Chapter One: STORY and TRANSFORMATION

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We change minds by touching hearts. In this episode—second in this season's exploration of the Language of the Soul book—we explore how storytelling is the means by which we transform, both individually and collectively.  From the late '60s whiplash of Woodstock and the Moon Landing to the solitude of lockdown, we map why crisis categorically precedes transformation—and how narrative turns adversity into growth. From chemical growth-versus-protection responses on a cellular level, to the mapping of our world views on the neurological level—in response to daily threats and opportunities—this episode will outline the mechanics of belief. And how nothing molds our beliefs or the value systems they comprise like STORY.

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Chapters

• 1:30 Language Of The Soul;
• 1:37 Storytelling And Transformation;
• 9:50 Crisis As Catalyst For Change;
• 16:30 Art, Commerce, And Integrity;
• 28:25 Why Humans Tell Stories;

Transcript

SPEAKER_00: 0:45

Language of the Soul, how story became the means by which we transform. Chapter 1. Storytelling and Transformation. I was recently asked to present a lecture on storytelling in an online version of the animation convention I've been a part of since its inception twelve years ago. My response was an enthusiastic yes. For one, I was on fire creatively, having just finished a novel I considered my most inspired work to date. I was eager to share my latest discoveries. But more importantly, I felt the event was much needed in light of the grim climate. The isolation demanded by the COVID-19 pandemic, as well as months of social unrest and political divisiveness, had put many in a tailspin. More than ever, we artists needed to continue to inspire one another and remind ourselves why we do what we do. We humans needed to continue to motivate and inspire one another. Renewing hope in the face of futility is a daily struggle. We'd been forced into a cultural time out. It could not have been clearer to me the moment of quiet contemplation was an opportunity to reflect on the thought forms and paradigms that had gotten us into this mess. When forced lockdown came along, I didn't bat an eye. As an artist and a writer, I felt blessed to have my craft as catharsis. It went a long way. Even so, as much or more than my writing, I relied on faith to get me through the trying time. Let me explain. I was born in 1968, at a moment when the world was on fire. A quick Google search will yield that during the year of my birth, both Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were assassinated. The Democratic National Convention in Chicago resulted in one of the lowest historical points in police brutality, and many of the civil rights demonstrations took place that would result in lasting institutionalized social reform. The following year, 1969, brought both Woodstock and the Moon Landing. History has framed Woodstock as the quintessence of our interconnectivity, the very picture of communion in action. The Moon Landing exemplifies man's ever-evolving march toward realizing human potential. Neil Armstrong's declaration, One Small Step for a Man, One Giant Leap for Mankind, beautifully puts into words the paradigm shifts that yield possibility. Outdated thought forms like Man Cannot Fly regularly dissolve and give way to new, more innovative ones, putting us a bit closer to our human potential. As an added plus, his wording expressed the power of individual accomplishment to impact the whole of humanity. The seeming disparity of these back-to-back world events can be easily explained. Crisis yields opportunity. Strife signals change. It is well known that man transforms through conflict resolution alone. On the microcosmic level, individuals resolve cognitive dissonance by synthesizing opposing thought forms into new novel ones. On a macrocosmic or societal level, the status quo prevails until unrest, activism, protest, and demonstration, even storytelling and art, upends outdated institutions and paradigms. In 2020, many have speculated about the meaning behind this unprecedented moment, what cultural shift might be on the horizon. The faith that has sustained me personally lies in the understanding that all strife signals transformation, and that man evolves solely through conflict resolution. Storytelling, by definition, is conflict resolution. In this way, the part we storytellers play in cultural transformation is beyond measure. Ayn Rand has said that art is man's metaphysical mirror. Art and storytelling reflect back our invisibles, the norms, mores, codes, ethics, principles, and beliefs, whose evolution is just as crucial to our survival as that of our biology. Stories take the temperature of society at any given time, playing as vital a role as activism or persuasion. You see, it is equally well known that we learn more in the narrative realm than the didactic. When faced with political persuasion or propaganda, most dig their heels inanimately, falling back on cherry-picking and confirmation bias to reinforce existing beliefs. This is the ultimate in mind dominance and ego. Storytelling, in contrast to persuasion, appeals to our emotions rather than our intellect. We change minds by touching hearts. My passion for the role we storytellers play in dialectic is what drove me to agree to the online talk. I took the opportunity to up my game. Not only did I compile recent discoveries in my own process, my relationship with craft, I brushed up on the academic view of story. This is where I hit a wall. Granted, I'm too subversive for my own good. The resistance that arose in me while reading up is nothing new. Traditionally, I reject any notion of right or wrong in art and literature. I'm more apt to speak of simple cause and effect, choices. I believe the creative process is malleable, and I am hyper aware of the proprietary spin each quote expert puts on standard accepted models of it. I am familiar with the infinite variations on the classic Western storytelling arc, each with a proprietary twist that makes it brandable. Deepening my resistance, my lifelong knee-jerk rejection of the definitive was in high gear. But more than anything, my resistance was rooted in this. The unspoken presumption is this that the goal of good or effective writing is commercial success, or bank at the box office, slash bestseller status, as I put it, over literary value. Though mainstream commercial success and literary value can often be at odds, I don't think for a moment the two are mutually exclusive. I looked to phenomena like The Lion King, my first film at Disney, as evidence the two can align. The film struck a chord with the masses, resulting in box office success and global significance, precisely due to its literary value. Its resonant universal theme spoke profoundly of the human condition. The awkward intersection of art and commerce is as old as time, and I am no stranger to it. In my own ongoing journey with craft, I looked to these rare confluences of artistic integrity and commercial success as luminaries, beacons of hope. For the presentation, I resolved my reticence by arriving at the following premise. One must consider the implied goal when offering any definitive advice on the creative process or storytelling. Only then do the cause and effect behind every choice remotely correlate with right and wrong. Further, I recovered my motivation to share my thoughts on storytelling by honing in on what I was most passionate about imparting, the why part of the equation. Not the nuts and bolts or mechanics of technique, but why we tell stories in the first place. The virtual audience was to be largely comprised of self-identified storytellers, whether wordsmiths or visual storytellers, each at a different stage of development. In the context of this book, I would argue that the drive to impart narrative is alive in all of us. It's synonymous with being human. We are all born storytellers with a unique, authentic story to tell. In twenty years of teaching at my alma mater art center, I've been privy to many a unique creative process, and just as many relationships with a lifelong artistic journey. I've learned more by witnessing hundreds of students over twenty years of teaching than in my own journey or anything I could have read in a book. What I know beyond all else is this. At some point, most artists connect their chosen craft with an authentic voice by assessing what drives them in the first place. Once honed, that voice is then connected with a sense of purpose, and the circuit is completed by contributing it to humanity in some way. There's much evidence that man, pre-language, told stories around the campfire. This oral tradition arguably became the mythology that later informed religion. These same archetypes, or tropes for the more empirical among us, evolved into the Western storytelling structure informing everything from the Greek tragedies through Shakespearean templates to the latest greatest action-adventure movie at the corner cinema. This fact alone should be evidence that the drive is innate. Evolutionary theory suggests that all institutions, conventions, traditions, norms, and mories that persist over time and refuse to evolve out of us, serve the propagation of the tribe in some way. If one accepts the premise that the drive is instinctual or has been, quote, wired into us from the first page of human history, the question becomes why? Why is narrative synonymous with being human? Or put more simply, why do we tell stories? I asked that simple question day one of all my art center classes. The responses over twenty years of teaching easily distill into a list of usual suspects. To create permanence, leave a mark. In class I usually volunteer this one first to get it out of the way. Most schools of thought positive all our creative efforts, from scrawling a herd of buffalo on a cave wall, to building a temple or the Empire State Building, are attempts to combat futility by leaving a mark, lest we find ourselves nothing more than dust in the wind. The innate knowledge that we will come and go like so many before us is known as existential terror. To pass on knowledge. This reply is usually one of the first offered by students, followed, of course, by the mental image of a caveman in a fur pelt rubbing two sticks together to start a fire. Without written language, oral tradition was the only way to assure that future generations would be able to do the same, and the knowledge would not be lost, along with the recipe for ice, to the sands of time. But why not simply verbally relate step-by-step instructions? Why the narrative aspect? It has been well documented that perceptual interims, image associations, are crucial to learning and memorization, hence the literary metaphor that makes Story the most effective teacher of all. To entertain. In the early days of my teaching I would nearly cringe, hoping my resistance didn't show on my face, when this suggestion was inevitably voiced. To me the phrase sounded a bit like to pacify, to divert, or to bide time. The elitist in me had much loftier highbrow notions about the role story played in culture. Not to mention I had a distaste for all the hours spent by the younger generations blowing shit up, playing interactive video games simply as diversion. I saw it as a luxury we could not afford, considering we had yet to achieve world peace. I have since come around, the endorphins released by laughing, especially in a communal setting, directly contribute to the altruism that serves our proliferation. Further, there is an argument that the catharsis provided in cinema, for example, is linked to the release of pent-up aggression. There is equal evidence, however, that without redemptive value, the same content is actually feeding a cultural addiction to adrenaline and cortisol. To explain nature During the Bronze Age, oral tradition was dominated by mythology that largely served to explain nature. If a volcano erupted and decimated a nomadic population or destroyed a crop post-agriculture, the human compulsion to rationalize led to rather elaborate explanations. This mythology arguably evolved into religion. Comparative religion expert Joseph Campbell, among others, analyzes the shared mythological structure informing religions the world over, across time and regardless of culture. His video series, The Masks of God, is a good place to start, as is Hero with a Thousand Faces, the elemental handbook for the much talked about hero's journey, about which aspiring screenwriters at Starbucks can't seem to shut up. To impart wisdom. It may seem this function was already covered under the umbrella of passing on knowledge, but consider this. One definition of wisdom is that it represents theoretical knowledge infused with practical life experience. Another definition suggests that wisdom dabbles in more philosophical fair, the intangible conceptual realm of our principles, ethics, norms, mores, values, beliefs, and codes. My way of putting it is this the thematic content inherent in story teaches us to live in the world. The individual's transformation directly contributes to the evolution of the paradigms and thought forms that comprise our social conditioning on the macrocosmic level. Epigenetics then ensures what's passed on, determines our collective future. As catharsis Below are several definitions of catharsis from different sources. Purification or purgation of the emotions, such as pity and fear, primarily through art. two a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension. three elimination of a complex by bringing it to consciousness and affording it expression. four the process of releasing and thereby providing relief from strong or repressed emotions. Art and literature provide catharsis on both the individual subjective level and the cultural level. Creative expression can be therapeutic for both artist and patron, then by extension for society. Imagine for a moment that Bonnie Raid writes a song about heartbreak in her studio. The experience of processing her pain will be healing for her in many respects, as confessional, spiritual cleansing, and redemption. Imagine now that a woman later hears the tune on her car radio while driving across the Midwest thousands of miles from the studio where it was created. The feeling is overwhelming. Someone on earth has felt the very same way she has after a breakup. She feels validated and slightly less alone. The cathartic circle has been completed. Now imagine that individuals are being transformed by art everywhere across the globe. For reasons we will explore later in this chapter, storytelling and art have perhaps the greatest impact on paradigm shift. In terms of worldview, we are products of the stories we've been exposed to. Similarly, the codes and policies of society are forged by the stories we tell about ourselves and human history. The sum of individual transformation is cultural shift. To promote unity, bonding. Studies have shown that brainwaves synchronize at communal events like drum circles or music concerts. This phenomenon could not be more apparent than in the former example of Woodstock, where peace and harmony undeniably prevailed despite potential chaos. But beyond shared gamma waves, the bonding, affinity, identification, and resultant unity are rooted in the shared humanity that stories reveal. Most of us have had the experience of leaving a concert, or the cinema or an opera house, or the theater, feeling simply more alive, more human. In the most basic terms, storytelling promotes unity by exposing our shared humanity. To enlighten, Plato's famed allegory of the cave beautifully illustrated a universal human dilemma Deepak Chopra would later call the dream spell illusion, and the Wachowskis would dub the matrix. The premise is that many accept empirical data as the whole of reality, while rationalists consider it the tip of an iceberg. With intellectual curiosity and spiritual seeking, in theory, one begins to question the true nature of things, rather than taking them at face value, to see not only the shadows in the cave wall, but what is actually casting them. One begins to see through the matrix in Mochowski lingo. On the microcosmic level, this evolution is often the result of exposure and education, but need not be identified with mind and ego. On the macro, human history demonstrates an evolution from sheer survival instinct to higher consciousness. If that which is quantifiable is indeed but a minute expression of a vaster metaphysical reality, one piece of a puzzle, it is fair to say that an acknowledgement of the metaphysical or spiritual belongs largely to the domain of arts and literature. In keeping with Ayn Rand's philosophy, art and storytelling constantly remind us it's there. Novels like Wuthering Heights and The Scarlet Letter spoke of epigenetics long before the burgeoning field of study existed. Works like Great Expectations and The Great Gadsby beautifully illustrate our interconnectedness over time and despite geography, long before quantum mechanics acknowledged the phenomenon of entanglement and before cell biology embraced non-local energetic signaling from the environment. More often than not, by caricaturing the present, science fiction predicts the future. These are but a few examples of the innate grasp on fundamental reality we humans possess. Meaning and Truth in the Arts by John Hospers, and Art and Science by Elaine Strasberg break down the history of scientific discovery and the intuitive expression in art that often predates each revelation. Okay, but how? In my Art Center classes, after rattling off the usual suspects on the list above of why we tell stories, I then ask how storytelling accomplishes our list of outcomes. What does a story need in order to accomplish the above? I am rarely disappointed. My college-age students are usually able to recall many of the story elements most of us learned in elementary school. The answers I most commonly receive here are relatable characters or a relatable protagonist, conflict, relatable themes that speak to the human condition. The above three elements are, of course, interrelated. Relatable characters slash protagonist. This one is somewhat self-explanatory. If we are going to hang in there for a 273-page novel or a 90-minute movie, the character we're invested in must be relatable. Specifically, it is the goal of this protagonist in which we invest throughout. It's been said that screenwriting, based on traditional Western storytelling structure, is simply something happens that causes another thing to happen and so on. It's also been said that great screenwriting hinges on hope and fear. We hope the protagonist with whom we identify will accomplish her. Goal. We fear that she may not. That which stands in the way of the goal is the all-familiar antagonistic force. It can be something as amorphous as fear or self-doubt, the standard for a Miyazaki film, for example, but in many Western traditions a storyteller is more likely to incarnate the force in a villain with a twisty mustache who ties maidens to the railroad tracks. A character's relatability is only partially dependent on likability. Earlier I mentioned my distaste for books about Western storytelling structure and screenwriting. The presumption that commercial screenwriting equates with quote good screenwriting is only one of my objections. Another is the parroting of formulaic screenwriting devices that border on comical. For example, the antagonist must show their full capacity for evil by page 60. Think, Darth Vader using the death grip to off incidental characters for the audience's benefit, long before going head to head with our hero. Another silly rule. For the protagonist to be appealing and relatable, he or she must kiss a baby, or walk an old lady across a busy intersection at the start of Act 1. This is only a slight exaggeration. It is largely agreed upon that affinity depends on such demonstrations of virtue or ethos. The more nuanced truth, however, is that we relate to vulnerability and faultedness. The protagonist simply must be faulted in order to have a character arc. That is, if we are going to transform along with him or her on the yellow brick road journey, there must be room for growth. Conflict and character arc. Conflict should be described this way. Character has goal, something stands in the way of that goal. Therein lies the conflict. Simple as that. Many traditions, however, split the goal into a want and a higher need. We've all seen films in which we as an audience know exactly what the protagonist could, should, or must do to achieve her goal. But she inevitably has some form of hubris or some fatal flaw that blinds her to it. This fatal flaw is what accounts for a strong character arc and therefore greater transformation for the patron. In the classic Rags to Riches template, Pygmalion, my fair lady, pretty woman, the protagonist moves from, well, poor to rich. It is symbolic of meek to empowered. As mentioned earlier, most Miyazaki films feature variations on the theme of overcoming meekness or doubt and stepping into one's personal power, relying on the resonance of a theme dating back to Christ's parable, The Rich Man and the Beggar. For that matter, all heroes' journeys, it could be argued, follow this same model. I would venture to say it is reflective of the spiritual journey we are all on. Other character arcs might include ignorance to enlightened, futile to purposeful, defeated to inspired, prejudice to tolerant, self-serving to altruistic, egocentric to selfless, greedy to charitable, judgmental to compassionate, or arrogant to humble. The way in which conflict resolves categorically determines the main theme. In class, I often use the Wizard of Oz to speak about not just want and need, but how the conflict resolution results in thematic content. I use the classic for the simple reason that, for the larger part of my twenty years of teaching, everyone in the room, any given semester, had seen or read it. This is no longer the case in recent years, leading me to suspect I no longer reside on planet Earth. The other reason I use the Wizard of Oz is for its conciseness. Though L. Frank Baum's novels ventured into many lands with myriad tangential characters, the screenplay honed the particulars down to a core essence that is the quintessence of both the hero's journey and the through the rabbit hole template of storytelling. When analyzing the Wizard of Oz, there's a great deal of consensus. Students usually agree, after some discussion, that Dorothy's primary goal in so many words is this. Dorothy wants the Wizard of Oz to send her home to Kansas. I then asked the class if that goal was accomplished. The consensus. No it was not. The wizard turned out to be a fraud. Me. What did she actually have to do to get home to Kansas? Answer. Dorothy had to click her heels together to get home to Kansas. Therefore the goal, when split into want and higher need, looks like this Goal. To get home to Kansas. Want. Dorothy wants the Wizard of Oz to send her home to Kansas. Need. Dorothy needs to click her heels together to get home to Kansas. Doesn't sound too transformative as stories go. The thing is it's symbolic. The metaphorical version of the above looks like this. Goal. To be content. Want. Dorothy seeks contentment outside of herself. Need. Dorothy must seek contentment within. Of course there are dozens of ways to word this, but you get the idea. Dorothy's line in the film does nothing less than spell out the theme. If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with. A popular book in the eighties was titled, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. The theme of contentment, wholeness, tranquility, or well-being residing within is quite universal for its relevance to the human condition. Most spiritual traditions acknowledge inner peace as independent of circumstances and conditions, which are neutral beyond our perception of them. In that way, the tools of contentment are intrinsic. As Abraham Hicks would put it, contentment is an inside job. In addition to the main theme, literary works often incorporate sub themes. None of them need be didactic. A theme might explore all sides of an aspect of the human condition, rather than issuing a preachy or moralistic directive. In fact, many traditions would argue that a moralistic agenda robs work of literary value and artistic integrity, pushing it into the realm of propaganda. Similarly, sentimentality is frowned upon in some literary circles. Indulging it a form of backseat driving is seen as nothing less than death to literary value. As it turns out, art mirrors life once again in that objectivity wins out to attachment in most spiritual traditions. The way to identify the main theme of any literary work is to identify the want and the need, then analyze the resolution of the inherent conflict. If neither the want nor the need is met, you have a tragedy by definition. This doesn't mean there's no redemption to be had. Tragedies like Shakespeare's Hamlet or Titus Andronicus, for example, become cautionary tales. In addition to soliciting our pathos and serving as catharsis, at the very least we look at the Carnage and say to ourselves, Alrighty then, best not to take that approach. In the case of Titus, the pitfalls to avoid would be revenge and family vendetta. Both are dead and roads smattered with plenty of blood. When either the want or the higher need is met via the conflict resolution, a story is said to be a comedy. This does not mean a knee slapper per se. Comedy is simply a term that refers to the alternative to tragedy, a story in which there is redemptive value. Not all literary works are out to change the world. In an action adventure film with little to say, the want and the need may be the same. The protagonist wants to save the president from terrorists, and he needs to do so. He wants to pull off the bankheist, and he needs to pull it off. But in character driven fare that seeks to do what R does, move beyond titillation for box office proceeds, the want is separate from a higher need. Let's look at our Wizard of Oz example to find the main theme. The higher need was this. Dorothy needed to click her heels together to get home to Kansas. It's symbolic for Dorothy needed to seek contentment within in her own backyard. To arrive at the main theme imparted by conflict resolution, one simply generalizes the need. We all have the goods within to be content. We mustn't seek contentment in the exterior world. Or it's futile to seek contentment outside of ourselves, or some variation thereof, you get the gist. As in the case of many literary works, all character arcs in the Wizard of Oz support the main theme. The cowardly lion learns he too possesses what he seeks, courage, and has all along. He knows because he stood up for his new friends, or family as the case may be. The Tin Woodsman learns he does in fact have a heart, because he feels for his companions. The scarecrow, who's internalized the belief his head is full of straw rather than wit, learns he does in fact have a brain. He's gotten the motley crew out of many a pinch on the Yellowbrick Road journey. In this way, all characters overcome self-doubt, a classic milestone in the hero's journey. More importantly, all the character arcs support the main theme of intrinsic completeness. However, the unlikely friends must go on the yellow brick road journey to discover their empowerment. There are plenty of sub-themes at work in the Wizard of Oz. One of the most prominent is that of the wounded healer, the faulted protagonist whose wound or lack drives her to seek, creating a space in which others too can rise to become their best selves. But what about it all? It should be clear by now that we internalize the thematic content story offers by going on the yellow brick road journey along with identifiable protagonists. This is what's meant by transformation. We transform along with the protagonist. This is precisely because we humans grow via conflict resolution alone, on both the micro and the macro level. The synthesis of cognitive dissonance in an individual is what leads to new thought forms and paradigms. We've all had the experience of resolving a dispute with a loved one and arriving in new territory as a result. Simply living through it is a bonding experience that leads to affinity in the relationship. If both parties have conflict resolution skills and resist the impulse to bolt, thereby abandoning the other, the bond is cemented. On a societal level, it is social unrest, strife, and civil disobedience that leads to lasting institutionalized social reform. Otherwise, the status quo continues to reign. The limiting thought forms inherent in our social conditioning persist, and we remain prisoner to old paradigms. The act of investing in a narrative, in the wants and the needs of a relatable character, creates a receptivity that allows thematic content, or enlightenment, to land, to reshape our hearts and minds. But the mechanics of exactly how this transpires can be a bit mysterious. We've covered the elements necessary for story to transform, and we've touched on the mechanics of effective structure, but there's more to the equation. And here's the clincher. It's all chemical. On cocktails and vices. Storytelling has been an innate human drive from day one. Academics fond of evolutionary theory have determined its main functions are forging unity within the tribe and transformation for the individual. It is my premise that this personal transformation translates into cultural evolution. But how? To recap, a story must speak to something relatable about the human condition in order to transform. In addition to a relatable protagonist, the goals of whom we invest in, stories inherently incorporate conflict. In the same way the brain is wired for language, our innate understanding of conflict resolution as transformation, crucial to our survival, wires us for story. Consider for a moment that in every language, conveying a complete idea or concept requires a subject and predicate. It is virtually impossible to communicate anything coherent, to convert an abstract concept into a percept without relying on this formula. This speaks to an innate wiring for language. We are simply wired for storytelling due to our innate, hereditary understanding of its role. If I put a gun to your head and commanded you to tell a story, the moment you opened your mouth or put pen to paper, whatever story you concocted would take a certain form. It would incorporate conflict. The resolution of this conflict would determine the main theme imparted, which has the power to transform others via catharsis. Let's look at the mechanistic way in which this occurs when listening to a story orally around the campfire, flipping through pages, or munching on popcorn while glued to the silver screen. Studies have shown that reading novels cultivates empathy and compassion in children. Our sheer identification with the protagonist and resultant investment in his or her goal should be an obvious contributor. As a filmmaker, I've always been awed by the phenomenon that simply spending 90 minutes with an on-screen character, even a despicable one, compels us to root for him or her. We can watch Bruce Willis amass a body count of hundreds in The Last Boy Scout and still root for him to prevail. Such is the power of storytelling and the all-engaging medium that is cinema. And with slightly scarier implications, such is the power of story as propaganda. Reading novels has also been shown to cultivate tolerance in children. Simply exposing children to cultures and lifestyles to which they might not otherwise be privy makes the other more familiar, and therefore less threatening. Regular exposure to diversity via literature and film erodes the tribal instinct to demonize the other or forge a common enemy. I would argue that along with the hand that rocks the cradle, regular exposure to redeeming stories exercises compassion and tolerance like muscles. After birth, an infant's brain cells continue multiplying rapidly. At the age of six months, that same baby will have more brain cells than at any other juncture in life. This is for one simple and rather tragic reason. If we don't use it, we lose it. The phenomenon of synaptic pruning suggests that if we don't engage in a given practice, like learning the violin, for example, the brain cells and potential neural circuits conducive to such an activity will be snipped. In the same way, serotonin regulates our awareness by tuning out all but what is immediately crucial to survival. The pruning takes place for efficiency's sake, but the implications of it are startlingly tragic. The sheer stilting of human potential is what inspires programs and public service announcements geared toward underprivileged communities, encouraging parents to sing to your child, read to your child, talk to your child. Exposure to stimulation and novelty, simple dendrite activity, is crucial to brain plasticity and the tempering of overzealous synaptic pruning. Societies that partake in story and historical periods during which storytelling is a cultural value are simply more empathetic and compassionate. These attributes serve the propagation of the tribe. When Aristotle spoke of the cathartic role of theater in Greek culture, he was conscious of impending fascism. He was making a conscious effort to preserve the arts as a cultural value. But he may have been on to more. The article Reading Literary Fiction versus Popular Fiction promotes different socio cognitive outcomes by Beth Elwood, confirms the byproducts of compassion, empathy, and tolerance. Further, by citing different studies, the article distinguishes between commercial fiction and the literary fiction that incorporates the redemptive qualities this chapter is devoted to. A commercial series like Goosebumps is not likely to do much for the child's emotional maturation, nor the proliferation of the tribe.