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By Wil Forbis
So far in this series, we’ve discussed how we parse the meaning of words and word order in sentences. But when we read we do not merely perceive sentences as constructions to themselves. Rather, each sentence builds upon sentences that came before it, leading to the construction of a story within our heads. Sentences are the trees to a story’s forest.
Following a grand story is very different from parsing mere words or syntax. With stories, we must track character motivations, temporal flow, the physical action described on the page, the use of symbolism and metaphor, and much more. And when interpreting stories, we deal not with concrete and defined rules of grammar and syntax, but with softer and more ethereal tenets of psychology and mentation. How does our reading brain accomplish this?
This section attempts to answer that question by using some concepts born in evolutionary psychology and related disciplines. I’m the first to admit that there’s a speculative element here (as there is with all things psychological).
Brains Are Prediction Machines
A popular view among psychologists is that brains evolved to be prediction machines. Consider that life, at its core, is a series of questions. “Where can I find food?” “How can I attract a mate?” Animal brains, including ours, evolved as tools for forming hypotheses, i.e. predictions that can be tested. “I think I will find food by the river bank,” a gopher might surmise (though not by actually using language) and she could then test that theory out. “I think that doing this funny dance will attract a mate,” a bird might muse and then put such speculation to the test. In all cases, a plan of action is considered in the mind before being put into practice.
Creatures whose predictions match events in the real world thrive and pass on their genes. Thus good predicting is rewarded by evolution.
Humans are great at generating remarkably complex and even convoluted predictions. We can postulate complex scenarios where one event sets off a chain of other events. “What if this and then this and then this and then this and then this happens?” Often we use these complex predictions to guide our path in romance, business or other parts of life. But sometimes we create these scenarios for our own pleasure. We call these scenarios “stories.”
Stories are, according to this line of thinking, a means of testing the prediction engines in our brains. When we read stories and follow the exploits of the characters, we are constantly making predictions as to what will happen next. Stories are a kind of game and we follow along to see how it all turns out.
You might think that we would prefer stories with easy to predict outcomes. Of course, that’s not the case; we like stories with twists and surprises. But these harder-to-predict events need to be within reason. A story where the husband turns out to be the killer in the third act is engaging. A story where the husband turns out to be the killer, then is revealed to be an alien, then is revealed to be an incarnation of the angel Gabriel and then explodes is just plain silly. Readers want a balance between novelty and predictability. They want a “fighting chance” at guessing the outcome of a story.
To be clear, when reading, we are not necessarily consciously predicting where a story is going (though we might be, especially when discussing the story with a book club or friends). Instead, we subconsciously parse the flow of the story and can sense when something feels “off.”
Theory of Mind
We make predictions about many things during the course of a story: what events will occur, how luck will come into play, who will live and who will die, and so on. One major target of our prediction engines is what characters will do. These predictions are particularly interesting because they require an understanding of a character’s motivations. They ask us to get in a character’s head.
Guessing at people’s motivations is something most of us do all the time, so much so that we may be unaware of the deep skill set it utilizes. To predict motivations we first need to understand that other people possess their own subjective wants, needs and goals. This function, called “theory of mind,” does not develop in children until around the age of five (and, in some cases, never fully develops).
Theory of mind gives our brains powerful tools to be used during social interaction. It enables us to predict what other people are thinking or planning based on their current and past actions, appearances, stated intentions, and so on. A strong theory of mind is key to the survival of our genes, both from the perspective of avoiding threats (”I think that person wants to kill me”) and finding mates (“I think that person finds me attractive”). Figuring our what our fellow humans will do is a major brain-teaser, one we are addicted to.
Reading, of course, employs our theory of mind functionality all the time. What’s driving the actions of this bad guy? Can this side character be trusted? What is really motivating the romantic interest to sleep with the protagonist? All these questions engage our abilities to put ourselves in the shoes of others and predict their actions.
Feeling Empathy
To really understand a character’s motivations we need to understand their emotional state. This draws on our empathy—our ability to feel, to varying degrees, what other people (real or fictional) are feeling. When you feel tightness in your chest as a co-worker recounts her near fatal car crash, you are feeling empathy. So too do you experience empathy when your body relaxes as you read a description of a character drifting off to sleep in the arms of a lover. The psychologist Norman Holland discusses this in a blog post for the Psychology Today web site. He states, “When we read fiction or see a movie or a play and even when we see a painting, we map these fictional humans’ actions, emotions, and sensations onto our own brains’ visceral, motor, and sensory representations.”
We can also increase empathy by experimenting with point of view language (first person, third person, etc.) and tense (present tense, past tense). First person, present tense is considered effective at putting the reader “in the driver’s seat” of the story.
In Conclusion
From this perspective, what can writers do to make sure their readers have an engaging reading experience? First, we need to build fictional worlds that—while containing some surprises—are believable and predictable. Even if we write in the sci-fi or fantasy genres, our created realms should follow their own internal logic. A character can’t suddenly develop the ability to fly when it becomes convenient.
Secondly, we should create characters who tease the brain’s theory of mind component. Character motivations should be clear and make sense… at least once the dust has settled and all character goals and personality traits are revealed.
Third, we should use language that promotes empathy—don’t just say a character is sad, describe the hot tears streaming down their face or how they feel on a visceral level. Make readers feel what the characters are feeling.
Humans have been endowed with several mental tools to help them navigate their environment, particularly their social environment. A good story should give readers an opportunity to use these tools in challenging and creative ways.
Serialization is said to free authors from the confines of predictable structure and word limits. But as they say, freedom isn’t free.
By Wil Forbis
In part one, we looked at how writers use words to construct mental movies in a reader’s mind. In this installment we’ll look at how the syntax of writing—the word order and the logic of sentences—affects the reading process. As a writer, you are likely familiar with the most basic rule of syntax that states that a sentence must have a subject, verb and object.
Interpreting Word Order
Let’s revisit one of our example sentences from part one.
Col. Tom McDaniels reached for the Berretta M9.
This sentence makes perfect sense and evokes a scene that plays out in our mind’s eye. Let’s switch the words in the sentence around a bit.
Col. Tom McDaniels Berretta M9 the for reached.
Hmm, doesn’t make much sense anymore, does it? It’s doubtful you can construct a mental movie for this sentence. So we easily can see that the order of words—the sentence syntax—is key to the process of decoding a sentence’s meaning.
When we read, we are constantly applying the rules of language syntax to the text. We rarely do this consciously (perhaps only when we are learning a new language) and we don’t necessarily know the rules of syntax in the sense that we can explain them. We simply know that one sentence works and another one doesn’t. Linguists such as Noam Chomsky and Ray Jackendoff have spent decades formulating theories about how and why these intuited rules of syntax live in our brains.
This is not to say there’s only one way to write a sentence. Consider…
The Berretta M9 was reached for by Col. Tom McDaniels.
Or….
Reached for the Berretta M9 did Col. Tom McDaniels.
The first sentence is an example of the much-derided passive voice and the second sounds like it was spoken by Yoda, but they do convey meaning. We instantly switch the syntactic rules we are using to match these new sentences.
While it might seem that reading a single sentence is the easiest thing in the world, in fact, quite a lot is going on under the hood. Our brain has to map each word to the concept it represents and we also have to understand each word’s role in the syntactic structure of the sentence. The human computer is hard at work here.
The computer can be tricked though. The aforementioned linguist, Ray Jackendoff, in his book “Consciousness and the Computational Mind,” has an example of a sentence that befuddles the brain. It reads, “The horse raced past the barn fell.” The phrases “The horse raced past the barn” and the “the barn fell” make sense, but when glued together in this way their meaning collapses. It’s only by stopping and reading again from the beginning do most people get the implied meaning: The horse, the one had been raced past the barn, fell.
The fact that our reading brain can be tricked in this way suggests that we are assembling meaning from a sentence as we go as opposed to reading the complete sentence and then parsing its meaning. Jackendoff’s sentence makes perfect sense until the last word, at which point it disintegrates.
Clauses
We should note that that these intuited rules of order apply not just to individual words but to groups of words, i.e. sentence phrases and clauses. Observe the following.
While his chest was pumping with adrenaline, Col. Tom McDaniels reached for the Berretta M9.
We associate the first clause (“While his chest was pumping with adrenaline”) with the subject of the sentence, Col. Tom McDaniels. If we move that clause to the end, the sentence becomes unwieldy.
Col. Tom McDaniels reached for the Berretta M9, while his chest was pumping with adrenaline.
We have to read that final clause and then retroactively apply it to the subject of the sentence. While the sentence is still readable, our intuited rules of syntax complain.
Changing Styles of Syntax
The preferred style of English language syntax has changed dramatically over the years. Take a look at this sentence, penned by Edgar Allan Poe in 1842, from his story, “The Masque of the Red Death.”
When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys.
This is not, I think you’ll agree, a sentence you would see written now. Poe demands that the reader keep several observations in mind while parsing the sentence. We might say the syntax/word order here is very advanced, though some would say it’s too advanced.
For contrast, let’s look at the first sentence in Elmore Leonard’s 1981 novel, “Split Images.”
In the winter of 1981 a multimillionaire by the name of Robinson Daniels shot a Haitian refugee who had broken into his home in Palm Beach.
By today’s standards, this sentence is much smoother and digestible.
I’m not saying one style is better than the other, but merely that the style of sentence syntax has changed dramatically over the years. We’ve gone from ornate, multi-clause syntax to a simpler, more direct style. Poe’s sentence above would likely be broken into two or more sentences today.
Write for Your Audience
As a writer considering syntax style, you have to know your audience, much the way you do when choosing vocabulary. Dense, complex sentences will turn off certain groups of readers but be appreciated by others. And the reverse is true. Are you writing for the literary crowd, or readers picking out a novel in an airport bookstore? And what are the limits of your abilities with syntax? These concerns all have to be taken into account.
Word semantics and syntax are the nuts and bolts of the reading process. But, while readers’ brains are absorbing the basic meaning of sentences, they are also tracking the larger narrative—who the characters are, what their goals and personalities are, what their tools and possessions are, how is time is progressing in the story, etc. We’ll discuss this is our next and final section, posted in seven days.
Some blogs focus on the granular tasks of writing such as word choice and grammar, but WITS analyzes higher-level challenges like plotting and symbolism. And they earn double takes with post titles like, “Evaluating Sexual Tension on the Sentence Level”.
