, Brandell
(1984) employed this method with an 11-year-old boy suffering from enuresis.
After the child created a story of a king and queen who recently came into
power, the therapist concluded confidently that the story was about object loss,
separation anxiety, with evidence of defense mechanisms such as projection and
rationalization. While in this case that might very well be true, there is a danger
related to treating stories, any story, as representative of some definitive truth
about the client’s condition. This is one reason why in the last 20 years there has
been a distinct movement away from story interpretation by the therapist in favor
of the client’s own meaning-making.

STORIES ARE DOUBLE EDGED

We have concluded that all stories represent simplified versions of reality, far
more coherent and explanatory than the chaos and complexity of actual events as
they unfold. We have seen how humans naturally and automatically convert life
experiences into stories—without intention or conscious thought. This
“remembered self” is quite different than the “experiencing self,” the part of us
that simply lives without making sense of what happened and why. According to
Kahneman (2013), the remembered self is the one that is really in charge,
presenting a version of experience that doesn’t come close to capturing what is
actually felt and lived. This creates a reality for each one of us that is composed
of a number of fantasies, many of which seem as authentic and genuine as
anything that could possibly be imagined.
Another conclusion is that therapy could be partially viewed as an exploration
and engagement with a client’s personal story related to the self. Yet Brach
(2013) argues that it is easy to get lost in the stories, to honor them without
challenging the ways they can define the self in limited ways. She calls it the
“shadow side” of our profession that “people can get fixated on the story and
never go beyond it” (p. 34). She suggests that by delving into the spiritual realm,
especially with a focus on the differences between reality and truth, that a middle
way can be discovered. It is one thing to acknowledge that one’s beliefs,
assumptions, and stories feel real to us, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they
are “true.” From her Buddhist perspective, sometimes the goal is to quiet the
mind, to let go of stories that tell us that pain and discomfort of any kind are
unacceptable, and stay with direct experience instead of the stories we create and
tell about those events.
In one interesting study clients were asked to tell the story of their experience
in a session of therapy (Rennie, 1994). These narratives were analyzed in terms
of the client’s phenomenological experience while recalling the events that had
transpired. It was intriguing to discover that there were two distinct processes
that took place during the retelling, the first of which involved an initial
distancing from the disturbing material that had been addressed, often followed
by a renewed intense engagement with the issues. Rennie found overwhelming
support for the cathartic value of telling the stories, both to provide emotional
relief as well as promote new insights, but he also cautioned that clients can
become so lost in their stories that they can actually hide and avoid taking
constructive action. He concluded that storytelling in therapy is clearly a double-
edged sword that can efficiently cut through the essence of internal experience or
else result in increased chaos and complexity. It all depends on how the therapist
helps the client to process the telling. According to Rennie, “they not only had
thoughts, and feelings, they also had thoughts about their thoughts, feelings
about their feelings, desires about their desires, and various combinations of
these modes,” all of which can be increasingly bewildering (p. 241).
Ultimately, the usefulness and effects of stories in therapy depend on their
particular functions and meanings in the moment, whether used to stall, delay,
distract, and hide, or else to deepen direct engagement with important issues.
Even in those circumstances when clients appear to be rambling with a long-
winded story, triggering the therapist’s own impatience, there can often be some
solid work going on. “Can be” raises the important question of how and when
we help clients to move out of the story and into reflection, analysis, and
constructive action, depending on whether it is deemed defensive or proactive.

INDICATIONS AND CONTRAINDICATIONS

Like everything else in life, even the best of things can sometimes turn against
us without critical scrutiny. This leads to a central question: At what point does
the use of stories in therapy, or elsewhere, become counterproductive, if not
downright hurtful to the process? How do we know when stories are getting in
the way?
In Chapter 9 we talked about therapist self-disclosure in this context, how
there are times when personal stories can become distracting, self-indulgent, and
harmful (Bloomgarden & Mennuti, 2009; Farber, 2006; Forrest, 2012). Such
problems can arise when therapists tell stories too often, especially when they
interfere with the natural flow of interaction or take the focus off the client for
too long. Self-disclosures can also be contraindicated when they are long-winded
or tedious stories, when they represent some kind of boundary incursion, or
don’t appear to have a direct connection to the client’s issues and interests.
Whether we are examining the potential negative effects of therapist self-
disclosure, metaphors, teaching parables, or any other form of storytelling,
clarity of the message can also become a problem if and when the client’s
interpretations veer way off the intended course. I’m all for personal meaning-
making as much as the next person but only when the result is more constructive
and self-enhancing visions of future possibilities. Most of us have had the
experience in which we have shared some anecdote intended to inspire, support,
and encourage clients or an audience, even assumed that was the logical result,
and yet discovered some time afterward that they took something very different
—and disturbing—from the experience. Clearly there are sometimes huge
differences between what we think transpired and what ended up in someone
else’s personal narrative.
In Donald Spence’s (1982) classic book differentiating narrative and historical
truth, he acknowledges that it is impossible to listen to any story without
changing it according to what we think we heard and what we prefer to believe.
As such, we can never arrive at “truth” because of perceptual distortions,
fallibility of memory, and what is literally lost in translation through imperfect
speech and content that is contextually dependent. It is for this reason that
therapists have been accused of trying to “rewrite the narratives of other people’s
lives to their own satisfaction” because we are “eager for plot, hungry for
emotion, randy for sexual detail, forever tying ends together to get their climax”
(F. Weldon, as cited in Roberts, 1999, p. 22).
Guilty as charged.
It is sometimes the case that vulnerable clients aren’t prepared for the burdens
that come with remembering their stories, much less telling them aloud. Because
of our position of power and authority, regardless of how egalitarian we imagine
the therapeutic relationship to be, some clients feel coerced to reveal far more
than they are comfortable or ready to do. Leeman (2011) had been conducting
intake interviews in a homeless shelter in which his job was to ask people to tell
their stories. “I will never forget asking one meek and shamed-looking woman to
explain what led her to the shelter. She replied, ‘You mean, how did I get like
this?’ In many ways, she had no choice but to open up her life to me at its most
vulnerable. She was at her most vulnerable and I was soliciting stories” (p. 107).
Who among us has not pressed or pushed a client to complete a story, or
provide us with lurid details, when it is fairly obvious (at least afterward) that
this was more for our own curiosity than the client’s best interests? Sure, we can
justify and defend such actions under the guise of “collecting contextual data,”
“exploring the client’s phenomenological world,” “facilitating catharsis,”
“building intimacy,” and other case notes we might insert in the files, but
sometimes it is just best to back off. The truth of the matter—and this is as close
as we get to a “truth” in our field—some stories are best left unfinished, or at
least cloaked in ambiguity and obfuscation. The difficult challenge for us is to
know when it is best to push for closure and when it is best to leave well enough
alone.

THE GOOD NEWS AND THE BAD NEWS

If the 18th century was the Age of Agriculture with farming as the dominant
occupation, the 19th century was the Industrial Age, and the 20th century was
labeled the Information Age, then Daniel Pink (2006) believes we are now living
in the Conceptual Age when creativity, empathy, and storytelling will reign
supreme. In the past 20 years, communication in general, and storytelling in
particular, has evolved in startling ways. People now share their life events in
ways that were unimaginable just a few years ago. It was in the 1980s that the
Internet came into being, followed in the next years by all kinds of platforms—
Blogger, Napster, Wikipedia, Skype, Linkedin, Myspace, Flickr, Yelp, Youtube,
Reddit, Meetup, iPhone, Twitter, Pinterest, Facebook, Foursquare, Instagram—
that allow people to tell their stories through photos, videos, blogs, e-mails,
texts, or comments. And yet the sheer brevity and superficiality of many of these
connections only make some people hungry for more intimate and meaningful
contact.
This means that psychotherapy will only grow in influence and popularity, just
as will the demand for inspirational and influential stories. As never before in
human history we are freed from (some of) the shackles of certain expectations
about what it means to be a man or woman, straight or gay, young or old,
biracial, White, Black, or Brown. The stories of religious and historical
traditions, while still influential, no longer represent absolute imperatives that
dictate what we must do, even if they still offer what we should do. This offers
greater opportunities for therapy to expand its functions and purposes beyond
“healing,” “recovery,” or “cure” and return to its original roots of deep
exploration in the meaning of our life stories, as well as challenging personal and
cultural myths.
Yet, if our culture is indeed “destoried” more than ever, we may still lack the
kind of external support and validation to guide moral and social behavior,
resulting in greater feelings of isolation, alienation, conflict, and disengagement
(Krippner, Bova, & Gray, 2007). Therapy can help to fill the role of “hosting”
stories less as examples of disorders and clinical problems and more as personal
myths and tragedies, social challenges, and moral dilemmas. I don’t know about
you—but I find this to be incredibly exciting!
Although much of this book has been about the impact of stories in changing
clients’ lives, many of the same principles hold true throughout our own
professional journeys. In fact, our ability to know our own stories is directly
related to our ability to hear and honor those of others. Frank (2007) relates this
specifically to working with those who suffer from terminal or chronic illnesses.
Referring to his own struggle with cancer, he talked about how important it was
to have medical staff hear his story: “A story needs a listener. I needed their gift
of listening in order to make my suffering a relationship between us, instead of
an iron cage around me” (p. 23). Rather than seeing this as a task to be
completed, or a technique to be utilized, holding stories of the afflicted is a gift
to be acknowledged and received (Remen, 1994, 1996). So it is the case with our
stories told to colleagues, supervisors, friends, family—and clients.
“Stories punch holes in our mental walls,” observes writer Elif Shafak (2010).
They penetrate boundaries of resistance and denial that more direct conversation
could never touch. Throughout much of her life, Shafak lived like a nomad,
traveling and residing all over the world. The stories that she carried and
cherished were the “existential glue” for her to keep her memories and
experiences accessible and meaningful. This is also the case with our own
existential travels within therapeutic conversations. Every day, almost every
hour, we delve deeply into the worlds of the secrets, the forbidden, the
unacknowledged, the denied and disowned. But it is also true that we are
privileged, perhaps more than anyone else on Earth, to hear the most remarkable
stories of courage and resilience. In this function as the repository for unvoiced
and unexpressed stories, we also become constructive critics of the ways these
narratives are plotted and characterized, helping clients to transform their roles
from villains or helpless bystanders to that of heroes and heroines.

TELL ONLY GOOD STORIES

It is a paradox that therapy often stands, above all else, for an acceptance of
reality as it is objectively defined, yet as we’ve seen stories are, by their very
nature, only approximations and distortions of events as they actually transpired.
Of course, constructivists have challenged this paradigm, offering an alternative
view that knowledge is invented or created (Howard, 1991; Mahoney, 1988;
Vogel, 1994) and that “reality isn’t what it used to be” (Anderson, 1990).
Vogel (2007) makes the point that a constructivist or narrative approach can
also take things way too far in that therapists are not merely “listeners” or
“holders” of clients’ stories; we also edit, interpret, and critique them—“and do
so within the vast web of stories which we inhabit” (p. 68). He, therefore, sees
therapists often operating as ventriloquists, forcing client stories to fit our
existing templates, whether they involve irrational beliefs, unresolved Oedipal
complexes, codependence, colonized oppression, split selves, recovered
memories, unexpressed feelings, stunted development, or any other paradigm we
favor.
If there is a reality at all, it is that there is no “true story” or single narrative
that even comes close to capturing anyone’s experience. Stories are, by their
nature, wisps of images, memories, and creations that are constantly evolving.
That’s why we must, in Vogel’s view, be careful to retain humility about the
possibility of truly knowing anything, taking on the role of literary critic more
than authoritative story expert. Such a vision acknowledges, accepts, and even
embraces our subjective role as co-creators, coauthors, and active collaborators
in the narrative reconstructions.
Postmodern philosophy and constructivist theories have been at the forefront
of storied innovations in healing. Although these approaches are normally
associated with the work of narrative, feminist, and relational-cultural theorists,
we have seen how there are many different ways that therapists from all kinds of
traditions and backgrounds regularly utilize stories in their work. There has also
been a movement to adapt many of the storytelling traditions among indigenous
people to Western modes of helping and healing, among them a model by Mehl-
Madrona (2010) that is based not only on his background as a Lakota and
Cherokee Indian but also his training as a psychiatrist. He concludes his study by
summarizing the key aspects of his model:
1. There are no bad people or problems, only bad stories about them. This,
of course, is consistent with many constructivist ideas that all our
experiences are storied in particular ways, some of which are highly
dysfunctional.
2. Bad stories can and should be replaced with far better ones, especially
those that represent heroic and resilient actions in the face of difficult
challenges.
3. The more often that people hear good stories about themselves, and tell
good stories about themselves and others, the more likely that they are
going to have a positive impact that lasts over time.
4. Good stories must not only be told; they must be lived. They remain just
stories until they are integrated into one’s identity and become part of
direct experience within the community.
5. Consistent with the indigenous character of this approach, it is believed
that every story has a spirit, a sacred power that increases every time it is
told. Since this spirit lives within those who hear the stories, it is
important to tell good stories as often as possible.
When stories get in the way, when they are limiting possibilities and
constricting options, when they perpetuate a sense of helplessness, stagnancy,
and self-destructiveness, they become the primary block to any kind of lasting
growth and desired change. Our job in such situations is to help convert “bad”
stories into better ones.
Imagine, for example, that a client says something like the following in a third
session:
I guess in some ways I’m like this because of what happened when I was much younger. It wasn’t
always so, I don’t know, so timid and insecure. But everything changed after the accident. I think I told
you about that, didn’t I?
No? Well, maybe it’s not that big a deal, but it sure seemed that way for years afterwards. My mom
was driving and my brother and me were in the back seat fooling around. You know, stuff that boys
do? We were wrestling around and yelling a little. Okay, maybe making some noise and punching each
other. Just normal kids stuff.
Mom got really mad. She turned around and started yelling at us and telling us to behave. But we
kept at it. I mean we were, like 8 and 10, not really rascals but let’s just say we were rambunctious. Is
that the right word when we just had a lot of energy?
Anyway, we kept at it and my mom turned around again and that’s when she hit the other car. I
guess it came out of nowhere and she didn’t see it. Well, the next thing I remember is that we woke up
in the hospital. That was before you had to wear seatbelts in the backseat, and I was lucky and bounced
off the headrest on the front seat. But my brother, you know, I guess you could say he wasn’t so lucky.
He was in a coma for like a week or so and when he came out of it he really wasn’t the same. Neither
was Mom. And I guess that’s when everything seemed to change in our family.
I know people have told me it wasn’t my fault, and I was only a kid and all, but I just can’t stop
thinking about what my brother and I were doing. We were just so loud and I know if I had been better
behaved this never would have happened. It just feels like I’m the one who ruined everything and
there’s no coming back from something like that. You know what I mean?

There are all kinds of things that a therapist might do with a “bad” story like
that, perhaps depending on the particular therapeutic approach taken and what
happened previously. Since in this example the client was able to present a
reasonably coherent narrative without interruption, it didn’t appear necessary
that a therapist would interrupt at any point, at least until the client took a breath.
But if we consider many different ways a therapist might have intervened at
any point during the recitation, or as the story continues, it would include a
collection of all of our favorite interventions, leading to the inevitable conclusion
that it’s pretty hard to get beyond stories when that is most of what therapy is all
about. So here are some possible options of how a therapist might respond,
depending on preferences and style.
• “What you just shared seems to be related to something you told me
earlier.” Making connections
• “I’m not sure I understand where this came from?” Clarification
• “You seem so sad right now as you remember that. Your whole body has
seemed to collapse in on itself.” Reflection
• “Say more about that.” Deepening
• “How would you say this relates to your present difficulties?” Exploring
• “So, what you seem to be saying....” Interpretation
 • “It doesn’t seem so much about ______ as ______.” Reframing
• “When you were talking before about feeling so guilty about what
happened, what you seemed to mean is that you were sorry about
something you couldn’t really anticipate.” Disputing
• “What do you think it might mean that you chose to tell that story right
now?” Probing
• “Let’s look at how this story may not exactly reflect what you truly
believe happened.” Deconstructing
• “I wonder what this really signifies for you?” Meaning-making
• “What if the story had a different ending?” Preferred outcome
•“Let’s examine more closely the part when you talked about your
brother?” Focusing
• “I couldn’t help but notice that you sure take a lot of misguided
responsibility for things you couldn’t possibly control.” Confrontation
• “I could feel tears coming to my eyes when you shared that.” Immediacy
• “That reminds me of a story.” Self-disclosure
There are, of course, other possible responses, but where they lead is to the
realization that this is really what we do for a living: We listen to people’s
stories. But far more than that: We help them to create new stories, better stories,
that feature them in heroic roles on a quest for new adventures, or at least the
pursuit of redemption.

ELICITING GOOD STORES FROM CLIENTS

Our goal is not only to become better storytellers but also to help our clients to
produce descriptions of their experience that are more useful for our work
together. After all, there are many clients who appear unskilled, if not incapable,
of telling a story that is reasonably coherent, organized, and meaningful. There
are some conditions (alexithymia, psychotic processes, cognitive deficits, and
trauma) that make it very difficult for people to tell a story that isn’t so
fragmented that it becomes virtually incomprehensible. More commonly, some
clients are just unprepared and unschooled in how to share a narrative that has
particular functionality in the context of therapy. Either their imaginations run
wild or they lack the discipline to stick to a central theme that is relevant to their
presenting problems. They may begin a story, become distracted, veer off into
another anecdote, and then another, completely losing the thread—and their
audience—in the wake of so much flooded material. An opposite challenge
arises with clients who seem unable to describe their experiences in any kind of
meaningful way. They seem unable to provide a reasonably clear and rich
description of their experience. As a result, they may need some preparation and
training to comply with what it is we need most to be helpful. In an investigation
of what constitutes a “good” versus “bad” story in sessions, Dimaggio and
Semerari (2001) listed several attributes that we would wish to teach to clients in
order to make sessions more productive.
• Clear problem description: including symptoms, effects, and
consequences.
• Relevance: not just the facts but details directly and indirectly related to
the problems.
• Thematic coherence: related to presenting problems and previous
disclosures.
• Hierarchy of priorities: includes meaningful content related to identifiable
threads rather than a flooding of information via multiple fragments.
• Space-time continuum: coherent, chronological sequence of events.
• Subjective experience: containing feelings, perceptions, beliefs.
• Self-reflection: musings about motives, intentions, and meanings of
behavior and choices.
• Cause-effects: personal theories, opinions, and beliefs about connections
between events.
• Conversational style: interactive, engaging, responsive to prompts and
probes.
• Reality-testing: distinction between actual memories versus dreams,
fantasies, wishes, and desires.
• Authenticity: real encounter rather than just a rehearsed script that has
been memorized.
• Flexibility: willingness to consider multiple interpretations and meanings.
The goal of all of this, of course, is to help clients to structure and relate a
reasonably integrated story of what they are experiencing, what happened that
led up to these life challenges, and what they believe might be the source of the
difficulties. As an added bonus, it is also nice to know what they imagine for the
future; in other words, how they hope and wish for the story to end.
And that leads to the ending of our story together. Like the thousands of
stories you’ve read, watched, and heard throughout your lifetime, not to mention
those seminal stories that launched you into this profession and kept you
(hopefully) thriving throughout the years, the relative impact of what is
contained in this volume depends on what you hold onto. Some of this is related
to choice in that you may have made conscious note of certain ideas that you
want to retain and perhaps use in your work and life. Other stuff just seems to
stick in our minds and memories regardless of intention. I can’t, for instance,
stop thinking about one incidental fact I had learned and presented in an earlier
chapter, that close to half of all waking time is spent living in a series of
fragmented stories in the form of fantasy, reverie, relived memories, plus all
those we consume through various media. I just can’t get that idea out of my
mind because it so validates what I’ve known all along—that my life, personally
and professionally, is guided by stories. I really do spend most of my life
reading, watching, and listening to stories, collecting and archiving them, and
editing and creating new ones to become more effective as a person and
therapist. So do you.

WE DID NOT CHOOSE: WE WERE CHOSEN

Ask yourself what you imagine the central theme might be in the story that
composes this book. If, as McAdams (2006) suggests, the recurrent theme in
American identity is of being among the “chosen people,” pursuing a “manifest
destiny” of redemption, then the natural identity of therapists and healers is that
of having been chosen for this responsibility and role. The Western world is
among the few places on Earth where individuals believe they made a choice to
become a healer. Throughout ancient history, and in most cultures around the
world, the job is considered so difficult and dangerous operating around other
people’s suffering that nobody in their right mind would ever select this
profession deliberately. The path as a healer is either inherited through family
linkage or the gods made the choice on your behalf: In either case, you were
called to serve.
After spending much of his professional life collecting the stories of
extraordinarily productive and generative individuals in their midlife, McAdams
discovered a few central themes above others—that they are special in the sense
that sometime early in life they were witnesses (or survivors) to some injustice,
misfortune, or suffering, and that this resulted in a heightened sense of empathy,
sensitivity, and commitment to assist others. We may feel blessed and privileged
in a particular way, even if it was only that we have managed to flourish in spite
of challenges, and that we live out identities associated with redemptive stories
that we have been quite accomplished at telling to ourselves and others.
If we see our identities in life and work as change agents, we become heroic
characters in our own stories in which, in some small way, we are trying to save
the world—or at least the part of it in which we may have some influence. Since
working on this project I have been critically monitoring my own storied life,
especially those narratives that I hear myself say aloud to others, whether in
professional settings or social gatherings. Since my primary work these days is
working in the field rather than a therapy office, I am often asked the question of
how it is I ended up doing social justice and advocacy work in remote villages
throughout Nepal. I used to tell a story that emphasized my decisive action and
commitment to helping the most marginalized groups (lower caste girls at risk to
be trafficked into slavery or forced into early marriage). Although perhaps
partially the case, this narrative was mostly an exaggeration if not a lie: First of
all, like most of my supposedly worthy actions, it was as much to save myself as
anyone else. But more significantly, and far more honestly, I never chose to get
involved in the first place: I really was chosen to do this work—although I’m not
sure by what or whom.
One of the outcomes of studying the process we have undertaken is that it
makes us more aware and conscious of present moments and everyday
experiences in our lives so that we may capture and retell them as stories. We
find ourselves imagining that a particular event would make a fabulous teaching
tale or even just an amusing anecdote to share with friends. There are recursive
effects of becoming more story focused in this way in that it inspires us to
become far more adventurous so that we have more stories to share. When we
think of ourselves as storytellers, we have a responsibility to keep adding to our
repertoire. And this becomes even more crucial as the delivery modalities of
stories continue to evolve.
A number of philosophers, writers, and media experts have been speculating
about the threat of new technology to dilute the power of stories, transforming
the oral tradition that has existed since the first invention of language (or even
drawing on caves) to the current abbreviated messages on social media that are
reduced to 140 characters as a “tweet” or text to a mobile device.
What, for instance, will be the impact for biographers when they no longer
have access to a lifetime of personal correspondence? Some of the greatest life
stories ever written, those of John Adams, Winston Churchill, Benjamin
Franklin, Sigmund Freud, Albert Einstein, and others, were possible precisely
because they were such prolific chroniclers of their experience. Personal journals
and letters have now been replaced with e-mails, Facebook postings, and blogs,
which may have a limited life expectancy. How will future generations access
and remember the stories of our greatest citizens when their stories have become
truncated into “micro-narratives?”
Kearney (2002) argues that rather than seeing new technologies as a threat to
storytelling, they instead produce creative new opportunities that are far more
interactive, immediate, and nonlinear. In whatever form stories are shared,
people will always seek to enter a hypnotic trance in which the author/teller will
weave together a narrative that transports them to other worlds. Likewise, the
nature of our work is continuing to evolve in which it is no longer necessary to
be in the sample place in order to have a meaningful therapeutic interaction.

IT’S NOT REALLY ABOUT THE STORIES

We are often highly motivated, at times even desperate, to explore new ways,
improved methods, enhanced skills, innovative interventions, any and all
techniques, practices, and procedures that might make more of a difference with
our clients, especially those who are unresponsive to our best laid plans. We
attend workshops, accumulate continuing education, pursue additional training,
peruse the latest research, stay current on new technology, and read books like
this one, in search for some new idea or breakthrough that will make all the
difference. We yearn for handouts, video demonstrations, or protocols that
demonstrate the one thing we feel we are missing. And yet we know, as well as
teach to others, that there are really are no magical substitutes for the lifelong
commitment to reflective living, which includes professional practice.
So what we have been exploring and studying these many hours together is
not really about the stories themselves but rather about redefining consciousness,
as well as identity, in such a way that we become professional story listeners and
tellers: It is who we are. Such a way of being obviously creates a more
memorable life, given that we remain so focused on thinking, reflecting,
shaping, telling, and honoring the stories of our lives, as well as those who are in
our care. We become more sensitive and aware of critical incidents and
meaningful experiences, embedding them into narratives that are far more easily
remembered, accessed, and shared with others. Being a professional storyteller
makes our own lives more memorable and meaningful because we spend so
much time and invest so much effort into listening to others’ stories, not to
mention discovering all the ways that the most significant moments of our own
lives become stories that we share with our clients and loved ones. After all,
among all the various functions of stories that we have explored—as a form of
entertainment, enlightenment, or transmitting information—their main purpose
has always been to build connections between people who share their
experiences.
In contemporary life with so many distractions, diversions, multitasking, and
technological intrusions, it is rare that any of us are still given the opportunity to
speak without interruption about the stories of our lives. That is why even with
all the other options available for growth and learning, psychotherapy will never
go out of style: People need to talk about the stories that inhabit their dreams and
fantasies, that haunt their past, that feel special or shameful, meaningful or
fragmented. It is how we remember who we are. And it is how we define who
we wish to become.
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Index
abandonment, 66, 68, 70, 74, 87, 211, 217
abbreviated story, 155–56
Aboriginals of Australia, 59
Achebe, Chinua, 23
adaptive information, 63
addiction recovery programs, 97
Adichie, Chimananda, 227
Adler, J. M., 91, 138
adversity, 24, 32, 61, 70, 104, 118, 134, 144, 226
advertising industry, 140, 169
advice-oriented books, 38
African American stories, 65
Age of Agriculture, 232
Alexander the Great, 26
Alfred the Great, 62–63
Alger, Horatio, 64
alternative worlds, 58
Alvarez, Julia, 70
Andersen, Hans Christian, 66
anecdote, 11–12
Arana, Marie, 38
Archer, William, 206
Aristotle, 63
articulation, 203
art therapy, 217–18
Atlas Shrugged (Rand), 26
Atwood, Margaret, 70–71
Augustine, Saint, 83–84
authentic voice, 204
autobiographical memory, 17
autobiographical reasoning, 94–97
The Awakening (Chopin), 30

Badaracco, Joseph, 31
Baker, A. J. L., 220
ballads, 33
Barber, J. P., 160
Bauer, Ida, 195
behavioral observations, 7
beliefs, 184
belonging, 62
Benson, A. C., 199
Berecz, Andras, 201
Bettelheim, Bruno, 78
better-than-average effect, 184–85
Bible, 83
bibliotherapy, 10–11, 169–71, 174–78
biographical grid, 125
biographies, 102–5, 220
biological rhythms, 49
block printing, 25
blogs, 7, 23–27, 88, 101, 182, 221, 232, 240
body image, 126
books
electronic versions of, 84–85
evolution of, 83–85
influence of, 35
to promote growth and healing, 170–71
as therapy adjuncts, 169–71
See also fiction; stories
Brach, T., 229
brain
activated when reading stories, 48–49
converting experiences into stories, 49–51
converting fragments into stories, 47–48
daydreams and, 43–44
definition of, 42
energy consumption of, 45
evolution of storied, 44–47
functions of, 44
neurons, 48–49
olfactory parts of, 48
ongoing effects of stories, 51
oral narratives and, 51–52
physiological responses in, 52
reality and, 42
reality of stories in, 51–54
as storied organ, 42–43
story processing, 55–56
thalamus, 48
weight of, 45
Brandell, J. R., 229
brief therapy, 150
Brothers Grimm, 66, 67
Brown, Rosellen, 71
Bruner, Jerome, 6, 159
Bucay, Jorge, 11–12
Buddha, 34–35, 60–61
bullying, 73
Burns, G. W., 30, 153, 223

Campbell, Joseph, 24, 67, 112, 161

Carlson, Jon, 7
case history, as art form, 5
“Cats in the Cradle” (Chapin), 81
celebrities, 103–4
change agent, 138
chaos story, 160
Chapin, Harry, 81
character reincarnation, 67
Chauvet Cave, 59
children
lingering effects of stories on, x
memory books, 221
working with, 212
children’s literature, 24, 30, 78–79
Chinese stories, 64–65
Chopin, Kate, 30
Christianity, 62–63
A Christmas Carol (Dickens), 32
chronicle, 33, 159
Cinderella, 67–68, 98, 158
Cinderella effects, 98
clients
behavioral observations of, 7
customized stories for, 211–12
“good” stories from, 237–38
restoried lives of, 6–7
stories about therapy experiences, 137–139
therapist relationship with, 4–5, 156–57
therapists stories shared with, 162–66
transformation through reading stories, 11
cliffhangers, 144
collaborative storytelling, 127–131, 157
collective experience, 20, 27
collective identities, 93–94
collective memory, 19
collective support, 224–26
collectivism, 64–65
comic books, 80
coming-of-age books, 30
coming out, 30
communications
forms of, 25
informal conversations, 45
technology and, 25–27
Conceptual Age, 232
Confessions (Augustine), 83–84
Conroy, Pat, 198–199
constructive narratives, 113–14
constructivists, 6, 91, 233–34
contradictions, 230–31
corruption, 84
Cosby Show (television show), 26
countermyths, 99
cover stories, 183
creating change
common factors to, 135
lies to sabotage, 188–189
metaphors, use of, 148–152
regulating emotions, 136
 role of stories in, 137–139
Crothers, Samuel, 169
cultural lessons, 79
cultural stories, 74–75
cultures
changes in stories across, 64
collectivism and, 64–65
definition of, 59–60
dominant stories within, 60–63
group identity and, 63
redemption, 61–62
sense of belonging and, 62
stories to impart values, 62–63
universal themes across, 63–65

Dallas (television show), 144

Damasio, Antonio, 97
The Darjeeling Limited (film), 81–82
Davis, Rebecca Harding, 140–41
daydreaming, 19
Death of a Salesman (Miller), 84
deceit, definition of, 68
deception
adaptive strategies to, 185–86
definition of, 181–82
failure to recognize, 190–91
false hope syndrome, 182
forms of, 185–86
self-deception, xiii, 49, 97, 184–85, 188, 192–93
in stories, 74–75, 182–83
in therapy, 189–90
See also self-deception
defensive strategies, 185–86
denial, 192
depression, 126
destoried lives, 6–7
destorification, 7
dialect, 203
Dickens, Charles, 32
digital storytelling, 86, 220–21
Diguer, L., 160
Dimaggio, G., 237–38
discourses of masculinity and femininity, 125–26
distortions in stories, 74–75, 227–229
divine intervention, 24
dominant culture discourses, 125–26
dominant stories, 60–63
Don Quixote, 161
Dorris, Michael, 93–94
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 193
drama, 82, 146, 205–7
dread, 211
dreams, 19, 51
eating disorders, 126
Eggers, Dave, 28–29
Einstein, Albert, 43
Ekman, Paul, 190
elders, 3, 24, 221–22
electronic books, 84
Ellis, Albert, 61, 194
e-mails, 23, 77, 122, 232, 240
emotional activation, 69–70
emotional arousal, xii, 22, 31, 38, 48–49, 57, 77–78, 86, 119, 216
emotional connections, 21, 37, 74, 76, 140
emotional disorder, 93, 217
emotional intelligence, 47
emotional problems, 117
emotional storytelling, 120–23, 140
empathy, 41, 47, 58, 128, 146
endorphins, 54
envy, 68
Epic of Gilgamesh, 102
epics, 33
episodic memory, 48
Erickson, Milton, 9, 149–50, 204
Ericksonian method, 151–52
Euripides, 136
experienced self, 47–48, 229
externalized events, 52

fables, 1, 11–12, 15, 33, 67, 174

fabrication, 193
fairy tales, xi, 22–23, 66–71, 78–80, 100, 143, 167, 174
faith healers, 155
false hope syndrome, 182
false starts, 203–4
familiarity, 142–43
family stories, 88–89, 127–28
family therapy, 9, 131
famous people, 103–4
fantasy play, 32
Fault in our Stars (Green), 172
fear, 78–79, 211
female protagonists, 70–71, 87
fiction
emotional arousal of, 57
female protagonists, 70–71
historical stories, 26
impact of, 26, 30–31
influence of, x, 35, 38, 56
lasting effects of, 26, 56–58
prescribing, 216
to provoke reflection, 57
reality of, 182
self-help vs., 136–37, 174, 177
 within therapy, 174–75
See also fictional characters; stories
fictional characters, 1, 24–26, 31, 44, 80, 141
fictional events, 193
fictional film, 32
films
biographies and, 103
drama, 82
female protagonists, 87
horror, 69
influence of, 216–17
plotlines, 13, 22, 81–83
prescribing, 216
road trip movies, 106
stories through, 81–83
Fingarette, Herbert, 101–2
fire fighting, 121
first person fabulous, 179
first-person stories, 116, 117
five orders of intentionality, 55
fMRI (functional magnetic resonance imaging), 49
folklore, 24, 33
folktales, 66
Frank, A. W., 233
Frankl, Victor, 61
Freud, Sigmund, 5, 61, 102–3, 121, 189–90, 195
functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI), 49

gaming, 75, 85–86

Gardner, R., 99–100, 229
gay relationships, 26
See also sexual identity
generalized truth, 180
Gibson, M. F., 163
Gilbert, Louise, 208
Gladiator (film), 143
Glass, Stephen, 193
“Gloria” film, 194–96
gluttony, 68
Goldberg, Whoopi, 31–32
gossip, 1, 15, 19, 33, 45, 71–73, 187
Great Expectations (Dickens), 84
The Great Santini (Conroy), 198
greed, 68
Grimm, Jacob, 28
grooming partnerships, 72
ground rules, 128
group identity, 63
group therapy, 119–20
Gutenberg, Johannes, 25

habitual stories, 159

Haley, Jay, 9–10
Hamilton, Nigel, 103
Hamlet (Shakespeare), 105
Hammond, D. C., 148–149
Hansel and Gretel, 78
harassment, 73
healing, 118, 120–21, 220, 234
health care setting, 13–14
Heider, F., 53
Henderson, K.L., 158
heroic stories, 159
Hesse, Herman, 34–35
historical stories, 26
historical truth, 179, 231–32
Holocaust, 116, 132
“hook,” 202, 210
horror films, 69
hosting stories, 232–33
“How Children Played Butcher With Each Other,” 66
human memory systems, 139
humor, 77–78

identity
adolescent development, 97
alternative stories to, 97–98
autobiographical reasoning and, 94–97
collective, 93–94
defining, 95–96
narrative, 90–91
recrafting a new, 97–98
storied, 90–91
therapeutic, 92
See also self-identities
illusion, 184
index labels, 142
indigenous traditions, 23–25, 218–219, 221–22
induction scripts, 18
indulgence, 78
Industrial Age, 232
inferences, 50
informal conversations, 45
Information Age, 232
information trading, 20
initial interventions, 13–14
initiation rite, 112
inspirational life stories, 37–38
intentionality, 55
interactive involvement, 85
intergenerational legacies, 88–89
internalized problem conversations, 126–27
Internet, 3, 25, 27, 163, 169, 212, 232
interventions, 13–14
intonation, 202
Jane Eyre (Bronte), 84
Jaws (film), 143
jokes, 33, 76, 78
Joseph, S., 113
journalists, 193
The Jungle (Sinclair), 26

Kahneman, D., 47, 229

Kearney, R., 131–32
Keeney, Bradford, 218–219
Keillor, Garrison, 198, 226
Kellas, J. K., 127
Keynote, 168
keystone stories, 108–9
Kidron, Beeban, 82
Kingsolver, Barbara, 94
Kramer, S., 61–62
Kritzberg, N., 229
Kuleshov effect, 53–54

Lang, M., 132

language, functions of, 19–21
language usage, 124
Lankton, C. H., 151
Lankton, S. R., 151
law enforcement, 121
Lawlis, G. F., 98, 118–119
leadership responsibilities, 24
Leeman, Mark, 142, 231
legends
autobiography and, 94
children and, 23–24
culture and, 59–60
definition of, 33
family, xi
family stories and, 88
influence of, 96
origin stories and, 62
in therapy, 15
transmission of, 20
urban, 36
worldwide influence of, 26
Le Guin, Ursula, 68
leisure time, 43
librarians, 171–72
lies/lying
altruistic reasons for, 187
in children, 187–88
definition of, 181–83
identifying, 190–91
motivation to, 187
natural born liars, 191–92
nonverbal, 189–90
 to ourselves, 193
to prevent change, 188
problems with, 183–86
reasons for, 186–87
to sabotage change, 188–189
types of, 186–87
lifelong saga, 219
life stories, 5–6, 101–2, 104
Lincoln, Abraham, 26, 37
listening to stories
active, 52, 156–58
behavioral influence of, 36, 52, 93
children and, x, 24
gossip and, 19
group, 120
lingering effects of, ix
professional storytellers and, 241
psychotherapists and, 101
to release suffering, 119–20
trance state when, 16
vicarious experience of, 9
literary fiction, 31
literature for children, 24, 30, 78–79
Little Bo Peep, 158
The Little Mermaid, 71
Little Red Riding Hood, 65–66, 68
Love’s Executioner (Yalom), 165
Luborsky, L., 160
lyrics, 81

Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 84

Malone, S. L., 158
Maori, 63
Mar, R.A., 56
marital disputes, 100
Martin, George R. R., 205
McAdams, D. P., 17, 160, 238–239
McKee, Robert, 210
McLean, K. C., 63
meaning, 50
medical practice as a narrative art, 115–18
Mehl-Madrona, Lewis, 108–9, 218, 234–35
Melville, Herman, 26
memoirs, 182–83
See also biographies
memorable characters, 141
memorable stories, 140–41
memories
autobiographical, 17
collective, 19
emotional storytelling and, 140
familiarity and, 142–43
imagined experience, 17–18
 index labels, 142
solidifying, 50, 51
mental activity, 77
mental illness, 44, 116–17, 217
mental images, 50
mentors, 10
metaphors, 148–152
mezquino, 12
mind wandering, 44
mirror neurons, 41–42, 52–53
Moby-Dick (Melville), 26
Monopoly (game), 143
Morley, Christopher, 31, 136
Morton, Brian, 43
movable-type printing press, 25
movement therapy, 218–219
movies. See films
moviola method, 112–13
multiple embedded metaphor protocols, 151
music, 81
myths
autobiography and, 94
countermyths, 99
culture and, 59–60
definition of, 33, 98
family stories and, 88
influence of, 96
origin stories and, 23–24, 26, 62
personal mythology, 98–100
in therapy, 15
urban, 36

naked truth, 148

Namrata, 34
narrative arts, 115–18
narrative cohesion, 112–13
narrative identities, 90–91, 94–97
narrative patterns, 53
narrative plots. See plotlines
narrative therapy
contributions of, 13
legacy of, 6
as a storied experience, 13
narrative truth, 179, 231–32
natural born liars, 191–92
“The Naughty Child,” 67
Neimeyer, R. A., 113, 125
news organizations, 182
“Nightway Ceremony,” 218
novel experiences, 141–42
novels. See fiction
nursery rhymes, 1, 33
Oatley, K., 56
Obama, Barack, 34, 37
objective coding, 160
observational learning, 120
1/f fluctuations, 49
online games, 86
oral narratives, 19–20, 51–52
oral storytelling, 199–201
oral traditions, indigenous, 23–25
organic developmental processes, 207
orienting response, 54
origin stories, 23–24, 33, 61–63, 98–99
overstoried, 202
Pals, J. L., 63

parables, xii, 12, 33, 148, 196, 226, 231

parental alienation syndrome, 220
past tense, 124
Pasupathi, M., 63
patients’ stories, 77
Paul, A. M., 48
Paulson, D. S., 112
Perls, Fritz, 194
Perrault, Charles, 66
personal gain, 180
personal identity, 6–7, 24, 30, 90, 92, 96, 105, 108–9, 113
personal mythology, 98–100
personal narratives, 93
personal stories, 2, 89, 101, 103, 108–9, 133, 150, 162–68, 229
personal transformation, 146
physiological responses, 52
Picasso, Pablo, 181
The Pied Piper, 67
Pink, Daniel, 43, 232
play, forms of, 45–46
plays, 21–22, 33, 143, 146, 158, 198, 213
play therapy, 134, 212
plotlines, 3, 22, 81–83, 130, 199–200, 210–11
The Poisoned Bible (Kingsolver), 94
Pomerantz, K. A., 214
popular culture, 27, 31, 143, 160
popular fiction, 31
pourquoi tales, 33
PowerPoint, 168
presentation software, 168, 209
present tense, 124
Prezi, 168
primacy-recency effects, 209
printed books, 83
See also books
printing press, 25
Prior, K. S., 84
problem-saturated stories, 215
problem-solving skills, 24, 55, 58, 75, 129, 153, 167, 227–28
professional storytellers, 10, 179–80, 200, 227, 241
protagonist, 18, 124
psychiatric care, 6–7
psychodynamic practitioners, 229
psychotherapy
client/therapist relationship, 156–57
diagnoses, 92–93
dominant stories within, 61–62
evolution of, 86–88
as exchange of stories, 3–5
librarians and, 171–72
process of, 145–48
story listeners and, 101
storytelling as, 11–12
themes in, 143
See also therapists; therapy
public consciousness, 36
public speaking, 167–68
puppet stand, 21

quest story, 160

Quixote principle, 93

Rand, Ayn, 26
Rapunzel, 159
reading stories, lingering effects of, ix
reality, 42
real-life experiences, 16–17
reauthoring stories, 215–16
receptive audience, 111
reciprocal awareness, 111
reciprocal influence, 138
recovery, 114, 117–18
redemption, 61–62, 64, 143, 144–45, 160, 173, 238
Reese, E., 17
reflectivity, 129
reframing stories as miracle cures, 150–52
relational patterns, 18
relationship conflict, 160–61
religious conversion, 83
religious leaders, 167
religious texts, 25, 34–36, 144–45, 167, 174
See also sacred texts
remembered self, 47–48, 229
Rennie, D. L., 230
resilience, 123, 145
See also redemption
resolution, 143–44
resonance circuitry, 42
respectful listener, 110–11
restitution stories, 159–60
restoried lives, 6–7
retelling a story, 204–5
retraumatization, 121
retroflection, 12
revealing oneself. See self-disclosures
road trip movies, 106
Roberts, G., 6
Rogers, Carl, 121, 194
role-playing opportunities, 85
Roosevelt, Franklin, 37
Rorty, Amelie, 192
Rosenthal, H., 194
rumors, 33, 36, 182, 187
See also gossip
Rush, Benjamin, 171
Rushdie, Salman, 155
Russo, Richard, 84

sacred journey, 218

sacred rituals, 221
sacred space, 62, 208
sacred stories, 183
sacred texts, 26, 34, 36, 167, 169–71, 183
See also religious texts
Saving Private Ryan (film), 82
scoring system, 160
screenplays, 198
scriptures, 167, 174
See also religious texts
The Secret (Byrne), 34
secret stories, 105–6, 183
the self, 47–48, 87, 229
self-deception, xiii, 49, 97, 184–85, 187–189, 192–93
self-disclosures, xii, 11–12, 162–67, 178, 230–31
self-help books, 136–37, 171, 173–74, 176, 216
self-help industry, 38
self-identities, 14, 79–80, 90–91, 101, 105, 114, 151
self-narratives, 89
self-perceptions, 119, 158, 228
self-protection, 180
self-reflection, 237
self-talk, 126
semantic memory, 48
Semerari, A., 237–38
sense organs, 42
sensory details, 140–41
Serlin, I. A., 218
service personnel, 121
Severy, Lisa, 219
sexual identity, 30, 217
Shafak, Elif, 233
Shakespeare, William, 102, 105
Shostrom, Everett, 194–95
Shpancer, Noam, 42
Siddhartha (Hesse), 34–35
silenced stories, 159
Simmel, M., 53
Simmons, Annette, 155
Sinclair, Upton, 26
Sleeping Beauty, 68
slide presentations, 209
Sliding Doors (film), 87
Snow White, 158–159
so-called truths, 181
social behavior, 57
social information, 72
See also gossip
social interaction, 57
social media, 15, 22–23, 88, 101, 134, 163, 221, 240
social movements, 26
Society of Chief Librarians, 136–37
socio-economic status, 63
sorority gossip, 73
See also gossip
Sotomayor, Sonia, 32
sound effects, 204
special effects, 204
Spence, Donald, 231
Spider-Man, 80
spiritual conversions, 106
spiritual views, 34–36
Stanton, Andrew, 96, 198
storied brain. See brain
storied identity, 90–91
storied plots, 210–11
stories
across generations, 88–89
brain function and, 51–54
children’s literature, 24
classifying, 159–62
client/therapist relationship and, 156–159
clinically significant material in, 123–25
collecting, 197–98
connection between teller and listener, 207–9
creating, 222–23
cultural, 74–75
cultural values and, 62–63
customized for the client, 211–12
delivery options of, 79–86
distortions in, 74–75, 227–229
dreams and, 19
earliest known recorded, 59
electronic versions of, 84–85
in everyday conversations, 71–74
within families, 88–89
finding, 198–199
 forms of, 22
functions of, 19–21
gross distortions in, 74–75
to groups, 209–10
“hosting,” 232–33
hours immersed in, 18–19
impact of, 9
to influence behavior, 36
to large audiences, 209–10
means to transmit information, 20
memorable characters, 141
music lyrics, 81
national influence of, 32–36
ongoing effects of, 51
persuasive effect of, 57–58
qualifications of, 22–23
reading, 11
reauthoring, 215–16
reflection on, 20
reframing, as miracle cures, 150–52
relational meaning of, 207–9
remembered, 139–45
roles of, 21–22
structure of, 22, 168
survival functions of, 55–58
themes. See themes
told in therapy, 144–45
types of, 33, 159–62
unresolved, 143–44
worldwide influence of, 32–36, 37
See also books; fiction; telling stories
story circles, 221–22
story-driven games, 86
storyholders, 12
story listeners, 101
story processing, 56
storytellers/storytelling
absence of, 131–33
as an art form, 55
articulation, 203
collaborative, 127–131
definition of, 2
description of, 46
details, 205
dialect, 203
digital, 86, 220–21
drama, 205–7
elements of, 200
emotional, 120–23
false starts, 203–4
fundamentals of, 202–5
healing, 120–21
 hook, 202
intonation, 202
to large audiences, 209–10
oral, 199–201
overstoried, 202
personalizing, 152–53
personal style of, 201–2
power of, 7–9
professional, 10, 179–80, 200, 227, 241
psychotherapy as, 11–12
retelling a story, 204–5
shared, 4–5
sound effects, 204
strategies, 213–15
tense, 203
in therapy, 230
through case history, 5
trauma and, 111
story therapy, 173–74
story wars, 168
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 26
strategic therapy, 9
stream of consciousness stories, 119
Styron, William, 7
suffering
hearing/viewing stories that release, 119–20
telling stories to release, 118–119
surrogate experiences, 46
sympathetic nervous system, 52

tall tales, 33
Tea Party political movement, 26
technology, 25–27, 240
TED Talks, 167, 168, 202
television
addiction to, 54
character reincarnation through, 67
classical books vs., 82–83
cliffhangers, 144
consumption of, 27
eating disorders and, 126
emotional arousal of, 74, 76, 140
exposure to, xi
fictional characters from, 31–32
gaming and, 86
impact of, ix, 1, 26
influence of, 31–32, 126
millennial generation and, 25
reality of, 228
rumors and, 36
social movements and, 26
storytellers vs., 209
therapists portrayed on, 216–17
 time spent watching, 18–19
violence on, 69
telling stories, 45–46, 76–78, 118–120, 217–18
text messaging, 7, 23, 25, 77, 122, 221, 232, 240
themes
enduring nature of, 65–68
fairy tales and, 68
fear, 78–79
plotlines and, 210–11
sins, 68
universal, 63–65
variations of, 79–86
therapeutic encounter, 3–4
therapeutic identity, 92
therapeutic storytelling, 120–23
therapists
bibliotherapy and, 10–11
client relationship with, 156–57
definition of, 3–4
disclosures of, 163–64
humanizing, 164–65
identity, 239
interactions with clients, 4
as internalized characters, 109
as librarians, 171–72
mentors and, 10
promoting change. See creating change
as respectful listener, 110–11, 158
self-disclosure by, 163, 230–31
sharing own stories, 162–66
as storyholders, 12–13
See also psychotherapy; therapy
therapist-writers, 5–6
therapy
books as adjuncts to, 169–71, 216
brief, 150
client/therapist relationship, 156–57
clinically significant material in stories, 123–25
collaborative storytelling and, 128–130
coping strategies, 213
creating change. See creating change
creative breakthroughs in, 157
customized stories for the client, 211–12
deception in stories, 189–90
definition of, 4
fables, use of, 15, 174
films as adjuncts to, 216–17
goal of, 198
interventions, 236
learning lessons of, 5–6
metaphors, use of, 153
movement, 218–219
 as a narrative art, 115–18
outcomes of story, 173–74
plotlines, 213
productive sessions, 237–38
redemption and, 144–45
silenced, 131–32
as a storied experience, 13, 146
stories about experiences in, 137–139
storytelling in, 230
types of stories used in, 156
See also psychotherapy; therapists
thought experiments, 46
The Three Little Pigs, 68
timing, 157
Tolstoy, Leo, 199
Toy Story (film), 198
transactional analysis ego states, 79
transformation
from adolescence, 80
adversity and, 70
example of, 29
personal, 146
secret stories and, 105–6
spiritual, 83–84
spiritual conversions, 106
tales of, 24
through comic books, 80
through stories, 11, 27–32, 38
travel stories and, 106–8
transgressors, 26
trauma
consequences of, 114
experience of, 114
in families, 127–28, 130–31
initiation rite, 112
lingering effects of, 115, 118–119
moviola method, 112–13
narrative art and, 116–18
recovery and, 114
recovery from, 111
retraumatization, 121
service personnel and, 121
stories to release, 118–120
survivors of, 110–11, 132
therapy for, 127–132
US Air flight 1549, 110–11
war, 112
writing, for healing, 122–23
traumatic incident stress debriefing, 121
travel stories, 106–8
Trees, A. R., 127
tribal rituals, 23
Trivers, Robert, 193
true confession, 97
truism metaphor, 148–149
truth
historical, 179, 231–32
of the human condition, 211
naked, 148
narrative, 179, 231–32
revelations in, 195–96
shading the, 181
so-called, 181
special kind of, 180–81
Twain, Mark, 141
tweets, 25, 77, 240
twelve-step programs, 97

uncontrolled reenactments, 119

universal folklore, 24
unresolved stories, 143–44
urban legends, 36, 96
urban myths, 96
US Air flight 1549, 110–11

Vanderbes, J., 46
vanity, 68
verbal grooming, 72
See also gossip
verbalizations, 50
vicarious experiences, ix, 2, 9, 27, 50, 57–58, 87, 106
vicarious forgiveness, 218
vicarious identification, 69
vicarious learning, 120
vicarious role playing, 69, 80
vicarious trauma, 138
video games, 85
See also gaming
Viking invasion, 62
violent stories, 69–70
visual aids, 209
Vogel, D. G., 233–34

WALL-E (film), 198

War of the Worlds (radio broadcast), 36
Washington, George, 60
watching stories, ix
See also films
Watson, John, 61
Weich, J., 143
Welles, Orson, 36
White, Michael, 215
Will and Grace (television show), 26
Winnie the Pooh, 79
Wolford, Jack, 184
Woolf, Virginia, 119
working-class families, 63

Yalom, Irvin, 138, 165

Yashinsky, D., 88
A Yellow Raft in Blue Water (Dorris), 93–94
YouTube, 202

Zeig, Jeff, 204