Tag: Stories

22 Rules Pixar Uses To Create Appealing Stories

Emma Coats, a storyboard artist at Pixar Animation, recently tweeted a series of “story basics,” on how to create appealing stories:

#1: You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.

#2: You gotta keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be v. different.

#3: Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about til you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.

#4: Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.

#5: Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.

#6: What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?

#7: Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.

#8: Finish your story, let go even if it’s not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.

#9: When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.

#10: Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.

#11: Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.

#12: Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.

#13: Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.

#14: Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.

#15: If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.

#16: What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.

#17: No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on – it’ll come back around to be useful later.

#18: You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.

#19: Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.

#20: Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How d’you rearrange them into what you DO like?

#21: You gotta identify with your situation/characters, can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?

#22: What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.

Still curious? Watch as Kurt Vonnegut explains the different shapes that stories can take.

(H/T)

How Stories Make Us Human

In his new book The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human, Jonathan Gottschall puts forth the argument that storytelling’s deceptions emerge from deeply human needs. The Atlantic’s Maura Kelly investigates:

When we tell stories about ourselves, they also serve another important (arguably higher) function: They help us to believe our lives are meaningful. “The storytelling mind”—the human mind, in other words—”is allergic to uncertainty, randomness, and coincidence,” Gottschall writes. It doesn’t like to believe life is accidental; it wants to believe everything happens for a reason. Stories allow us to impose order on the chaos.

And we all concoct stories, Gotschall notes—even those of us who have never commanded the attention of a room full of people while telling a wild tale. “[S]ocial psychologists point out that when we meet a friend, our conversation mostly consists of an exchange of gossipy stories,” he writes. “And every night, we reconvene with our loved ones … to share the small comedies and tragedies of our day.”

As bad as this sounds, therapy likely helps, in part, because it encourages us to become less truthful autobiographers.

That’s not to say we intentionally or consciously falsify our autobiographies. Telling stories—even to ourselves—is always a matter of playing telephone, as psychologist Nate Kornell noted in a recent Psychology Today piece about the now-infamous performer Mike Daisey (who fabricated parts of a supposedly true story about Apple’s questionable business practices in China). “The second time I tell a story, what I’m remembering is the first time I told the story,” Kornell writes. “And the 201st time, I’m really remembering the 200th time. Many of our memories are records of our own stories, not of events that actually took place.”

The more often we tell a narrative, in other words, the more it changes subtly with each telling—and because we tell ourselves the stories of our own lives over and over and over again, they can change a lot.

Looking forward to reading this book.

The Fatal Flaw of the Storyteller

Your memory changes every time you tell a story.

Police have to be very careful when questioning witnesses. They basically treat a witness’s memory like a crime scene: once you go over it a single time, it’s irreversibly disturbed. For example, asking a biased question, even unintentionally, can make a witness tell their story a little differently. Doing so doesn’t just change the story; it changes the witness’s memory, permanently and irreversibly. And this isn’t just true of witnesses. The more we tell stories, the more our memories change.

There’s a basic recipe for making a false memory: imagine a scene in vivid detail, do so repeatedly, and believe that what you’re imagining is real. Consider again Mike Daisey’s supposed conversation in English with a 13-year-old girl. He has surely replayed this incident in his memory dozens or hundreds of times. He surely remembers it each time in detail. Even if it never happened, this would make it seem completely real to him. And of course it’s in English—his imagination speaks English, not Mandarin Chinese. What he’s really remembering, each time he tells the story, is whatever he remembered the last time he told the story. His translator may have rehearsed less, but her memory is also less warped.

I personally try to be careful about remembering stories too often, because I know they’re subject to change. I know the second time I tell a story, what I’m remembering is the first time I told the story. And the 201st time, I’m really remembering the 200th time. Many of our memories are records of our own stories, not of events that actually took place.

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Tyler Cowen on The Dangers of Storytelling

Tyler Cowen

We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” – Joan Didion

Tyler Cowen with an excellent TEDtalk on the dangers of storytelling:

So if I’m thinking about this talk, I’m wondering, of course, what is it you take away from this talk? What story do you take away from Tyler Cowen? One story you might take away is the story of the quest. “Tyler came here, and he told us not to think so much in terms of stories.” That would be a story you could tell about this talk. It would fit a pretty well-known pattern. You might remember it. You could tell it to other people. “This weird guy came, and he said not to think in terms of stories. Let me tell you what happened today!” and you tell your story. Another possibility is you might tell a story of rebirth. You might say, “I used to think too much in terms of stories, but then I heard Tyler Cowen, and now I think less in terms of stories!” That too, is a narrative you will remember, you can tell to other people, and it may stick. You also could tell a story of deep tragedy. “This guy Tyler Cowen came and he told us not to think in terms of stories, but all he could do was tell us stories about how other people think too much in terms of stories.”

As a simple rule of thumb, just imagine every time you’re telling a good vs. evil story, you’re basically lowering your I.Q. by ten points or more.

Kurt Vonnegut: The Shapes of Stories

Kurt Vonnegut - The Shapes of Stories
A beautiful infogrpahic by Maya Eilam.

In this short lecture, Kurt Vonnegut explains the different shapes that stories can take using a chalkboard.

Now let me give you a marketing tip. The people who can afford to buy books and magazines and go to the movies don’t like to hear about people who are poor or sick, so start your story up here [top of axis]. You will see this story over and over again. People love it, and it is not copyrighted. The story is ‘Man in Hole,’ but the story needn’t be about a man or a hole. It’s: somebody gets into trouble, gets out of it again [draws line A]. It is not accidental that the line ends up higher than where it began. This is encouraging to readers.

This is part of a longer talk; find a transcript here.

I want to share with you something I’ve learned. I’ll draw it on the blackboard behind me so you can follow more easily [draws a vertical line on the blackboard]. This is the G-I axis: good fortune-ill fortune. Death and terrible poverty, sickness down here-great prosperity, wonderful health up there. Your average state of affairs here in the middle [points to bottom, top, and middle of line respectively].

***
Still curious?

Vonnegut is the author of Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions.

(The beautiful infographic is by graphic designer Maya Eilam.)

Is Everything Obvious Once You Know The Answer?

Reading Duncan Watts new book Everything is Obvious: Once You Know The Answer can make you uncomfortable.

Common sense is particularly well adapted to handling the complexity of everyday situations. We get intro trouble when we project our common sense to situations outside the realm of everyday life.

Applying common sense in these areas, Watts argues, “turns out to suffer from a number of errors that systematically mislead us. Yet because of the way we learn from experience—even experiences that are never repeated or that take place in other times and places—the failings of commonsense reasoning are rarely apparent to us.”

We think we have the answers but we don’t. Most real-world problems are more complex than we think. “When policy makers sit down, say, to design some scheme to alleviate poverty, they invariably rely on their own common-sense ideas about why it is that poor people are poor, and therefore how best to help them.” This is where we get into trouble. “A quick look at history,” Watts argues, “suggests that when common sense is used for purposes beyond the everyday, it can fail spectacularly.”

According to Watts, commonsense reasoning suffers from three types of errors, which reinforce one another. First, is that our mental model of the individual behaviour is systematically flawed. Second, our mental model of complex system (collective behaviour) is equally flawed. Lastly—and most interesting, in my view—is that “we learn less from history than we think we do, and that this misperception in turn skews our perception of the future.”

Whenever something interesting happens—a book by an unknown author rocketing to the top of the best-seller list, an unknown search engine increasing in value more than 100,000 times in less than 10 years, the housing bubble collapsing—we instinctively want to know why. We look for an explanation. “In this way,” Watts says, “we deceive ourselves into believing that we can make predictions that are impossible.”

“By providing ready explanations for whatever particular circumstances the world throws at us, commonsense explanations give us the confidence to navigate from day to day and relieve us of the burden of worrying about whether what we think we know is really true, or is just something we happen to believe.”

Once we know the outcome, our brains weave a clever story based on the aspects of the situation that seem relevant (at least, relevant in hindsight). We convince ourselves that we fully understand things that we don’t.

Is Netflix successful, as Reed Hastings argues, because of their culture? Which aspects of their culture make them successful? Do companies with a similar culture exist that fail? “The paradox of common sense, then, is that even as it helps us make sense of the world, it can actively undermine our ability to understand it.”

The key to improving your ability to make decisions then is to figure out what kind of predictions can we make and how we can improve our accuracy.

One problem with making predictions is knowing what variables to look at and how to weigh them. Even if we get the variables and relative importance of one factor to another correct, these predictions also reflect how much the future will resemble the past. As Warren Buffett says “the rearview mirror is always clearer than the windshield.”

Relying on historical data is problematic because of the frequency of big strategic decisions. “If you could make millions, or even hundreds, such bets,” Watts argues, “it would make sense to got with the historical probability. But when facing a decisions about whether or not to lead the country into war, or to make some strategic acquisition, you cannot count on getting more than one attempt. … making one-off strategic decisions is therefore ill suited to statistical models or crowd wisdom.”

Watts finds it ironic that organizations using the best practices in strategy planning can also be the most vulnerable to planning errors. This is the strategy paradox.

Michael Raynor, author of The Strategy Paradox, argues that the main cause of strategic failure is not bad strategy but great strategy that happens to be wrong. Bad strategy is characterized by lack of vision, muddled leadership, and inept execution, which is more likely to lead to mediocrity than colossal failure. Great strategy, on the other hand, is marked by clarity of vision, bold leadership, and laser-focused execution. Great strategy can lead to great successes as it did with the iPod but it can also lead to enormous failures as it did with Betamax. “Whether great strategy succeeds or fails therefore depends entirely on whether the initial vision happens to be right or not. And that is not just difficult to know in advance, but impossible.” Raynor argues that the solution to this is to develop methods for planning that account for strategic uncertainty. (I’ll eventually get around to reviewing the Strategy Paradox—It was a great read.)

Rather than trying to predict an impossible future, another idea is to react to changing circumstances as rapidly as possible, dropping alternatives that are not working no matter how promising they seem and diverting resources to those that are succeeding. This sounds an awful lot like evolution (variation and selection).

Watts and Raynor’s solution to overcome our inability to predict the future echos Peter Palchinsky’s principles. The Palchinsky Principles, as said by Tim Harford in Adapt (review) are “first, seek out new ideas and try new things; second, when trying something new do it on a scale where failure is survivable; third, seek out feedback and learn from your mistakes as you go along.”

Of course this experimental approach has limits. The US can’t go to war with half of Iraq with one strategy and the other half with a different approach to see which one works best. Watts says “for decisions like these, it’s unlikely that an experimental approach will be of much help.”

In the end, Watts concludes that planners need to learn to behave more “like what the development economist William Easterly calls searchers.” As Easterly put it:

A Planner thinks he already knows the answer; he thinks of poverty as a technical engineering problem that his answers will solve. A Searcher admits he doesn’t know the answers in advance; he believes that poverty is a complicated tangle of political, social, historical, institutional, and technological factors…and hopes to find answers to individual problems by trial and error…A Planner believes outsiders know enough to impose solutions. A Searcher believes only insiders have enough knowledge to find solutions, and that most solutions must be homegrown.

Still curious? Read Everything is Obvious: Once You Know The Answer.