Do you ever have songs running through your head? Songs that you may not even like but which are lodged (mercifully briefly, for the most part) in your “read only memory” and which remain stubbornly resistant to deletion?
No?
All right, how about this:
When you read, do you “hear” the words in your head as you see them?
No?
Well, I wonder if you realise that there are those of us who experience both of those things and take them very much for granted?
As I understand it, the term, “inner narrative” has two strands. The first is the information we hold in our minds about our own lives and experiences – our own “story”. It consists not only of memories but of our interpretations of events that have occurred to others we know, however tangentially. An example might the popular game of “...where were you when...” in which common matters of human import (of which the best modern example is the destruction of the World Trade Centre towers) are recalled in the context of our own lives.
The second strand concerns the “conversation” we have with ourselves throughout the day – our inner “voice” - that interprets and analyses our experiences and helps us to make sense of and compartmentalise the things that happen during our waking lives. If you talk out loud to yourself, you are also likely to form memories in this narrative manner.
If you were bemused by the first couple of questions in this article, then the idea of an inner voice may be as bizarre and difficult to understand as the lack of one is to me. Although I've long known that I am a slow reader, I had not realised that some people, those who read extremely quickly, can by-pass the inner voice on which others like me rely in order to make sense of what we read. I have often envied those who are able to read quickly with complete understanding and so, I'm somewhat gratified to learn that with this ability, there sometimes comes a lack of “inner narrative”.
Of course, this schadenfreude may well be as misplaced as it is shameful but there is evidence that an inner narrative has been an essential aid to human evolution, allowing the possiblity of abstract thought to develop.
But far more gratifying than this, is that it might indicate that all those people who champion the “stripped down” method of story writing may suffer from the same affliction. For one thing, it would account for their rather peculiar aversion to adjectives. And, if anything even more so, adverbs.
Allow me to explain.
The ancient Egyptians famously had no adjectives to describe colour. They understood that colours existed but had no use for words to differentiate between them. Nor, of course, did their written language which, being pictographic, also made it difficult to express abstract concepts. In fact, I understand the Dani people of New Guinea fall into the same category, understanding only that some hues are light and others dark. As a society advance, so the theory goes, it develops the abstract thinking necessary for social, cultural, technological and scientific development.
If, as a writer, you have little use for adjectives, you might want to ask why and don't simply respond by reference to works on technique. Try to explain why you don't particularly like using them.
As for adverbs, I'm going to finish with a theory of my own. Ahem.
The inner voice is essential to reify abstract thought - this is one of the reasons that talking therapies can be so effective. Adverbs are the way in which we opine about motive and emotive mannerisms. If someone performs an act, it helps to understand it by reference to the manner in which it was performed. I shall take a prosaic example. The verb “to smile”. It can be described in many ways and that description will determine the meaning of that smile. The lack of an adverbial modifier compromises meaning. It also serves my prejudice in these matters to believe that this unwillingness to emote points to a somewhat psychopathic personality.
This will be my new counter to the Swainians et al.
No?
All right, how about this:
When you read, do you “hear” the words in your head as you see them?
No?
Well, I wonder if you realise that there are those of us who experience both of those things and take them very much for granted?
As I understand it, the term, “inner narrative” has two strands. The first is the information we hold in our minds about our own lives and experiences – our own “story”. It consists not only of memories but of our interpretations of events that have occurred to others we know, however tangentially. An example might the popular game of “...where were you when...” in which common matters of human import (of which the best modern example is the destruction of the World Trade Centre towers) are recalled in the context of our own lives.
The second strand concerns the “conversation” we have with ourselves throughout the day – our inner “voice” - that interprets and analyses our experiences and helps us to make sense of and compartmentalise the things that happen during our waking lives. If you talk out loud to yourself, you are also likely to form memories in this narrative manner.
If you were bemused by the first couple of questions in this article, then the idea of an inner voice may be as bizarre and difficult to understand as the lack of one is to me. Although I've long known that I am a slow reader, I had not realised that some people, those who read extremely quickly, can by-pass the inner voice on which others like me rely in order to make sense of what we read. I have often envied those who are able to read quickly with complete understanding and so, I'm somewhat gratified to learn that with this ability, there sometimes comes a lack of “inner narrative”.
Of course, this schadenfreude may well be as misplaced as it is shameful but there is evidence that an inner narrative has been an essential aid to human evolution, allowing the possiblity of abstract thought to develop.
But far more gratifying than this, is that it might indicate that all those people who champion the “stripped down” method of story writing may suffer from the same affliction. For one thing, it would account for their rather peculiar aversion to adjectives. And, if anything even more so, adverbs.
Allow me to explain.
The ancient Egyptians famously had no adjectives to describe colour. They understood that colours existed but had no use for words to differentiate between them. Nor, of course, did their written language which, being pictographic, also made it difficult to express abstract concepts. In fact, I understand the Dani people of New Guinea fall into the same category, understanding only that some hues are light and others dark. As a society advance, so the theory goes, it develops the abstract thinking necessary for social, cultural, technological and scientific development.
If, as a writer, you have little use for adjectives, you might want to ask why and don't simply respond by reference to works on technique. Try to explain why you don't particularly like using them.
As for adverbs, I'm going to finish with a theory of my own. Ahem.
The inner voice is essential to reify abstract thought - this is one of the reasons that talking therapies can be so effective. Adverbs are the way in which we opine about motive and emotive mannerisms. If someone performs an act, it helps to understand it by reference to the manner in which it was performed. I shall take a prosaic example. The verb “to smile”. It can be described in many ways and that description will determine the meaning of that smile. The lack of an adverbial modifier compromises meaning. It also serves my prejudice in these matters to believe that this unwillingness to emote points to a somewhat psychopathic personality.
This will be my new counter to the Swainians et al.
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