Tag: psychologist

The Hero’s Journey — and Why It Still Matters Today

Ever since humans began to tell stories, they spoke about heroes. They told tales of epic quests of discovery, where warriors slayed monsters and outsmarted the gods, forever changing their lives. The two earliest examples of a story about the hero’s journey date back to ancient Mesopotamia, more than four thousand years ago, but similar stories can be found across the world. So why are heroes so important to us?

What the Hero’s Journey Really Represents

The writer Joseph Campbell famously proposed a template to the hero’s journey, a narrative pattern that these stories tend to follow. He broke the template down into three parts:

  • Departure – this is where the hero is called to adventure. They may embrace this call, or they may initially refuse it due to doubt or fear. Once their journey begins, they may receive aid from a mentor, and then they must leave their known world behind and venture into the unknown.
  • Initiation – the adventure itself, where the hero faces setbacks, temptations and challenges but ultimately finds the strength or skill to achieve their goal.
  • Return – in order to truly succeed, the hero must also manage to return to their old world, to share their achievements with others. This may involve needing to escape from the place they have journeyed to and can be as difficult as the initial adventure. Ultimately, the hero returns transformed by the journey.

These stages very easily mirror any change that we must go through in our lives. When we grow up, we leave the family home, learning to live life without our parents beside us, and we continue to make choices as adults that lead us into the unknown of, for example, a new home, new job, marriage, or children. Each choice will come with setbacks and obstacles, with the hope of a reward at the end of it all, and the experiences change us, shifting our perspective on the world.

The hero’s journey is ultimately about slaying the dragons inside of us – the fears and doubts and insecurities that might hold us back from becoming who we need or want to be. It’s the story of every human who’s ever outgrown a version of themselves and needed to become someone different. In a timeless, universal and profoundly human process, we all must come to terms with the limits of our own strength and skill – accept what we cannot change, and find the courage to change what we can.

But, much as in life, the narrative of the hero’s journey is often more nuanced than stories about people who defeat their enemies and live happily ever after. Not all heroes who set out on their journey will succeed – sometimes fate simply works against them and sometimes the cost of winning is their own life or wellbeing. Oedipus attempts to avoid his prophesied fate and in the process he ultimately causes it to come to pass. Prometheus brings fire to humanity and is severely punished by Zeus for his actions. Katniss Everdeen helps bring about the downfall of a dystopian society, but is so traumatised that she struggles to enjoy the new world she’s helped to create. Frodo destroys the One Ring and saves Middle Earth, but never fully recovers from the emotional and physical wounds caused by his quest.

The purpose of these stories is about the heroes finding meaning and purpose in their lives, rather than happiness or reward. They tell us that sometimes risks are worth taking for the sake of those around us and that even if we fail, we may have achieved something worthwhile along the way.

Why the Hero’s Journey Feels So Relevant Today

These days, the scripts for our lives are less clear than they used to be. In earlier generations, many people followed predictable life paths, where the expectations were passed to them from their parents and their society, influenced by their gender, their social class, their family circumstances. These days, although these factors will still have an influence, our path contains far more options than it used to and finding our own sense of purpose and meaning in life is a major aspect of the modern world.

The latest statistics suggest that more than 20% of the population in the Western world has experienced mental health difficulties, a rate that has steadily increased over time and is becoming more prevalent with young people, in particular. This has been influenced by the impact of the Covid-19 pandemic, the challenges of social media and modern technology, and also by increasing socio-economic pressures, that mean that younger people feel less certain in their future than their parents or grandparents might have done.

The hero’s journey offers a template for making meaning from the difficulties that we feel. We have all found ourselves at some point forced to choose between staying the same, sticking with what we know, and making a change that may or may not work out for the best. We have all found ourselves stuck in moments of self doubt or insecurity, feeling trapped by our circumstances or by our own fears, or faced with a loss that we don’t know how to move on from. Heroes are the people who take risks, who escape from the traps they find themselves in, who face danger and uncertainty with the hope of reward at the end. Sometimes they fail, but they always manage to find the courage to try.

We fall in love with stories like K Pop Demon Hunters, The Lord of The Rings, The Hunger Games or Harry Potter because they tell us that there is meaning to the struggles we face. By finding courage in the midst of hardship, these heroes save the world and become better people, finding a sense of purpose through their journey, even if they don’t get to live happily ever after by the end.

When we read or watch stories about these heroes, we feel inspired by them and we aspire to be more like them in our own lives. Their narratives help us to feel more able to face our own challenges, more confident that it can be worth taking risks.

Integrating the Hero’s Journey into new stories

Just because stories about heroes have been told before, doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for new interpretations of the template, giving a new sense of meaning to the narrative.

The important part in using this template in stories, is to be aware of the true purpose of the narrative, rather than seeing it as a check-list of plot points. The journey is never just about the events that happen around the heroes – it’s about how those events change them as people and allow them to grow and learn from their experiences.

If the journey is so easy that the hero never struggles or questions their goals, then what is the point of the adventure? But also, if they do struggle and they suffer along the way, then there must be meaning in that suffering, something that allows them to move forward in their lives in a way that they wouldn’t have been able to before. In the Epic of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh loses his best friend after they anger the gods and his fear of death leads him to search for immortality, starting him on a new journey. Heracles kills his family after being driven mad by the goddess Hera, leading him on a quest to atone for his actions. In more modern stories, Katniss Everdeen would never have become a figurehead for a rebellion if she hadn’t had to live through the Hunger Games first. The suffering or loss become a part of the hero’s identity, shaping their future actions.

It’s also important to consider the ‘return’ stage of the journey. Often the victory feels like it’s the end goal, but what does that victory mean for the hero and their world? In Lord of the Rings, Frodo achieved his goal but was so fundamentally changed by his journey that he chose to leave Middle Earth with the elves, unable to return to the way of life he had grown up with. In Ender’s Game, Ender’s unintentional destruction of humanity’s enemies leads him to search for atonement, ultimately starting a new quest to restore those enemies. In Moana, saving Te Fiti allows her people to explore the seas in ways that hadn’t been known for generations.

When done well, the hero’s journey can become a mirror for readers’ own development, with characters that they feel they can relate to. It reminds them that growth and change can hurt, that grief and loss are always painful, that we all make mistakes, but that there is also hope that we can recover from these challenges and find either meaning or happiness along the way.

 

About the Author

Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She is also an aspiring fantasy writer and this blog is a way for her to integrate her love of fiction with her knowledge of psychology. Her published short stories are available on her website, or follow the links below to read more of her blog posts.

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Why do we become attached to fictional characters?

The role of empathy in connecting with characters

I’ve previously written about the role of theory of mind in storytelling. This is our ability to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes, to understand their perspective even when it’s different from our own, and use that understanding to explain and predict their behaviour. Using theory of mind allows us to gain new insight into how other people, or society at large, think and feel.

Another related concept, which also influences our social and emotional connection with a story, is empathy. When we empathise with someone, we recognize and understand their emotions, we feel what they feel, and that ability is used when we read stories as well.

There have been various research studies showing that stories with emotional content, or a need to infer a character’s emotions or intent, leads to the activation of similar brain areas as experienced emotion (AbdulSabar et al, 2014; Berthoz et al, 2002; Ferstl et al, 2014; Gallagher et al, 2000). When we read, watch or listen to a story, this can trigger genuine feelings in us as we read it, which will then strengthen our engagement with the narrative.

A low risk relationship

The result of this emotional response to stories is that we can start to feel a connection to the characters within a narrative. This connection can build into what psychologists call a parasocial relationship. This term was originally coined to describe relationships where one person extends emotional energy and interest in a persona, such as a celebrity or media influencer, who isn’t aware of their existence, but it has been extended over time to include a figure who doesn’t exist, like a book or movie character. Our brains are so inclined to build these social connections that we become invested in the future of someone who can never actually reciprocate.

In some ways though, that lack of reciprocity makes it easier to invest in a connection. When we show that we care for a real person, we expect something in return – whether that be rejection or acceptance. When we enter into a friendship or a relationship, there are regular tests of that connection and a need to work to maintain it. Sometimes friendships drift apart or end badly;  we can feel like the effort wasn’t worth it or we can be broken-hearted by the loss.

But when we feel attached to fictional character, none of that matters. There are no real life expectations to meet and we can root for their success with no impact on our day to day lives. If they’re a character in a romance, we can imagine living in their world, without having to move on to the reality of a relationship, where managing the bills and the household chores take precedence over the giddy rush of falling in love. If they’re a character in an adventure story, we can imagine taking risks and facing danger, without ever leaving the safety of our home. The characters will never reject us or judge us and we’re always able to go back to the narrative that we fell in love with. They are safe and predictable in the emotions that they make us feel.

Why do we like certain characters more than others?

Our favourite characters are as unique to us as our own personalities, though the most popular characters often have traits that appeal to a wide range of people. Often the characters we like resonate with something about ourselves or our lives. They might have traits that we value and want to emulate, like the superheroes of the MCU; they might behave or think in the ways we look for in a partner, as with many of the love interests in romance stories. Or, they might be villains that we feel empathy for because we understand their point of view or sympathise with the circumstances that led them to their behaviour, such as with Frankenstein’s monster.

When I first read Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, I fell a bit in love with Sam Vimes. He was a middle aged guard in the city of Ankh-Morpork, who had become disillusioned by his corrupt home and turned to alcohol to manage his feelings. Over the course of the books, he was inspired to turn things around and work to build a real police force, but he never lost his gruff edge. There was something about the way he wanted to do good and succeeded in his own way that just really appealed to me. No heroics or super powers, just a determination to catch the bad guys and do it by the book.

Another character I’ve always loved is Edward Elric from the Full Metal Alchemist manga series. He and his brother lost their mother and tried to bring her back to life. They failed and instead Ed lost his arm and leg, while his brother lost his whole body. Ed was determined to restore his brother, always looking out for him and never as concerned for his own loss, but he also had a strong moral code and was horrified in their journey at the damage others were willing to do for their own self interest. While his brother was always his priority, Ed was also willing to put himself at risk to help others – ultimately making a big sacrifice in order to save the world and his brother.

I also don’t feel like I can talk about famous characters without bringing up the Harry Potter series, but for the topic at hand, I would argue that Severus Snape is the most memorable character of these books. Some would say that he was poorly written: a cowardly bully who we were supposed to forgive because he helped Harry in the end. Others see him as a misunderstood hero, who sacrificed his reputation for the sake of the greater good. The different view points are what keeps him in our minds – the scenes with him standing out over others as we analyse his behaviour for signs of his underlying intent. This engagement with trying to understand his point of view is what builds our connection with him, even if our conclusion is that we dislike him!

How to create a character that readers connect with

There’s no perfect mix of traits that will make a reader feel attached to a character, just like there is no person who can be friends with everyone. Aspects that appeal to one reader may put another off entirely. But there is one thing that’s likely to help: keeping the reader guessing.

The biggest thing that engages a reader is needing to pay attention to details within the narrative. The more the character makes us think, the more we try to make use of theory of mind and empathy. This can be done either through individual scenes or through the narrative itself.

Most writers are aware of the guidance to ‘show, not tell’ and there’s a good reason for this. Being told that character is scared doesn’t tend to elicit emotion on its own, because it doesn’t give us the contextual clues that we use to make sense of emotions, and it doesn’t make us actively engage with what’s happening.

Take this quote from The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler:

She slammed her glass down so hard that it slopped over on an ivory cushion. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up with her eyes sparking fire and her nostrils wide.

We as readers are forced to picture and interpret the character’s behaviour, activating similar brain areas as if she was in the room with us. This means that we’re more likely to ‘feel’ her anger as we read the book, even though the word anger isn’t used in the text.

The Big Sleep is a crime novel, so the narrative has characters double-crossing each other and revealing secrets, keeping the reader guessing along the way. But mystery within the narrative doesn’t have to be as integral to the story as that. It could be that the character doesn’t show their feelings right away, or they hint at a backstory that’s later revealed in detail. It could be that they go through a journey, developing their confidence or power or changing their perspective on the world, and the reader becomes compelled to see how their journey ends.

The most memorable characters make us work to understand them or connect with them. Their words or actions trigger those brain areas involved in theory of mind or empathy as we try to explain and predict their behaviour. If a character is part of a story arc that arouses our curiosity and they’re written in a way that ‘shows’ us their feelings, then readers are far more likely to connect with them, meaning that they’ll be remembered even after the story is over.

 About The Author

Caroline Ashley Author with red hair

Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She writes monthly articles on her website about the different aspects of psychology that relate to telling stories. She is also a fantasy writer and is currently working on completing her first novel. If Caroline had any spare time around work, writing and raising her two young children, she would spend it playing board games.

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Let Me Tell You My Story: The First Person Narrative

For the last few posts I’ve been discussing the importance of the point of view that a story uses and how narrarive perspectives can impact the story. We’re now onto the last perspective that can be used in story telling, which is first person.

What is a First Person Narrative?

First person perspective is when the story is written with the narrator as the protagonist who has experienced or is experiencing the events of the narrative. It is an intimate perspective, designed to elicit the experience of the reader being told a first person account of a story, with access to the narrator’s thoughts and feelings throughout.

One mistake at the end of my life couldn’t erase all the times I had stood unmoved at the edge of the abyss and made snide remarks at its expense. They could kill me, but they couldn’t have me. I was my own.

Ghost Story – Jim Butcher

To imagine a book as a real life scenario, in first person narratives you are sitting down next to another person and that person is sharing a piece of their life story, including both the events and their own thoughts and feelings at the time.

Why use a first person perspective

The intimacy of connection

The most obvious advantage of this perspective over others is how closely connected you are with the narrator. This is a far more intimate perspective than even third person limited (which I discuss here) because the narrator has invited you in, they’re actively telling you their story and sharing their experiences. As a reader, you’re not just observing what happens: you’re being asked to share in it.

From a psychological perspective, humans are profoundly social species. Our brains are wired to  connect to others and experiencing that connection has been shown to activate brain areas associated with physical safety and warmth.

A first person narrative is an extreme in human connection. A person who is willing to share every little detail of their experience with you, right down to their personal thoughts and feelings. As a social animal, we’re likely to find this highly rewarding – provided we see something in the story that we’re interested in connecting with.

Detailed Character Development

First person narratives allow for a detailed exploration of the narrator’s character, in a way that no other perspective does.

There are several examples where the first person perspective exposes us to detailed elements of the narrator’s thinking style and personality that we wouldn’t really have access to otherwise.

One would be The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, which is narrated by an autistic teenager and gives unique insights into his perspective of the world around him.

I like dogs. You always know what a dog is thinking. It has four moods. Happy, sad, cross and concentrating. Also, dogs are faithful and they do not tell lies because they cannot talk.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time – Mark Haddon

The premise of the book stems in part from his own unique viewpoint – when he finds a dead dog, he sees it as a murder and sets out to investigate and find the killer.  Even the way in which the narrative is presented offers insight into the character that the reader might not otherwise have access to – such as the way that he describes his thoughts and experiences using diagrams.

Of course, the flip side of such a personal account is that it’s inherently biased and potentially unreliable. As far as our social brains are concerned, that’s part of the fun. We love puzzles and gain satisfaction from solving them. Solving social puzzles has the additional benefit of adding to our understanding of other people – so if we distrust an unreliable narrator, we feel rewarded to be proven right; or if they catch us out, we get the buzz from the shock of the surprise.

One well-known example of an unreliable narrator is Pi Patel from The Life of Pi, who recounts his fantastical story of surviving stranded at sea with a tiger named Richard Parker and then presents an alternative, more realistic but also more brutal, version of events and we as readers need to decide which we would prefer to be true.

I was giving up. I would have given up – if a voice hadn’t made itself heard in my heart. The voice said “I will not die. I refuse it. I will make it through this nightmare. I will beat the odds, as great as they are. I have survived so far, miraculously. Now I will turn miracle into routine.

The Life of Pi – Yann Martel

Only in a first person narrative could a story be called into question to such a degree. Most other perspectives lead to an assumption that the story is being observed in some way by the reader, albeit with a potentially biased filter imposed by the narrator. Whereas in first person, we’re living in someone’s mind – and we all know how inaccurate our own perceptions can sometimes be!

Societal Issues at an Individual Level

Another powerful use of a first person narrative is to use the individual narrator as a  way to speak to a wider societal issue, either as a form of analysis or critique.

A wonderful example of this is Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. This book explores the lives of Kathy and her friends, who are clones created to be organ donors. In her world, they are seen as less than human. Kathy’s role is to care for and reduce the ‘agitation’ of fellow donors. She is never in a position where she can fight against her place in society but her own first person narrative does that for her – it humanises her and her friends, connecting the reader with them in a way that those in her world refuse to.

Or another example would be Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. An unnamed narrator, who feels disenfranchised from society and its definitions of manhood, turns to Tyler Durden. Tyler Durden starts a fight club and then a cult-like organisation, which engages in increasingly dangerous anti-consumerist attacks. At first, the narrator seems to be just another follower of Durden, until it emerges that he has dissociative identity disorder and he and Durden are the same person.

The first person perspective gives the reader a unique insight into the mind of the narrator, seeing the world as he convinces himself it is, rather than how it really is. We follow along with him, watching Durden grow increasingly out of control. Even once the narrator knows the truth, events have already moved beyond him, leaving him just as helpless in the face of Durden’s actions as he was in the face of the society that he struggled to fit in to.

What first person perspectives can’t do

By definition, this perspective is the story of one person. Everything that the reader sees has to have been seen by them. While events could be shared with them by other characters, if a lot of action happens away from the narrator then this can leave the reader feeling disconnected from the story.

This means that the narrative in a first person story is often narrower in focus than other perspectives. In third person limited, the camera might pick up on details that the protagonist misses. In third person omniscient the narrator can see anything that they need to for the sake of the story. Even second person can take on a more omniscient form when required.

One solution to this is to include multiple first person perspectives, like in Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, which relies heavily on both narrators being unreliable and obscuring the reality of the story. This can work well as a way to tell an immersive story from multiple angles, building a wider picture than with a single point of view. However, there is a risk of confusion for the reader in terms of who is speaking and when, which means that in many cases third person is often easier – allowing the narrative to follow the protagonists closely without any confusion around which character is the current focus.

More generally, some people can find a first person perspective to be too immersive and can be put off by the story as a result. They may not connect with the narrator or they may feel frustrated that they aren’t seeing aspects of the other characters’ stories. Therefore it has to be clear why those other aspects are less important to the themes of the story than the mind of the narrator itself, or people may struggle to join the narrator on their journey.

 

 About The Author

Caroline Ashley storytelling blog author

 Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She enjoys all forms of fantasy and is fascinated with the ways in which the fantastical can speak to our everyday lives. If Caroline had any spare time around work, writing and raising her two young children, she would spend it playing board games.

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The Rise and Fall of the Omniscient Narrator

Third person point of view (POV) is the most commonly used in fiction, so we should all be familiar with what it looks like. But if you aren’t a writer, you may not realise that there are two different types of third person narrative:

Third Person Limited:

Third person limited follows a single person, with the narrator functioning like a camera that can see everything around them, often including their thoughts.

The lapping of water in his ears. That was the first thing. The lapping of water, the rustling of trees, the odd click and twitter of a bird.

Logen opened his eyes a crack. Light, blurry bright through leaves. This was death? Then why did it hurt so much?

The Blade Itself – Joe Abercrombie

Third Person Omniscient:

Third Person omniscient is a more complex viewpoint. In this POV, the narrator is a character in their own right, an all-seeing being who can follow the story down whatever path it takes.

There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart’s Desire.

And while that is, as beginnings go, not entirely novel (for every tale about every young man there ever was or will be could start in a similar manner) there was much about this young man and what happened to him that was unusual, although even he never knew the whole of it.

Stardust – Neil Gaiman

Third person omniscient used to be a far more popular POV than it has been in recent years. Many well-known books have had omniscient narrators, such as Little Women by Louisa May Alcott or Lord of the Flies by William Golding or Dune by Frank Herbert. But increasingly, modern books tend to prefer third person limited, or even first person, over third person omniscient.

This varies somewhat depending on the genre of course. Sprawling epic fantasy and sci-fi novels tend to benefit from an omniscient narrator, who can draw the reader’s attention across the country or across space to different events that are relevant to the story. However, more contemporary fiction often tends toward the intimacy of third person limited, where you see the story unfold through one character’s perspective.

What is the impact of third person omniscient?

The authoritative voice of the narrator

A good omniscient story has a strong narrative voice. It essentially reads like someone is telling you as a reader a story, where they know the events and the outcome already. The elements that are in the story have all been curated, pulled together by the narrator to communicate their chosen narrative.

Older authors such as Jane Austen used this voice to bring a level of intimacy between the author and the reader, as if the author herself is telling the reader the story. Others use the narrator as an additional character with their own agenda, such as in Marcus Zusak’s The Book Thief, where the narrator is Death himself observing and commenting on humanity.

Done well, this form of narration harks back to the days of oral storytelling. Sitting by the fire with the storyteller sharing a fable with their audience – they have a purpose in telling the story and their opinion about the narration is as integral as the story itself.

Exploring a wider context

An omniscient narrator can introduce information about the wider philosophical, historical or social context to a story without needing to rely on the characters being aware of this context. This allows for a more detailed analysis of world in which the story exists.

The twin city of proud Ankh and pestilent Morpork, of which all the other cities of time and space are, as it were, mere reflections, has stood many assaults in its long and crowded history and has always risen to flourish again. So the fire and its subsequent flood, which destroyed everything left that was not flammable and added a particularly noisome flux to the survivors’ problems, did not mark its end.

The Colour of Magic – Terry Pratchett

Stories where the setting is as important to the themes as the characters themselves often benefit from the freedom to explore beyond a character’s limited perspective. Authors such as George R.R. Martin get round this by having multiple limited POVs but even that approach still relies on characters being aware of or exposed to the aspects of the setting or history that are important for the story as a whole.

Multiple character perspectives

Omniscient narratives allow for a detailed view of multiple characters. If the story is about their relationships or their responses to an event, then this POV allows the writer to equally focus on each perspective, rather than needing to prioritise one over the other.

Jessica stopped three paces from the chair, dropped a small curtsy, a gentle flick of left hand along the line of her skirt. Paul gave the short bow his dancing master had taught—the one used “when in doubt of another’s station.”
The nuances of Paul’s greeting were not lost on the Reverend Mother. She said: “He’s a cautious one, Jessica.”
Jessica’s hand went to Paul’s shoulder, tightened there. For a heartbeat, fear pulsed through her palm. Then she had herself under control. “Thus he has been taught, Your Reverence.”
What does she fear? Paul wondered.

Dune – Frank Herbert

In the above quote, the narrator gives glimpses into the perspectives of all three characters, and reveals information about the dynamics between Jessica and the Reverend Mother in particular.

Dramatic irony

Because the narrator is outside of the action in third person omniscient, they can make the reader privy to information that the characters aren’t. This allows the narrator to build suspense by leaving the reader to anticipate a later revelation or consequence.

She was the book thief without the words.
Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.

The Book Thief – Marcus Zusak

This concept lends itself well to the kind of story where the reader already has an idea of how the story might end where the narrative is more about the journey that gets them there.

So why do writers use omniscient narratives less now?

Within writing circles, the most common view is that omniscient POV is less popular now because it’s so much more difficult to get right. People talk about how too much perspective shifting leads to readers feeling like they’re head hopping and losing sight of which character they should be following. Or they talk about how it leads to the reader feeling distant and disconnected from the narrative. But writing omniscient narratives is no more difficult than it was before, so what’s changed?

In my opinion, the change in popularity represents a shift in reader expectations. Omniscient narratives are often more about society and culture than they are about the characters within them, which is partly why they work so well with epic fantasy, where the reader is immersed in a brand new world with its own society to discover.

Or, if the characters are the true subject of an omniscient narrative, the story is told in a way that keeps a level of distance – as if the author is a friend telling you a story about someone they know. You might learn personal details about the characters, but it’s all told though the filter of the narrator.

These days, we often don’t want that distance. With the rise in the Internet and social media, we’re used to feeling connected to the people around us, to having glimpses into the personal lives of people that we don’t even really know. And so when we read a story, we look to feel that same connection with the characters we read about, which third person limited (and first person) allows us to do.

Omniscient narratives can also give an air of the narrator being an authority within the story, someone teaching the reader something they wouldn’t otherwise know. As our society has shifted, with less emphasis on social hierarchy, I think readers are more inclined to want to feel like an equal within the narrative, someone who is discovering it for the first time with the characters, rather than being taught it later by the narrator. We want to feel the thrill of the vicarious experience without the filter of knowing that the story has already happened.

Does that mean omniscient narratives are dying out?

Even if society had changed and what most readers want is different now than in the past, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a place for the omniscient POV. Plenty of authors still use it to powerful effect and are successful in building an audience to read their work. These days though the reason for its use needs to be carefully considered – a choice by the writer to achieve a particular narrative effect that fits their story.

About the Author:

Caroline Ashley fantasy writer

Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She enjoys all forms of fantasy and is fascinated with the ways in which the fantastical can speak to our everyday lives. If Caroline had any spare time around work, writing and raising her two young children, she would spend it playing board games.

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The Use of Second Person Point of View in Fiction

After introducing the psychology behind perspective taking and literary points of view in How theory of mind leads to effective storytelling, I wanted to go into more detail about the impact of different points of view on our experience of a story.

I’m going to start with the point of view that’s used the least often – the second person.

What is Second Person Point of View

In this point of view, the narrator turns the reader into the protagonist, speaking as if the reader themselves were the one who experienced the narrative.

This point of view is rarely experienced in day to day life. When people tell us stories, they’re usually describing their own experiences, so will use the first person, or they’re recounting something that happened to someone else, and would use the third person.

There are a few uses of the second person that you might be familiar with. When someone you know is asking for your opinion, they might ask you to put yourself in their shoes: “If you were happy with your job, but were offered one with better salary, would you take it?”. Or they might use the second person in subtle ways to involve the listener in an event that’s being recounted, for example: “The ball hit the net and you could hear the crowd go wild.”

In literature, the second person is more often used in non-fiction, where the author may be directing their readers to particular actions. It is much less common in fiction, though one example of it that most people will be aware of is with ‘choose your own adventure’ books. Those stories where you can pick what choice the character makes, thus creating your own narrative and deciding how the story ends.

How is second person used

There are three main ways in which a second person narrative can be used in a story:

The narrator is addressing the reader

This takes the form of the narrator talking to the reader about things that the reader has done. The narrator is omniscient and knows everything about the reader’s character, much as if the story was in the first person. Choose your own adventure books take on this form, where an unknown narrator is describing the reader’s story to them.

The narrator is addressing themselves

This approach might be used to show that the narrator is distancing themselves from something that has happened to them. They struggle to admit that they are narrating about themselves so address the reader instead or it may be that it’s written as if some subconscious part of their conscience is speaking for them.

An example of this form would be the short story How To Be An Other Woman by Lorrie Moore, where the narrator struggles to own her behaviour and so distances herself from it by writing in the second person.

Love drains you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.

Lorrie Moore

The narrator is addressing another character

Technically this is a very intimate form of first person narrative. The narrator is talking about their experience but addressing their story specifically to the reader rather than to a general audience. An example of this would be You by Caroline Kepnes, where the narrator is describing his obsession for a woman:

You smile, embarrassed to be a nice girl, and your nails are bare and your V-neck sweater is beige and it’s impossible to know if you’re wearing a bra but I don’t think that you are.

Caroline Kepnes

What is the impact of second person point of view

It makes the reader feel responsible for the events of the story

Because this point of view brings the reader into the narrative, it can serve to make them feel complicit in the events that come to pass. It can feel like the narrator is telling us what we have done, reminding us of our actions. Take Iain Banks novel, Complicity, where scenes with a murderer are all written in the second person:

She was quivering with fear when you looked into her face. You knew you looked terrifying in the dark balaclava, but there was nothing you could do about that.

Iain Banks

In this novel, Banks’ words at times take on an accusing tone, as if the narrator is holding the reader to account for their murderous actions.

As social animals, we often have an emotional reaction to feeling accused, whether falsely or not. We may feel guilty, ashamed, or angry and rejected. In this novel, Banks attempts to take advantage of that response by having the narrator recount our misdeeds.

In many ways, Joe McInerney’s Bright Lights, Big City works to elicit emotions in a similar way. Telling the story of a serial cheater, it’s as if his conscience is writing the story, bringing to light the mistakes that he has made, and judging his actions.

You have friends that actually care about you and speak the language of the inner self. You have avoided them of late. Your soul is as dishevelled as your apartment, and until you can clean it up a little you don’t want to invite anyone inside.

Joe McInerney

It forces the reader to inhabit an experience

Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson explores a love story between two Black people in London, reflecting on the impact of racism and generational trauma on the protagonist. The use of the second person gives a sense of intimacy to the story. It asks the reader to live the protagonist’s life, to immerse themselves in the pain and loss, and to learn something about his unique experience.

Sometimes you forget that to be you is to be unseen and unheard, or it is to be seen and heard in ways you did not ask for.

Caleb Azumah Nelson

Alternatively, in You by Caroline Kepnes, the reader is made the object of someone’s obsession and asked to experience the impact of that obsession.

It speaks to the narrator’s pain

There is a contrast in the use of the second person for painful events – the author is on the one hand suggesting that the story is too painful for the narrator to embrace it as their own, but on the other hand inviting the reader to understand that pain.

N.K. Jemisin uses this to powerful effect in her Broken Earth series:

You are she. She is you. You are Essun. Remember? The woman whose son is dead.

N.K. Jemisin

The pitfalls of the second person point of view

There are good reasons why this isn’t a common narrative form. The times when it can be used to good effect are in some ways quite specific and if a reader doesn’t feel the use is justified they can struggle to embrace the writing style.

Second person narratives require a big suspension of disbelief, a willingness on the reader’s part to embrace the character they are being asked to inhabit. This becomes more difficult to do the longer the story goes, so often it’s most successfully used within a short story or as part of a longer piece. It is particularly difficult for a reader if the events of the story are traumatic or distressing. Our natural response to feeling threatened is often to protect ourselves from threat, which can mean that readers disengage from second person narratives when the story becomes too emotionally challenging – leading to them needing more distance from the story than they would have if they had been reading in first person.

In addition to this, some readers just aren’t able to connect with second person stories in the same way as first or third. It is too unfamiliar to them and it requires too much cognitive effort on their part to engage with the narrative. This means that for any story written in the second person, there is likely to be a group of readers who simply struggle to enjoy the narrative, no matter how well written.

It is also difficult to get right. There’s a tricky balance between too little and too much information about the character in second person point of view: too little and they don’t feel like fully fleshed individuals, but too much and we struggle to relate to them, which is absolutely necessary for second person point if view to work. Less experienced writers also often don’t put as much thought into their narrator as they do into their characters, not truly considering why their story is being told and to whom, and, without this, second person narratives risk coming across as more of a gimmick than a considered plan around how best to tell the story.

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About the Author

Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.

How theory of mind leads to effective storytelling

Storytelling is all about sharing a point of view. When we read or listen to a story, we’re learning something about the perspective of the storyteller or their characters. Stories can make us feel connected to the protagonist; they can build anticipation for the ending; they can make us question our views of the world. But what is it that that makes stories so effective in triggering these thoughts and feelings?

What is Theory of Mind?

Communicating a point of view in a story starts with theory of mind. Every human has the capacity to put themselves into the mind of another, to consider that someone else might have a different perspective to them. We develop this skill as children, with some of us being better at it than others for various social, environmental and cognitive reasons. The concept of theory of mind relates largely to cognitive perspective taking. This means it relates to interpreting the thoughts, desires and intentions of others, which we use to infer reasons for their behaviour or to predict their behaviour. Psychologists describe it as a theory because it’s impossible to ever truly prove our assumptions about another person’s mind – we’ll never see or experience it the way they do.

Another related concept is empathy, which researchers describe as emotional perspective taking. This is our ability to recognise and understand the emotions of others, basically to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes and consider how a situation might make them feel.

Theory of Mind and the Role of Language

In my previous blog post Why Do We Tell Stories, I wrote about the power of language. We are the only animal that we’re aware of that’s capable of communicating complex symbolic meanings. We are capable of describing events that have never happened, or that we have never experienced, in order to express an underlying message to our audience.

In the same way, this linguistic ability gives us the framework for conceptualising the experience of another person. Other animals have been shown to have some theory of mind, for example, crows are able to infer that another crow may not have the same knowledge as them; chimpanzees and bonobos have shown some ability to infer the intentions and emotions of others. But researchers all agree that the theory of mind these animals evidence is far less than that of humans. We don’t really know for sure why that is, but there does seem to be a strong link between language fluency and the development of theory of mind and empathy.

As we’re teaching our children to speak, often we’re also teaching them something about theory of mind at the same time. For example, when my son starts crying and I ask “Are you sad?, I’m giving him the label that I use to describe that emotion in myself. If I’m combing his hair and pull too hard, I’ll say “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you” and he’ll know that what happened wasn’t my intention. When I plan to have toast and realise there isn’t any bread, if I say “I didn’t know you and Daddy finished the bread”, I’m teaching him that my knowledge was different to his until I went into the kitchen. Language allows us to access the inner worlds of other people in a way that just wouldn’t be possible otherwise.

Theory of Mind and Storytelling

Another thing that researchers have found is that our brains are particularly interested in narratives. Partly, this is because they’re easier to remember: they have a structure that we can follow and a context that we can put them in. But it’s also because narratives have a social value. We tell stories to share information about ourselves or our experiences, and we find stories engaging because there’s an evolutionary advantage to being given the information that others want to share. In the past, that might have been information about food sources, or whether other people were trustworthy, or signs of a predator. Now, our stories might be more complicated but we still listen to them to build our social understanding.

Brain imaging studies have shown that when we listen to narratives rather than just unrelated verbal information, different areas of the brain are activated. This extends even to fictional stories. When we are told about the thoughts, feelings and behaviours of a character, our brains work to take their perspective in the same way we would with a real person. In this way, simple stories can be used to help children to practice theory of mind and develop their social and emotional understanding of others, while adults can emotionally connect with characters, allowing stories to take on more meaning and become more memorable.

Point of View

Within storytelling, there are three main points of view that a narrative can take:

First Person:

This is the point of view that you’re most likely to hear in stories told during your everyday life. It is a story where the narrator is also the protagonist and they are telling you about something that happened to them e.g.:

I did the only thing any reasonable wizard could have done. I turned around and ran like hell.

Jim Butcher

Second Person:

In this point of view, the narrator turns the reader into the protagonist, speaking as if the reader themselves were the one who experienced the narrative.

You’re still trying to decide who to be. The self you’ve been lately doesn’t make sense anymore; that woman died with Uche.

N.K. Jemisin

Third Person:

The most commonly used point of view in fiction, third person provides the reader with a camera through which they can see the action happening to the characters in the narrative. This perspective is similar to our usual life experiences: we watch others as they speak and act, separated from them unless they tell us their own first person account.

Bilbo was very rich and very peculiar, and had been the wonder of the Shire for sixty years, ever since his remarkable disappearance and unexpected return.

J.R.R. Tolkien

How do theory of mind and point of view interact with each other?

Each different type of point of view invites the reader to engage with a narrative in a particular way and each will require different aspects of theory of mind.

In first person POV, we’re being told someone’s story. They’re making a direct attempt to share something of themselves with us. This taps into our social desire to engage with, empathise and understand those around us, and to build human connections.

In second person POV, the narrator asks us to imagine that we are the protagonist, to put ourselves in the narrative. This is a tricky one to get right, if the actions of the character are too far removed from what we think our own might be, but it can have the powerful effect of leaving us feeling like we personally understand the experience of the story.

Third person POV draws on the skills we use every day in observing those around us but often with the added element of access to the internal experiences of the characters, which generally makes us feel more emotionally invested in them.

The point of view that is most effective for the narrative being told is dependent on the aims of the storyteller, but all of them take advantage of our ability to take the perspectives of the protagonists and empathise with their experiences.

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About the Author

Caroline Ashley Author storytelling blog

Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.

Merry Christmas!

Spillwords have published a Christmas story of mine called Fireside Memories. This was one of the first short stories I wrote after getting back into writing in early 2022, submitted to a Globe Soup contest to the theme of ‘an unlikely friendship’. I liked the idea of making the story about a man and ‘man’s best friend’, except in a world where that isn’t entirely the case any more. I’ve edited it a lot since the original draft and I also made it Christmassy for the submissions call with Spillwords, so it is a bit different from the first version. I’ve had some lovely feedback from other writers since it’s been published, which is a great little gift right before Christmas.

Finally, today I’ve uploaded another blog post, this time about using Aristotle’s rhetorical appeals (logos, ethos and pathos) in writing fiction. This is an example of The Rule of Three in action – Aristotle separates quite a few of his concepts into three parts, likely because he knew the rhetorical power of things that come in threes. His writing was clearly effective, given that we’re still talking about him more than two thousand years later!

This is my last post of 2023 so all that’s left is to thank you for following my blog this year and I hope you continue to enjoy my work next year. See you in 2024! 🥳

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Telling a story with logos, pathos and ethos

One of the main aims of any story teller is to convince their audience of something, whether that be to immerse them in a magical world, or make a theoretical argument, or to build an emotional connection with the characters. So how do you write a convincing story? What elements need to be there for an audience to buy into the narrative?

More than 2000 years ago, the philosopher Aristotle wrote On Rhetoric: A Theory of Civic Discourse where he laid the foundations for all subsequent ideas about rhetoric and the art of persuasion. Aristotle posited that in order to make a persuasive argument a writer requires three rhetorical appeals:

  • Logos: making a logical argument. In non-fiction, this would mean that the narrative needs to be evidence based and structured in such a way that it pre-empts any counter argument.
  • Ethos: being credible and likeable. A writer needs to be seen as someone that the audience can trust and respect, someone whose argument is worth listening to, or someone whose ideals are similar to their own.
  • Pathos: connecting emotionally with the audience. This is about forming an emotion connection, either by evoking positive emotions for the narrative or negative emotions for the ideas or people who oppose the writer’s argument.

(As an aside to this blog post, this is an example of the power of the rule of three, which I’ve discussed previously. Artistotle breaks quite a few of his rhetorical concepts down to three parts, likely because he understood the power that the rule of three has in helping people to engage with and remember information.)

Aristotle’s ideas have been used to inform written and spoken work throughout the ages. His writings cover far more than just these three elements and are essentially a ‘how to’ guide for making an argument that people will listen to. Being a philosopher and scientist, Aristotle was most concerned with using discourse to communicate theoretical ideas rather than stories, but the basic concept is just as useful for writers wanting to ‘sell’ their fiction to their audience.

One thing that I think is important to note though, is that most writing doesn’t necessarily require all three of these factors to be successful. A not-very-good book by an internationally best-selling writer is likely to still sell a lot of copies regardless. A story that plucks at the heart strings well enough may be forgiven for some factual inaccuracies or internal inconsistencies. And a well-written story with an interesting argument to make may not need to appeal to the audience’s emotions to be remembered.

Logos within Fiction

Logos is all about a story making sense. It doesn’t necessarily have to be completely factually accurate but it the narrative has to flow in a way that readers can wrap their heads around and the rules of the world within the story need to be consistent.

Some stories use logos as the primary focus of the narrative. For example, Fountains of Paradise by Arthur C. Clarke is largely a speculative piece about the feasibility of a space elevator on earth. The characters are fairly two dimensional and forgettable, largely used as a means of progressing his scientific ideas. Another example would be The Martian by Andy Weir, who said in promoting his book that he worked hard to ensure that the novel was as scientifically accurate as possible.

On the other hand, we have the TV series Lost. Those of you who have watched it will remember waiting patiently for explanations for the polar bear that appears in the jungle in Season 1, or what was underneath the hatch, or what the numbers truly meant. Many explanations just led to further questions and by the finale there were several hanging threads that were never tied off. The story was often more about the characters anyway and many fans still felt satisfied by the closure they had by the end. However, plenty of others were disappointed by the lack of cohesive narrative, and the issues with the story have reduced its re-watch value for many fans.

While readers will tend to forgive the odd mistake here and there, or suspend their disbelief for a compelling enough story, it definitely weakens a story and disrupts our immersion if we find ourselves questioning the logic within the narrative.

Pathos within Fiction

If a writer can emotionally connect with an audience through their writing then they’ll create moments that are remembered long after the story is over. The example that sprang to my mind when writing this is from the movie The Never-ending Story. If you were a child when this movie came out, then you may already be picturing Atreyu desperately trying to rescue his horse Artax from drowning in the Swamp of Sadness only to fail and be left to continue his journey alone. The emotional connection that I felt for Atreyu has stuck with me well into my adulthood, cementing my memory of the movie along with it.

One way to use pathos to good effect, is to establish well-rounded characters that we can empathise with. By exploring their thoughts and feelings, their vulnerabilities and strengths, the audience starts to feel close to them, which leads to the reader feeling happy when life goes their way or upset when it doesn’t. Equally, writers can elicit more complex feelings by exploring different themes or dilemmas that might lead to the character making choices that readers might disagree with, eliciting their ire but still also forming an emotional connection with the story. One example of this is with Severus Snape from JK Rowling’s Harry Potter series. He is largely presented as an unlikeable character, who had fought for the villain Voldemort and was cruel to Harry in his time at Hogwarts. But he was also revealed to have been in love with Harry’s mother and working as a spy for the enemy in the present day. Many readers have been divided over whether his good actions outweigh the bad and whether his love for Harry’s mother and desire for redemption really make up for his behaviour toward Harry throughout the books.

Pathos can also be driven by the events of the story. If the characters are placed in a situation that the audience would find frightening or overwhelming, then the moment itself can trigger similar emotions even if the characters aren’t well developed yet. Horror movies take advantage of the power of pathos in this setting all the time. Often character development is limited but these films will draw on our fears of the events that are happening to the characters in order to keep us emotionally invested in the rest of the story.

Budding writers are told to ‘show, not tell’ in their narratives and pathos benefits the most from this technique. Research has shown that trying to picture a scene in our minds eye triggers activity in the same brain areas as when we are experiencing events ourselves. So the more we are immersed in the sensory experiences or the internal process of a character, the more connected we will feel with what is happening to them.

Ethos in Fiction

For storytelling, there are two ways in which ethos can apply. Firstly, within the story itself. A writer can demonstrate their credibility by writing well. If you start the first page and find spelling errors or clunky dialogue or figurative language that doesn’t seem to work, then you start to question whether their ideas are worth the time. Simply by making sure that their work is well-edited, a writer can demonstrate that are capable of telling a story and the audience is just that bit more likely to continue. All of the different storytelling techniques that writers try to learn, like the use of point of view, or story themes, or characterisation, or sentence structure, all combine to make them seem more credible to a reader.

But there are also factors outside of the book itself to be aware of. If an author is already well established then we trust that their content will be worth reading. We buy the next book in their series not based on any recommendations for that book, but based on our knowledge of the books that the writer has previously produced. This only takes a writer so far of course – if their audience reads the book and decides that its not on par with their previous work, then they’ll be less likely to buy the next story.

The importance of ethos is the reason why many writers are now on social media, posting about themselves and their work. If a reader feels that they know the writer, that they understand the writer’s point of view, then they’re more likely to pay for their work. Even before social media, books always had a blurb about the author, telling us something personal about them: unnecessary for enjoyment of the book, but sometimes those little details help us to decide whether a book is for us or not. I remember thinking that Jim Butcher was someone who might write my kind of fiction because his blurb said that he enjoyed playing tabletop games. I stuck a postcard of Terry Pratchett with rats on his shoulders up on my noticeboard because I loved my pet rats growing up and enjoyed the idea that I might share that love with one of my favourite writers.

Building credibility or likeability as a writer generally takes time. The Harry Potter series didn’t start to get big until it was three books in. Jim Butcher spent time on the convention circuit trying to make contacts in the literary industry before he found representation for his first Dresden Files book. Andy Weirposted his novel in a serialised format on his website and then self published it online but he had already spent years posting a web comic and short fiction on his website, building up the audience he needed to make his novel a success.

How does it all add together?

To go back to Aristotle, he believed that the most important element of these three concepts was logos, driven as he was by his attempts to convey rational, scientific argument in his work. When it comes to fiction, all three can play an important role in the success of a story. For a narrative to stand the test of time, any good writer will have considered how they are using each of these elements to contribute to the narrative that they want to sell to their audience. This doesn’t necessarily mean giving equal weight to each concept though – as already noted, Arthur C. Clarke wasn’t always very good with pathos but his stories carried scientific ideas that stood the test of time; and The Never-ending Story is remembered more for the emotional impact of the events on the characters. In terms of ethos, some writers work to sell themselves as much as they do their books, building connections with their fans, while others prefer not to be under the public eye, relying on the quality of their writing to establish their credibility. Each approach may build an audience, though it will likely be composed of different groups of people, drawn to the type of story that most appeals to them. The most important part for a writer is to consider their work and who they want their audience to be, so that they can use these three elements to help make their story a success.

 

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About the Author

 Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.

 

Trickster stories and why we need them

In my previous blog post The feral child archetype: stories and themes in real life and fiction, I introduced the concept of character archetypes that keep arising across different societies. Carl Jung believed that these archetypes represented elements of our psyche, coming to life within the stories that we tell each other.

Because archetypes are found in so many stories, everyone holds certain expectations about how these characters will behave when they are used in fiction. Writers can use these expectations as a tool to strengthen a narrative by using archetypes that speak to the themes that the writer is trying to convey. However, if they’re used poorly, a writer can risk their story simply sounding clichéd and derivative.

This blog post is about my favourite character archetype: The Trickster. They are the black sheep of the family; the jester in the court; the cause of the landslide falling down toward the village below. They are characters who are often morally ambiguous. If your life was made better by the trickster’s behaviour, was that intentional or just a by-product of them achieving their own goals? In folklore, tricksters aren’t the kind of gods that you welcome into your village, because you never know what chaos will follow them. You’re as likely to see your house burned to the ground as you are to see any benefit of their presence.

What is the trickster archetype?

The concept of the trickster is so endemic across society that Carl Jung listed the character as one of the archetypes that live within our collective unconscious. Jung’s Trickster is said to represent the irrational and chaotic elements of our personality. His role is to bring these elements to the surface. In doing so, he highlights the inconsistencies and humour in the lives we live.

Within folklore and mythology, the trickster character is a study in contrasts. Tricksters are rogues and thieves but they are also lovable scoundrels who bring a sense of playfulness and joy to a story. They are cunning and duplicitous but they are also often outsmarted and punished. They straddle the boundary between right and wrong, stability and chaos, and it depends on the story which side of the boundary they will fall.

Tricksters also speak to the absurdity of life. We live in a world where life inevitably leads to death; where pain and suffering are as endemic as happiness and laughter. Within stories the trickster often speaks to the unfairness of the world, but he laughs about it along the way, softening the underlying message of our lack of control over an uncaring universe.

Tricksters from myth and fiction

Tricksters can be found across the world, some more well known than others.

Loki – if you’re a fan of the MCU then you’ll already be familiar with Loki, the Norse god of mischief. Loki could change his shape and his sex. He was sometimes known to work with the gods and at other times he worked against them, the definition of disorder within Norse mythology. He frequently uses his cunning to solve problems for the gods, though on several occasions he had caused the problem in the first place. He becomes increasingly antagonistic toward the gods, eventually being bound and tortured until Ragnarok, when he would escape and contribute to their defeat and the rebirth of the world.

Maui – A Polynesian folk hero who was brought into mainstream awareness when he featured in Moana. Maui’s stories were told across most of Polynesia: he was known for bringing fire to humankind; pulling the islands from the ocean with his hook; and slowing down the movement of the sun. Maui’s stories frequently have him outwitting the gods to change the world for the betterment of humankind.

Anansi – the spider trickster of West African myth, Anansi is a crafty trickster who can fool humans, animals and gods alike, generally for the purpose of making his life easier and others’ lives more difficult. Legends say he helped give humankind the sun, moon and rain, as well as writing and agriculture.

Coyote – across Native American myth, several animals have trickster stories associated with them, including Raven, Bluejay, and Rabbit, but the most well known is Coyote. Not all Coyote stories agree with each other, but they all speak about a similar character. Coyote is known for such things as impatiently tossing the stars into the sky to form the milky way and making death permanent because he believed there wasn’t enough food for everyone to live forever.

Eris – the Greek goddess of discord. She is most well-known for starting a fight between the other goddesses after she wasn’t invited to a wedding, which ultimately led to the Trojan war.

Matilda – a child-friendly trickster story of a clever girl with special powers who uses her cunning to play pranks on the abusive adults around her. Their crimes are found out and she ends up living a happy life with her teacher.

Jack Sparrow – in Pirates of the Caribbean, Jack Sparrow takes on the role of a trickster. He is a cunning character who cares only for his own self interest. He helps others when it benefits his goals and he always seems to escape any significant consequences for his actions.

Deadpool – the fourth-wall breaking anti-hero of the Marvel Universe, Deadpool often sits on the edge of good versus bad, his actions generally driven by his own impulsive urges rather than any long term plan. He has a regenerative healing factor so he throws himself into danger, with little need to care about the consequences. Deadpool often speaks to the audience in his stories, cracking jokes and making fun of the narrative as well as the wider comic universe.

The features of a trickster

There are certain features that tend to define tricksters across the world:

Their motives are ambiguous or fickle

Often they make impulsive choices based on their own needs and wants, and it’s never clear how much they intend to help or hinder those around them. In African myth, Anansi decided that he wanted to become wise, so he gathered a bit of wisdom from everyone in the village, storing it in a gourd. He tried to climb a tree to hide his wisdom with the gourd on his belt. When his son saw Anansi struggling, he suggested wearing it on his back. Anansi realised that even with all that wisdom, his son was still wiser than him, so he cast the contents of the gourd away, thus spreading wisdom all across the world.

They play tricks

Tricksters are cunning and devious. Their stories often involve them manipulating those around them, sometimes to meet their own needs, sometimes to make fun of their victims and knock them down a peg or two. Esu, an African god, once intervened when two farmers promised never to argue. He wore a hat which was black on one side and white on another and after causing the farmers to argue over the colour, then turns it inside out and tells them it’s red. There is a Coyote story where he goes to the Frog People, who hold control of all the water. Coyote doesn’t like this, so he asks for a drink, which they allow, but while his head is under the water he makes a hole in the dam, allowing the other animals to drink freely and creating all the rivers and waterfalls.

They are masters of disguise

Some tricksters, like Loki, are shape-shifters who change form to trick those around them. Others, like Coyote, might use disguises to hide who they are.

Messenger and antagonist of the gods

Tricksters often have a close connection with the gods but whether they help or hinder them very much depends on the trickster’s mood during that particular story. Take Loki, for example, in one story he cuts off the goddess Sif’s golden hair as a prank but when he is caught, he travels to the dwarves and lavishes them in praise and false promises so that they will produce a cap of golden hair to replace it.

Their actions disrupt the status quo

Often after a trickster story, something about the situation they were in has fundamentally changed, like fire being stolen from the gods by Maui, Prometheus or Coyote; or wisdom being shared with humanity by Anansi. There is a story in Norse mythology where Loki causes the death of Baldur, a god of light and purity, known for his kindness and wisdom. There was a prophecy about Baldur’s death and his mother tried to avoid it by making every entity vow not to harm him. She didn’t ask mistletoe though, and when Loki heard this he tricked Baldur’s brother into firing a mistletoe arrow and killing Balder. Baldur’s death, the death of light and truth, is the first step towards Ragnarok, where the world will be destroyed, to rise again renewed and cleansed.

What are the themes in trickster stories?

Even the smallest among us can change the world

One example of trickster stories being used to inspire comes from Anansi. With the rise of the slave trade, Anansi became a symbol of slave resistance – the representation of a strategy to turn the tides on powerful oppressors. Anansi’s stories were also a connection to their African heritage and a means of retaining their identity. By telling stories about a character who could shape the world despite not being powerful, slaves were able to hold on to a small piece of their agency in a time when their slavers sought to take it from them.

Those in charge aren’t always right

Trickster stories tell us that conforming to society’s rules isn’t always the best thing to do. By breaking the rules and challenging authority, sometimes we can create a better world to live in.

You don’t have to conform to be happy

tricksters throughout the world stand out from the crowd in various ways. They change shape; they’re promiscuous; they’re impulsive; they don’t think about the consequences of their actions. And yet, they are generally happy characters. They are content in who they are and find power in being different, often actually looking down on those who do try to conform to the rules and boundaries that the trickster is often breaking.

There is a cost to challenging authority

Trickster stories also warn us of the consequences of being the one who challenges the status quo. Even when tricksters succeed at their goal, they can be ostracised or punished for their actions by the gods, animals or people they have tricked. Maui dies trying to achieve immortality; Loki is tortured until Ragnarok; Prometheus is cursed to have his liver perpetually eaten by an eagle. There is a freedom to acting on your impulses, to doing as you please and having no respect for authority, but it also makes you an outsider. People generally don’t like change and they may not thank the person who causes it.

Are tricksters still relevant today?

Here in the 21st century, there is still a need for someone who helps us to find our voice within the crowd. In the public sphere, there are debates over transgender rights and we question what it truly means to be a man or a woman – or whether the distinction is even necessary. This is something that trickster stories have been touching on for centuries. Many tricksters are male but they are often shown to be comfortable in female form (Loki, in fact, while generally presented as male, is also a mother to the eight-legged horse Sleipnir). This crossing of the boundary between male and female showed that societal expectations for men and women were as subject to challenge by the trickster as any other boundary and no more static than any other aspect of society. In this modern world where gender definitions and expectations are increasingly varied, perhaps a trickster, who has no concern for gender or for societal expectations of sexuality, is the kind of character who might speak most strongly to those trying to work out how they slot into society.

The same might be true for neurodiversity. We are more aware of neurodiversity than ever before and diagnoses of ADHD and ASD are at an all time high, but what those labels mean in terms of who we are and how we fit in the world is still unclear for a lot of people. The tricksters can be impulsive, hyperactive, unconcerned with social niceties, more concerned with their own agenda than anyone else’s and often live on the edge of society. They are the odd ones out and they don’t care, because they are comfortable with who they are. Characters who show us how to be confident may lead the way in helping us find confidence for ourselves.

Linking back to Jung’s theories, there are parts of the trickster archetype in all of us. The trickster inside demands that we rail against discrimination; that we challenge those in authority to accept our differences and to move with the times; that we give into our impulses and just do as we please. But the trickster also knows what it costs to take on that role and that society at large will not always accept difference – it takes a level of bravery, and sometimes foolishness too, to not care what others think.

In the end, we write stories about tricksters to help us to reconcile those two sides of the coin – characteristics of the trickster are necessary to prevent our society from stagnating, but they are also to be feared, because who knows what the consequences of those actions might be?

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Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.

Using simile and metaphor to write effective stories

We humans are masters at storytelling. We search for patterns, meaning and similarities in everything around us. We structure our experiences in ways that help us to make sense of our world and how it works. And then we tell our ‘stories’ to our family and friends, or our online followers, in an attempt to share a little of what we’ve learned from life.

Telling memorable stories

There are certain rhetorical devices that writers can use, techniques that help them to keep a reader or listener’s attention and build their investment in the story.

One example of this is the use of personification and anthropomorphism, which I talk about further in The Use of Anthropomorphism in Fiction. In these cases, the writer imbues human characteristics either literally or figuratively in animals or inanimate objects in order to emphasise their themes or say something about their characters. When we think of something as being like a human, we inevitably feel more connected with it, because we can use our own experiences to empathise and make sense of their behaviour.

Another way that writers can achieve a similar goal is through the use of simile and metaphor, which can be used to strengthen descriptive images.

What are simile and metaphor?

Simile and metaphor both involve using figurative language to compare one thing to another, but function in slightly different ways.

When a writer uses simile, they describe an object by comparing it to something else using ‘like’ or ‘as’. Some examples would be:

Oh my luve is like a red, red rose.

Robert Burns

His smile was as stiff as a frozen fish.

Raymond Chandler

When a writer uses a metaphor, they describe something as if it were something else. For example:

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.

William Shakespeare

My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.

John Green

Metaphors can also be extended to compare two things on more than one level. An example for this would be ‘Hope is a Thing with Feathers’ by Emily Dickinson, where the whole poem is an extended metaphor describing hope with bird-like features.

Metaphors are generally considered to be more impactful than similes, because they assert that the objects in question are essentially the same as each other. Similes on the other hand function more as a suggestion to us, they plant an idea in our heads but leave us to imagine the details. Take for example “My anger is a raging fire” versus “My anger is like a raging fire”. In the first, we picture a literal fire and connect it with the character’s anger, whereas in the second, we picture the features of a fire – hot, hard to control, destructive – and consider what parts link with the character’s emotion.

Both devices have their place in a story. If a writer were to spend the entire narrative just using metaphors, we’re likely to disengage, feeling that we’re being told what to think. But equally, if they only use simile, the writer risks losing their voice, relying on the reader to infer the majority of the description. Good fiction uses the right one at the right time in order to strengthen the narrative and immerse the reader in each moment.

What makes a bad metaphor or simile

Similes and metaphors don’t always work well when they are used. We might read one and just feel that it doesn’t work, doesn’t help us to better picture the image, or just that it takes us out of the story for some reason – here are a few reasons why that might happen:

It’s a cliché

We all know some clichéd similes and metaphors: dead as a doornail; fine kettle of fish; wipe the slate clean. And there are two reasons why we find them jarring in fiction. Firstly, because we know them so well, and have heard them in other contexts, we no longer imagine them figuratively, which means that they lose their impact. Secondly, often these clichéd comparisons have lost some of their meaning over time because our way of life has changed – doornails were hammered so deeply you couldn’t easily remove them; fish kettles were long saucepans that used to be common kitchen utensils; and a clean slate comes from wiping a writing slate clean in classrooms.

The objects being compared are too alike

When this happens, the comparison becomes redundant and just doesn’t add to the story. An example might be saying that bubblegum popped like a balloon – both pop in fairly similar ways, so what does the comparison add to the image?

It doesn’t fit with the tone/atmosphere

Figurative language can throw us out of a story if it evokes an image that doesn’t fit well with the scene that we’re reading. An example of this is in City of Bones by Cassandra Clare, when the main characters are in a nightclub and one is being watched by a vampire:

Around her neck was a thick silver chain, on which hung a dark red pendant the size of a baby’s fist

While the comparison might be accurate for what Clare is describing, how does the image of a baby add to the dark tone that she’s already established?

Another way that a simile or metaphor might break the atmosphere is to refer to something that wouldn’t exist in the time of the narrative. For example, referring to the speed of a bullet or the ticking of a clock in a story where those haven’t been invented yet. While mentioning them in the narrative might not technically be anachronistic, depending on the narrator, they serve to make us think about the modern world when the writer wants us immersed in the past.

What makes an effective simile or metaphor?

Being true to the narrative voice

The strongest similes and metaphors will fit well with the voice of the narrator. This would include consideration of the story’s setting, its tone, its themes and things that the narrator is likely to know. Take for example this quote by Terry Pratchett in Mort:

Ankh- Morpork is as full of life as an old cheese on a hot day, as loud as a curse in a cathedral, as bright as an oil slick, as colourful as a bruise and as full of activity, industry, bustle and sheer exuberant busyness as a dead dog on a termite mound

All of the comparisons made are of things that might be found in a pre-industrial revolution city like Ankh-Morpork, so they fit with the narrator’s level of knowledge. They also fit with the humourous tone of the book by using examples that speak to the unrefined, crime ridden nature of the people within the city.

Another example comes from Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass:

Because Lyra now realized, if she hadn’t done so before, that all the fear in her nature was drawn to Mrs. Coulter as a compass needle drawn to the Pole

Since this book focuses on Lyra’s use of a device called an alethiometer that looks like a compass and responds to human intent, this simile fits well with Lyra’s viewpoint, using a comparison that is related to her recent experiences.

Any good metaphor or simile considers what their narrator or viewpoint character might think of when making a comparison. A good story remembers that the story is not just written for the reader but written by a narrator and if that narrator is from a certain time period or country or world then the figurative language they use should also exist within that context.

The importance of specificity

A lot of the most cliché similes and metaphors are quite general, for example, “quiet as a mouse”, “life is a journey”, “cold as ice”. While these comparisons do give some extra information, they don’t evoke a strong image or clear idea of what the writer is trying to convey. If they weren’t already well-known, they would be unlikely to stick in our minds after being read.

Effective similes and metaphors add a level of specificity. If the comparison evokes an image of a certain moment or emotion, then it’s easier for the reader to picture. Compare “quiet as a mouse in a house full of cats” or “cold as the ice on Triton” to the more well-known examples.

But we can also look to literature for examples of specificity adding more than just additional imagery:

Time has not stood still. It has washed over me, washed me away, as if I’m nothing more than a woman of sand, left by a careless child too near the water.

Margaret Atwood, A Handmaid’s Tale

He looks like right after the maul hits the steer and it no longer alive and don’t yet know that it is dead.

William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

Both of these examples describe an actual moment that the reader can imagine, thus strengthening the image that they are trying to evoke. They also weave in additional elements that speak to the emotions that the writer is trying to convey – the detail of being left by a “careless” child speaks to an idea that there may have been a way to be more careful, to defend against the waves of time. And with Faulkner, the example is of an animal caught off guard, still processing the impact of a sudden, negative change.

Remembering not to overdo it

A good writer thinks about what parts of their story are most important and would benefit from the emphasis of figurative language. Every piece of figurative language involves needing to access information about the object being compared and what we know about it, in order to understand the meaning beneath the comparison. If there are too many in a short space of time, we essentially become fatigued and lose interest. Or, if figurative language emphasises a part of the story that isn’t that important, we can also be left feeling unclear about what point the writer was trying to get across.

Deciding what works for the story

Any ‘rule’ of writing is made to be broken. However, there is a difference between just not knowing the rules and making a conscious decision not to follow them. In the same way that a skilled chef might deviate from a recipe because their taste buds suggest something different, a skilled writer can learn to subvert reader expectations and break the rules in ways that strengthen rather than weaken their story.

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Caroline Ashley

Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She loves fantasy in all forms and is fascinated by the ways in which the fantasical can speak to our everyday lives.

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