The past couple weeks, I’ve been working on getting settled in Washington, DC. That’s meant lots of walking in the city, running errands and finding my way around. And as I’ve been walking, I’ve tried to take some time off from my podcast addiction, take the headphones out, and just...notice.
Birds used to be pretty much invisible to me. I only knew the basics: crow, pigeon, cardinal, robin. I’d never taken time to really observe bird behavior, and I definitely never paid attention to which bird matched which call.
Birdwatching seemed like a mysterious activity reserved for old people with wide-brimmed hats. Not really my thing.
While I was living in Chile, despite not being an old person or owning a wide-brimmed hat, I started getting into birds. I’m definitely not an expert. And I still have waaaay more to learn. But as I walked around the city these past couple weeks, I realized that my new default setting includes noticing the birds.
Who are these shiny guys I’m seeing everywhere? (European Starlings.) What are these fancy dudes that look like a sparrow with a dye job? (House Finches.) And who’s this cute fluffy black-and-white guy I spotted in the woods? (Hairy Woodpecker.)
You could make a good argument that our personalities, and perhaps our identities, are based in large part on what we notice. I do not care about cars and couldn’t tell you what make or model most of my closest friends drive. But I could tell you exactly which of those same friends have watched Avatar: The Last Airbender. And I could also, after going to a dinner party, offer a fairly precise rundown of each attendee’s personality, mood, and general outlook.
We notice the things that matter to us and ignore the things that don’t. This has major implications in many areas of life. For storytelling, I think about this noticing in two ways: what matters to your protagonist, and what matters to your audience.
What characters notice
For a long time, I thought I couldn’t write fantasy novels because I didn’t know anything about like, different kinds of metal. Most of the fantasy books I’d read featured long descriptions of armor and swords and battle techniques. So I figured if I ever wanted to write one, mine would need to include that, too.
Not being particularly interested in the nuances of forging, I was sort of at a loss.
What I didn’t understand was that the stories I read only focused on those things because the protagonist cared about those things. If I wanted to write a book that featured exactly zero descriptions of swords, all I had to do was choose a protagonist who cared exactly zero about swords.
One error I see a lot of beginning writers make is to include long, generic-sounding descriptions of setting and other details that give us no insight into the character who’s seeing that setting and detail firsthand. This would include those long descriptions of armor and swords (as an example) if the main character was actually a peaceful woodland sprite who was mostly just interested in styling flower crowns.
The vast majority of contemporary novels are written in first person or third person close, meaning that everything we know about the story world must be filtered through the protagonist’s perspective. The narrative will dwell on the things that matter to this character, whether that’s weapons or weather or deadlines or feelings. Or flower crowns.
Thinking about what this specific character would notice in this specific moment can help you pick out the most vivid, meaningful images for a given scene. A great way to do this is to focus on what makes them different from the people around them. In Leigh Bardugo’s Ninth House, for example, protagonist Alex's working-class California upbringing makes her feel like an outsider at Yale. She’s constantly dwelling on her classmates’ clothing and the authoritative ease with which they move through the world––their gestures, their way of speaking. Meanwhile, in the chapters from her mentor Darlington’s perspective, it’s his passion for the history, geography, and other intricacies of New Haven that stands out. And this becomes one of the key things that distinguishes him from most of his classmates, with major implications for the plot.
What audiences notice
So that’s a starting point for thinking about what our characters notice. But what about our audience?
At the end of the day, storytelling is a communicative act. The audience is just as much a part of that act as the writer or speaker. So this is really a central question for any storyteller to think about. But in the case of marketers, it’s especially useful. You’ve got a limited window to grasp the reader, or listener, or viewer’s attention. So it’s important to reflect on which aspects of the story will resonate most with the audience.
What’s making them happy? What’s troubling them? Basically: what’s on their mind?
In thinking about what your target audience notices as they move through the world––both the things that bring them joy and the things that make their lives harder––you can make sure you’re choosing the right value propositions to highlight. This will ensure you’re speaking to your audience in a way that feels recognizable and relevant. (And has a much higher chance of driving clicks and conversions.)
In Conclusion
If what we notice about the world determines, or at least reflects, a large part of our personality and identity, it’s interesting to also note when it changes.
I didn’t used to notice birds, and now I do. I’m not sure exactly what this means, beyond that I’ll now occasionally spend hours trying to figure out which three-note vocalization is waking me up at six o’clock every morning. (It’s a white-throated sparrow, in case anyone’s wondering.)
Even though I’m not really sure what this change means, noticing something new feels good––like expansion, like growth.
With each new thing we notice, there’s a little more texture to our world. It’s an interesting thing to think about, for our characters and ourselves.
Have a great day, everyone.
–Erin
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Erin Becker (she/her)
Writer | Communications Consultant | Storytelling Expert
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