From Cavemen to Chekhov (on Storytelling)

Anton Chekhov (1860–1904) was a master storyteller, a beacon to those who followed his glittering lead, such as Eudora Welty and Raymond Carver, who considered him one of the greatest influences on their own work.

You can’t read too many Chekhov stories. Here is the beginning of “Gooseberries.” (Yes, it begins with a description of place, dear to my heart, as you know by now. Weather, no less.)

The whole sky had been overcast with rain-clouds from early morning; it was a still day, not hot, but heavy, as it is in grey dull weather . . . when one expects rain and it does not come. Ivan Ivanovitch, the veterinary surgeon, and Burkin, the high-school teacher, were already tired from walking, and the fields seemed to them endless.

Then, Chekhov delivers that compelling line:

“Last time we were in Prokofy’s barn,” said Burkin, “you were about to tell me a story.”

Ivan Ivanovitch heaves a sigh begin to tell his story – “Yes, I meant to tell you about my brother” – but just as he lights a pipe, the rain begins . . . and we have to wait as they tromp to a nearby farm, wash up, and retire to the drawing room.

And only when the lamp was lighted in the big drawing-room upstairs, and Burkin and Ivan Ivanovitch, attired in silk dressing-gowns and warm slippers, were sitting in arm-chairs; . . . and when lovely Pelagea [a beautiful maid-servant], stepping noiselessly on the carpet and smiling softly, handed tea and jam on a tray – only then Ivan Ivanovitch began on his story. . . .

The hook has been baited. We all sink into comfy arm-chairs in the mind’s parlor . . . and wait for the story. At first, the story (about Ivan’s eccentric brother whose goal in life is to own a farm with gooseberry bushes) seems to be just an odd tale about a goofy person. Then Chekhov brings it home to a human issue: what is needed for a person to be happy? How is happiness earned?

And to what extent is it ever truly deserved?

His storytelling in a nutshell: 1) a curious starting point, 2) what happens, 3) some meaning it holds or interesting ideas it spawns . . . not necessarily a moral, but why the tale has stuck in the head, why it is worthy of telling.

I was recently reading an interview with Harlan Coben, American author of a series of crime novels in the style of Raymond Chandler, featuring a 6-foot, 4-inch hero called Myron Bolitar. Coben started by saying what we writers should hold dearest to our heart: “I love stories.”

And I liked his imagery of a motivation:

“When I’m writing, what I pretend subconsciously is that we’re cavemen, we’re sitting around the fire, and I’m telling you stories. If I bore you, you’re probably going to pick up a big club and hit me over the head.”

Stories. Simple? Not really. I also read an article in Scientific American (“The Secrets of Storytelling: Why We Love a Good Yarn”) that suggested that stories were how early humans began to organize and keep track of more relationships as their societies grew in volume of people and complexity.

And the author, Jeremy Hsu, had this remarkable point:

A 2007 study by marketing researcher Jennifer Edson Escalas of Vanderbilt University found that a test audience responded more positively to advertisements in narrative form as compared with straightforward ads that encouraged viewers to think about the arguments for a product. Similarly, Green co-authored a 2006 study that showed that labeling information as “fact” increased critical analysis, whereas labeling information as “fiction” had the opposite effect. Studies such as these suggest people accept ideas more readily when their minds are in story mode as opposed to when they are in an analytical mind-set.

Stories. We seek them out, we listen, and  . . . most important to writers . . . we like them. If told well, we even believe in them; we “buy” them in more ways than the commercial one. Learn to tell a story well, and you’re on the path to literary success.