Ten Reasons You Can't Trust Narrative

1. Because human beings usually choose to suffer rather than to disbelieve a cherished narrative. Men and women sacrifice their lives to keep their storylines pure –- the stories of progress, democracy, bravery, freedom, etc. So all creators of narrative –- journalists, novelists, poets -- should ask themselves, “Am I telling a story here that someone would die for? Would I be willing to die for this story?” No matter how you answer these questions, a rethink is usually in order.

2. Because narratives usually explain the present in terms of the past. But old maps don’t show where the new minefields lie.

3. Because reality is outstripping the ability of narrative to explain it. As large as it is, narrative has its limits which today are being reached. Change in the world isn’t greater today that before, but the speed and scale of change is potentially greater than before in human history. Nuclear war, global warming, infectious diseases born by airplanes, and other threats amplified by global technologies can exert global impact within minutes, even seconds. Facts about such changes pour in fast, demanding that new narratives be quickly fashioned to organize and explain them. The problem is that good narratives, like all organic entities, take time to grow and ripen and to be responsibly consumed. Journalism hasn’t yet found an answer to this dilemma.

4. Because narratives are humans’ comfy blanket par excellence against the apparent chaos and senselessness of life. But in life we need to grow up and face facts. The charms of narratives -- as security blankets, lullabies, and pleasure machine -- can rob us of the humility we get from seeing life starkly and clearly.

5. Because the toughest thing is to see with fresh eyes, and then to tell another person exactly what you've seen. Sometimes the biggest obstacle to doing that is the urge to tell a story about what you saw.

6. Because journalists get dizzy, almost nauseous at the very sight of masses of unconnected facts. Our cherished narratives promise relief, but we must be careful. Imbibing a narrative, if it dulls our pain, may also dull us to the truth. Consider: the melting pot, rags to riches, bad seed, heart of gold, the war on drugs, fat girl, evil empire, supply side, dark horse, front runner, hand in the cookie jar, city on a hill, fell through the cracks, gender gap, culture clash, smart kid, dumb kid, global warming, gentrification, liberation, silver spoon, Third World, arms race, rat race, race to the bottom, race to the top.

7. Because Sparkling New Narratives may turn out to be Dangerous Old Narratives. (See next item for examples.) 

8. Dangerous Old Narrative #1: The former Los Alamos scientist, Wen Ho Lee, went to jail because The New York Times, working with federal prosecutors, was bent on pursuing the Cold War narrative of ''nuclear spy.'' It was so compelling a story that its factual falseness was time and again swept aside by the dramatic imperatives of the old narrative. Dangerous Old Narrative #2: The U.S. went to war in Iraq because the old narratives of a progressive liberating nation (favored by liberal hawks), and of a morally righteous nation (favored by conservatives), together made it impossible for Americans to see the new reality forming on Middle Eastern ground. See?

9. Because many of our favorite stories -- such as those we find in the Bible, great novels, and long-playing news stories from the Middle East -- end in colorful visions of apocalypse. This is a boffo ending in literary journalism terms, but it’s not the way we’d choose to actually die. The reason it’s relevant to make that connection is that as you may have noticed, we usually live or die exactly the way our favorite stories say we will. This is not because stories possess inherent magic, but because our favorite narratives become our template for life. If we tell apocalypse stories obsessively we finally come to believe them.  Believing in them, we play them out, and our fate is sealed.

10. Because narratives are usually fashioned as suits of armor. They are designed to protect identities of “self” against outside attack. Skilful narratives, on the other hand, invite the dissolution of self into other identities. But at the present time few writers create narratives to achieve this purpose, and few citizens read them in this way. Can we change this? Can writers learn to fashion narratives that open more to the world, instead of shut it out? Can we learn how to create and to wear narratives not as suits of armor, but rather as costumes that allow us to imaginatively identify with others, and that we finally take off?  Can we enjoy narratives that leave us naked and not armored?