A Call from Storytelling
by Juan-Pablo Pina
Story itself is under attack. To us creatives, the beacons of Minas Tirith are lit. Story (with a capital “S”, as in the act of storytelling) calls for aid.
Will we answer?
I consider myself to be a storyteller. By now, I’m pretty sure that you’re familiar with the “simulation theory”. The idea that, from a purely statistical point of view, it’s more likely that we live in a simulation than something like “the real world”. I personally don’t uphold the simulation theory, not because I find it far-fetched, but because I don’t think it goes far enough. I call myself a storyteller because I believe that this very real world is a story. We are characters of living ink written on the paper of creation. From the invisible and inescapable laws that govern our universe, to the 4 billion years of natural history that precede us, to the language of our own unique DNA; our lives are intertwined with stories from cradle to grave. We were written into our particular moment in history.
We live and pass on the best parts of ourselves through stories. In the end, all that remains of us here will be the stories we leave behind. Our identities are forged not only by our histories, but also our founding myths. They determine who we are as individuals, as families, as nations, and even as a species.
The cave paintings left by several ancient peoples are all that are left of them, the last echoes that say, “This is the world as we saw it. We lived in it. We matter.” They are the storehouses of our hard-earned values. They give us heroes to aspire to. If someone were to tell me that I reminded them of someone like Aragorn from The Lord of the Rings or Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon, y’all are welcome to slap that right on my tombstone.
If you wanted to destroy a person, a family, a nation, you would destroy their stories, undermine their heroes. But no one would do that, right? Think about the last 10 years of storytelling.
How many heroes can you think of that were torn down, were stripped of their bravery, their idealism, their courage, and turned into tired, bitter old men? How many characters that once overcame obstacles were stripped of their hard-earned titles and replaced by characters who overcame nothing? How many stories had their fundamental structures deconstructed, reimagined, or subverted for the sake of empty novelty? How many storytellers betrayed our shared narratives for their own short-sighted gain? What kinds of heroes have all but disappeared?
For generations, storytelling has been held firmly in the grip of gatekeepers. Studios, publishers, editors, whoever it may be. They decided what stories and storytellers were allowed to participate in culture. They trimmed, they edited, advised, consulted, declined, exiled.
This is a grim chapter of the story, and it’s all we’ve ever known for a majority of our lifetimes. But it’s coming to an end. And I believe that we were written into this part of the story for a reason. Story, again, with a capital “S” was never actually theirs any more than a person stumbling across a beach owns the world’s oceans. We can see evidence of the old systems cracking all around us.
At the time of writing this, “The Back Rooms” and “Obsession”, films made by young and passionate storytellers outperformed Disney’s first Star Wars feature film to be released in 7 years. “Young Washington”, an idealized and heroic retelling of history, outperformed the latest big studio superhero movie despite being shown in less theaters. Self-published, crowdfunded projects are carving pathways around the major publishers. There are too many examples to count.
We’re watching a tectonic shift. Story has been straining against its gatekeepers for years. On rare occasions, slipping through the cracks and making its resentful captors billions of dollars in its wake, but the gate is crumbling, and it can’t be kept much longer.
This is the most exciting time to be a storyteller in living memory.
The old trees are falling and sunlight is finally able to reach the forest floor. We are already seeing new saplings spring up and there are still countless seeds ready to grow. To my fellow creatives, the hard reality is that the ceiling above your work is the story that it serves. If it’s hunched over and twisted, your best work will never be able to stand to its full height.
It’s time to step up.
It’s unlikely that better stories are just around the corner. It’s not just that the gatekeepers won’t give up their gates. At this point, they can’t. No one is coming to the rescue. We have to figure this out ourselves. Storytelling needs us.
If you’re anything like me, your skill set is relatively narrow. But even the awkward first steps back towards something meaningful are far more beautiful than most professionals’ sprint in the opposite direction.
Take the first step.
Start writing that outline, collect those references, work through that tutorial. If you’re going to start making something you believe in, you’re going to need to learn outside your comfort zone.
Forget taking a leap of faith. Learn to fly.
My own project requires me to be the writer, producer, paleontology advisor, historical advisor, actor, fight choreographer, cinematographer, production designer, costume-maker, editor, marketer, and social media manager.
I’m so out of my depth when it comes to most of that stuff that I’m treading water. But when I look around, I have a lot of hope. I see people trying. I see them learning. Each new step is worth celebrating because they’re moving towards stories that mean something to them. They’re not waiting for approval.
Is it going to work? There are absolutely no guarantees. In fact, it most won’t. Most will fail. But the people who are going to succeed won’t even hear those words. They’ll see the odds, and see the slim chance, as smile because all they see is a head start.
The light is starting to pour in through the canopy of storytelling for the first time in living memory. Generations from now, people will look back on this crazy chapter with envy. They’ll say, “I know it must have been scary, but I wish I could have been there.”
So get up and write.
Even if you’re tired, do it anyways.
Tell your story.
Make the time.
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