What is a story?

What even is a story, anyway?

I mean, sure, it’s a description of connected events, factual or fictional. A narrative, possibly even entertainment. That’s certainly what most people imagine when they think of “a story.”

That’s not wrong. But I don’t think it’s an entirely sufficient definition. 

I am by no means the first person to point out the difficulty in defining what a story is. And most of those people tend to massage their explanations by describing what a story does and the mechanisms by which it does those things.

A story conveys some manner of information to or from other people. It does this by way of standardized archetypes. It uses emotion to convey or reinforce the desired messages.

This is better, but it’s not what a story is. Not really. Not to my mind. This description is somehow both too much and not enough.

We can talk all day about what a story requires. There’s no shortage of ideas and analysis about form and structure. Three-act. Five-act. Seven-point. Twelve-point. The Hero’s Journey. Vonnegut’s story shapes. Card’s MICE quotient. Even Sanderson’s distillation of promise, progress, and payoff. Plot. Character. Setting. From the breadth of Homeric epics and skaldic sagas to Hemingway’s six-word story.

Again, these are all both too much and not enough. These are concerns about craft and composition, not definition. Structure and format presuppose existence.

So, perhaps we’re not asking the correct question. Maybe it’s not so important if we lack the requisite education or vocabulary to strictly and accurately define the edges of the very concept of stories (and what breathtaking hubris it would be to presume we even could).

Because a story isn’t tangible. It’s not an object you can hold in your hand. A story is… negotiable, shall we say. A story, when all is said and done, is an experience. And experiences are subjective, entirely individual. 

A story isn’t a thing so much as it is an idea, a lens through which we see and a filter through which we understand. It is unique to the person, place, time, and circumstance of the one experiencing it.

A story is a means. A tool. A method. It is both infinitely vast and contained entirely within the spaces between neurons.

Nothing inherently is a story, but everything invariably has one. And while a poor telling doesn’t negate its existence, it can prevent someone from noticing it’s there.

Given that, the question isn’t really, “What is a story?” The question is, “What is a story to you?” 

The answer, therefore, must be: I don’t know. 

I don’t know what a story is to you because I’m not you. I can’t be you (I’m busy enough just trying to be me). But stories can help me understand you — and help me understand me, too — which is a pretty neat trick. 

Because the opposite of hate isn’t love but rather understanding. It’s damn near impossible to hate someone you understand. You can dislike them, sure. Resent them. Wish they weren’t like that. But hate? No. 

Understanding sees. Understanding says that even if I do not feel the way you feel, I know, to a certain extent, why. Understanding creates a space in the home of my heart for you to visit, even if it’s just that stupid entry parlor where we awkwardly drink tea, eat shitty grocery-store cookies, and make stilted conversation.

So, I suppose that’s it after all. Stories are understanding generators. To me, anyway. And because the world and life and other people are complicated and messy and at times inconsistent, so are stories and, thus, their definition.

Execution and appreciation are a matter of craft and taste. Style, length, format, medium, and genre are all matters of preference. The impact, the result, everything else that comes after the conclusion is out of the teller’s hands.

But a story itself simply says, “Behold and understand.”