Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence

by Lisa Cron

  Story is the language of experience, whether it’s ours, someone else’s, or that of fictional characters. Other people’s stories are as important as the stories we tell ourselves. Because if all we ever had to go on was our own experience, we wouldn’t make it out of onesies.

  Now for the really important question—what does all this mean for us writers? It means that we can now decode what the brain (aka the reader) is really looking for in every story, beginning with the two key concepts that underlie all the cognitive secrets in this book:

  1. Neuroscientists believe the reason our already overloaded brain devotes so much precious time and space to allowing us to get lost in a story is that without stories, we’d be toast. Stories allow us to simulate intense experiences without actually having to live through them. This was a matter of life and death back in the Stone Age, when if you waited for experience to teach you that the rustling in the bushes was actually a lion looking for lunch, you’d end up the main course. It’s even more crucial now, because once we mastered the physical world, our brain evolved to tackle something far trickier: the social realm. Story evolved as a way to explore our own mind and the minds of others, as a sort of dress rehearsal for the future.6 As a result, story helps us survive not only in the life-and-death physical sense but also in a life-well-lived social sense. Renowned cognitive scientist and Harvard professor Steven Pinker explains our need for story this way:

  Fictional narratives supply us with a mental catalogue of the fatal conundrums we might face someday and the outcomes of strategies we could deploy in them. What are the options if I were to suspect that my uncle killed my father, took his position, and married my mother? If my hapless older brother got no respect in the family, are there circumstances that might lead him to betray me? What’s the worst that could happen if I were seduced by a client while my wife and daughter were away for the weekend? What’s the worst that could happen if I had an affair to spice up my boring life as the wife of a country doctor? How can I avoid a suicidal confrontation with raiders who want my land today without looking like a coward and thereby ceding it to them tomorrow? The answers are to be found in any bookstore or any video store. The cliché that life imitates art is true because the function of some kinds of art is for life to imitate it.7

  2. Not only do we crave story, but we have very specific hardwired expectations for every story we read, even though—and here’s the kicker—chances are next to nil that the average reader could tell you what those expectations are. If pressed, she’d be far more likely to refer to the magic of story, that certain je ne sais quoi that can’t be quantified. And who could blame her? The real answer is rather counterintuitive: our expectations have everything to do with the story’s ability to provide information on how we might safely navigate this earthly plane. To that end, we run them through our own very sophisticated subconscious sense of what a story is supposed to do: plunk someone with a clear goal into an increasingly difficult situation they then have to navigate. When a story meets our brain’s criteria, we relax and slip into the protagonist’s skin, eager to experience what his or her struggle feels like, without having to leave the comfort of home.

  All this is incredibly useful for writers because it neatly defines what a story is—and what it’s not. In this chapter, that’s exactly what we’ll examine: the four elements that make up what a story is; what we, as readers, are wired to expect when we dive into the first page of a book and try it on for size; and why even the most lyrical, beautiful writing by itself is as inviting as a big bowl of wax fruit.

  So, What Is a Story?

  Contrary to what many people think, a story is not just something that happens. If that were true, we could all cancel the cable, lug our Barca-loungers onto the front lawn, and be utterly entertained, 24/7, just watching the world go by. It would be idyllic for about ten minutes. Then we’d be climbing the walls, if only there were walls on the front lawn.

  A story isn’t simply something that happens to someone, either. If it were, we’d be utterly enthralled reading a stranger’s earnestly rendered, heartfelt journal chronicling every trip she took to the grocery store, ever—and we’re not.

  A story isn’t even something dramatic that happens to someone. Would you stay up all night reading about how bloodthirsty Gladiator A chased cutthroat Gladiator B around a dusty old arena for two hundred pages? I’m thinking no.

  So what is a story? A story is how what happens affects someone who is trying to achieve what turns out to be a difficult goal, and how he or she changes as a result. Breaking it down in the soothingly familiar parlance of the writing world, this translates to

  “What happens” is the plot.

  “Someone” is the protagonist.

  The “goal” is what’s known as the story question.

  And “how he or she changes” is what the story itself is actually about.

  As counterintuitive as it may sound, a story is not about the plot or even what happens in it. Stories are about how we, rather than the world around us, change. They grab us only when they allow us to experience how it would feel to navigate the plot. Thus story, as we’ll see throughout, is an internal journey, not an external one.

  All the elements of a story are anchored in this very simple premise, and they work in unison to create what appears to the reader as reality, only sharper, clearer, and far more entertaining, because stories do what our cognitive unconscious does: filter out everything that would distract us from the situation at hand. In fact, stories do it better, because while in real life it’s nearly impossible to filter out all the annoying little interruptions—like leaky faucets, dithering bosses, and cranky spouses—a story can tune them out entirely as it focuses in on the task at hand: What does your protagonist have to confront in order to solve the problem you’ve so cleverly set up for her? And that problem is what the reader is going to be hunting for from the get-go, because it’s going to define everything that happens from the first sentence on.

  What Rapidly Unraveling Situation Have You Plunked Me Into, Anyway?

  Let’s face it, we’re all busy. Plus, most of us are plagued by that little voice in the back of our head constantly reminding us of what we really should be doing right now instead of whatever it is we’re actually doing—especially when we take time out to do something as seemingly nonproductive as, um, read a novel. Which means that in order to distract us from the relentless demands of our immediate surroundings, a story has to grab our attention fast.8 And, as neuroscience writer Jonah Lehrer says, nothing focuses the mind like surprise.9 That means when we pick up a book, we’re jonesing for the feeling that something out of the ordinary is happening. We crave the notion that we’ve come in at a crucial juncture in someone’s life, and not a moment too soon. What intoxicates us is the hint that not only is trouble brewing, but it’s longstanding and about to reach critical mass. This means that from the first sentence we need to catch sight of the breadcrumb trail that will lure us deeper into the thicket. I’ve heard it said that fiction (all stories, for that matter) can be summed up by a single sentence—All is not as it seems—which means that what we’re hoping for in that opening sentence is the sense that something is about to change (and not necessarily for the better).

  Simply put, we are looking for a reason to care. So for a story to grab us, not only must something be happening, but also there must be a consequence we can anticipate. As neuroscience reveals, what draws us into a story and keeps us there is the firing of our dopamine neurons, signaling that intriguing information is on its way.10 This means that whether it’s an actual event unfolding or we meet the protagonist in the midst of an internal quandary or there’s merely a hint that something’s slightly “off” on the first page, there has to be a ball already in play. Not the preamble to the ball. Not all the stuff you have to know to really understand the ball. The ball itself. This is not to say the first ball must be the main ball—it can be the initial ball or even a starter ball. But on that firs
t page, it has to feel like the only ball and it has to have our complete attention.

  For instance, how about this—the first paragraph of Caroline Leavitt’s Girls In Trouble—for a ball in play?

  Sara’s pains are coming ten minutes apart now. Every time one comes, she jolts herself against the side of the car, trying to disappear. Everything outside is whizzing past her from the car window because Jack, her father, is speeding, something she’s never seen him do before. Sara grips the armrest, her knuckles white. She presses her back against the seat and digs her feet into the floor, as if any moment she will fly from the car. Stop, she wants to say. Slow down. Stop. But she can’t form the words, can’t make her mouth work properly. Can’t do anything except wait in terror for the next pain. Jack hunches over the wheel, beeping his horn though there isn’t much traffic. His face is reflected in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t look at her. Instead, he can’t seem to keep himself from looking at Abby, Sara’s mother, who is sitting in the back with Sara. His face is unreadable.11

  Trouble brewing? Yep. Longstanding trouble? At least nine months, probably longer. Can’t you feel the momentum? It pulls you forward, even as it grounds you in the unfolding moment. You want to know not only what happens next but also what led to what’s happening right now. Who’s the father? Was it consensual? Was she raped? Thus your curiosity is engaged, and you read on without consciously having made the decision to do so.

  What Does That Mean?

  As readers we eagerly probe each piece of information for significance, constantly wondering, “What is this meant to tell me?” It’s said people can go forty days without food, three days without water, and about thirty-five seconds without finding meaning in something—truth is, thirty-five seconds is an eternity compared to the warp speed with which our subconscious brain rips through data. It’s a biological imperative: we are always on the hunt for meaning—not in the metaphysical “What is the true nature of reality?” sense but in the far more primal, very specific sense of: Joe left without his usual morning coffee; I wonder why? Betty is always on time; how come she’s half an hour late? That annoying dog next door barks its head off every morning; why is it so quiet today?

  We are always looking for the why beneath what’s happening on the surface. Not only because our survival might depend on it, but because it’s exhilarating. It makes us feel something—namely, curiosity. Having our curiosity piqued is visceral. And it leads to something even more potent: the anticipation of knowledge we’re now hungry for, a sensation caused by that pleasurable rush of dopamine. Because being curious is necessary for survival (What’s that rustling in the bushes?), nature encourages it. And what better way to encourage curiosity than to make it feel good? This is why, once your curiosity is roused as a reader, you have an emotional, vested interest in finding out what happens next.

  And bingo! You feel that delicious sense of urgency (hello dopamine!) that all good stories instantly ignite.

  Do You Want an Interpreter with That?

  So what happens when you can’t anticipate what might happen next, when you can’t even make sense of what’s happening now? Usually you decide to find something else to read, pronto. I’ve often thrown up my hands in frustration when reading a well-intentioned manuscript, wishing it came with an interpreter. I could feel the author’s burning intent; I knew she was trying to tell me something important. Trouble was, I had no idea what.

  Think of how exasperating it is in the real world when someone begins a long rambling story:

  Did I tell you about Fred? He was supposed to come over last night, but it was raining, and like a dolt I forgot to shut my windows and my new couch got soaked. I paid a fortune for it. I’m worried that now it’ll mildew like the old clothes in my grandma’s attic. She’s so dingy, but I can’t blame her. She’s over a hundred. I hope I have her genes. She was never sick a day in her life, but lately I’ve begun to wonder because my joints hurt every time it rains. Boy, they sure were aching last night while I was waiting for Fred.…

  By now you’re probably nervously jiggling your foot and thinking, What are you talking about and why should I care? That is, if you’re still listening. It’s the same with the first page of a story. If we don’t have a sense of what’s happening and why it matters to the protagonist, we’re not going to read it. After all, have you ever gone into a bookstore, pulled a novel off the shelf, read the first few pages and thought, You know, this is kind of dull, and I don’t really care about these people, but I’m sure the author tried really hard and probably has something important to say, so I’m going to buy it, read it, and recommend it to all my friends?

  Nope. You’re beautifully, brutally heartless. I’m betting you never give the author’s hard work or good intentions a second thought. And that’s as it should be. As a reader, you owe the writer absolutely nothing. You read their book solely at your own pleasure, where it stands or falls on its own merit. If you don’t like it, you simply slip it back onto the shelf and slide out another.

  What are you hunting for on that first page? Are you consciously analyzing each sentence one by one? Are you aware of what triggers the finely calibrated tipping point when you decide to either read the book or look for another? Of course not. That is, not consciously. In the same way you don’t have to think about which muscles you need to move in order to blink, choosing a book is a perfectly coordinated reflex orchestrated by your cognitive unconscious. It’s muscle memory—except in this case, the “muscle” in question is the brain.

  Okay, let’s say that the first sentence has indeed grabbed you. What’s next?

  What Is This Story About?

  The unspoken question that’s now bouncing around in your brain is this: What is this book about?

  Sounds like a big question. It is, which is why we’ll be exploring it in depth in the next chapter. So can you answer it on the first page? Rarely. After all, when you meet someone new, can you know everything there is to know about that person on the first date? Absolutely not. Can you feel like you do? Absolutely. Story, likewise. And to that end, here are the three basic things readers relentlessly hunt for as they read that first page:

  1. Whose story is it?

  2. What’s happening here?

  3. What’s at stake?

  Let’s examine these three elements and how they work in tandem to answer the question.

  WHOSE STORY IS IT?

  Everyone knows a story needs a main character, otherwise known as the protagonist—even ensemble pieces tend to have one central character. No need to discuss it, right? But here’s something writers often don’t know: in a story, what the reader feels is driven by what the protagonist feels. Story is visceral. We climb inside the protagonist’s skin and become sensate, feeling what he feels. Otherwise we have no port of entry, no point of view through which to see, evaluate, and experience the world the author has plunked us into.

  In short, without a protagonist, everything is neutral, and as we’ll see in chapter 3, in a story (as in life) there’s no such thing as neutral. Which means we need to meet the protagonist as soon as possible—hopefully, in the first paragraph.

  WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE?

  It stands to reason, then, that something must be happening—beginning on the first page—that the protagonist is affected by. Something that gives us a glimpse of the “big picture.” As John Irving once said, “Whenever possible, tell the whole story of the novel in the first sentence.”12 Glib? Yeah, okay. But a worthy goal to shoot for.

  The big picture cues us to the problem the protagonist will spend the story struggling with. For instance, in a classic romantic comedy it’s Will boy get girl? Thus we gauge every event against that one question. Does it help him get closer to her or does it hurt his prospects? And, often, is she really the right girl for him?

  Which brings us to the third thing that readers are hunting for on that first page, the thing that, together with the first two, ignites the all-important sense of urgency
:

  WHAT’S AT STAKE?

  What hangs in the balance? Where’s the conflict? Conflict is story’s lifeblood—another seeming no-brainer. But there’s a bit of helpful fine print that often goes unread. We’re not talking about just any conflict, but conflict that is specific to the protagonist’s quest. From the first sentence, readers morph into bloodhounds, relentlessly trying to sniff out what is at stake here and how will it impact the protagonist. Sure, they’re not quite certain what his or her quest is yet, but that’s what they’re hoping to find out by asking these questions. Point being—something must be at stake, beginning on the first page.

  The Obvious Question

  Can all three of these things be there on the first page? You bet. In 2007, literary theorist Stanley Fish published an editorial in the New York Times that answers just that question. He was rushing through an airport with only minutes to spare and nothing to read. He decided to dash into the bookstore and choose a book based solely on its first sentence. Here is the winner, from Elizabeth George’s What Came Before He Shot Her:

  “Joel Campbell, eleven years old at the time, began his descent into murder with a bus ride.”