Progressive skew underlies media stories and government actions

Public attention vs. media coverage of Vietnam war shows Progressive skew

Public attention vs. media coverage of Vietnam war [1]

Progressive skew didn’t win up through the 1890s

…crisis alone need not spawn Bigger Government. It does so only under favorable ideological conditions, and such conditions did not exist in the 1890s. Acting with substantial autonomy, governments even in a representative democracy may… refuse to accept or exercise powers that many citizens would thrust upon them.

American governments in the twentieth century, impelled by a more “progressive” ideology, readily accepted—indeed eagerly sought—expanded powers.[2]

Progressive skew starts with journalists’ worldviews

“Now the thing that God puts in a man that makes him a creative person makes him very sensitive to social nuances and that sort of thing. And overwhelmingly—not by a simple majority, but overwhelmingly—people with those tendencies tend to be on the liberal side of the spectrum. People on the conservative side of the political spectrum end up as vice presidents at General Motors.”

Individuals with strong political views will accept lower pay to do the type of reporting they believe in. Professionalism and peer review increase autonomy and independence in many fields.

…85 percent of Columbia Graduate School of Journalism students identified themselves as liberal, versus 11 percent conservative…

The journalists who voted for a major party candidate in presidential elections between 1964 and 1976 overwhelmingly went for Democrats: Lyndon Johnson 94 percent, Hubert Humphrey 87 percent, and George McGovern and Jimmy Carter 81 percent each.[3]

Progressive skew spins stories that show government people as heroes

Although people commonly suppose that news organizations report just the facts, journalists typically tell stories about current events. A report on a house fire, an earthquake, a factory closing, or a battle is actually a story about the event. It is no coincidence that we call news reports “stories.”

During times of foreign crisis and the early stages of a war, there is likely to be near-unanimous support for the war effort among the denizens of official Washington. The crucial expansion of government power can occur without the news media’s presenting the case against that expansion (for want of a prominent source).

…reporters place great reliance on government officials as sources. Members of the opposing party typically provide the “other” point of view, which limits the range of coverage.

Government… serves as a personalized hero, offering new policies to solve society’s problems. Thus, for example, a fiscal stimulus package to revive economic activity provides a happy ending to a story about a recession.[4]

Progressive skew tilts coverage towards government, and all the more during “crises”

…in this article media storms are operationalized as instances of a strong increase (≥150%) in attention to an issue/event that lasts at least 1 week and that attains a high share of the total agenda (≥20%) during at least that week.

New York Times front page story policy areas for 1996-2006 shows Progressive skew

New York Times front page story policy areas for 1996-2006:
Coverage is skewed, especially during media storms.[5]

Progressive skew of media “crises” is followed by disproportionally-large government actions

We first replicated the well-known and general linear effect of media attention on political attention: when media attention goes up, politics follows.

More importantly, we found that, once in media storm mode, media attention has a significantly stronger effect on congressional hearings than when not in storm mode. Our findings—which were the first results of an empirical, systematic examination of incoming information—support the notion that punctuated political attention is due to a nonlinear processing of incoming information.[6]

  1. Neuman, W. Russell. “The threshold of public attention.” Public Opinion Quarterly 54.2 (1990): 159-176.
  2. Higgs, Robert. Crisis and Leviathan: Critical episodes in the growth of American government. Oxford University Press, 1987, pp. 78-79.
  3. Sutter, Daniel. “Can the media be so liberal? The economics of media bias.” Cato Journal 20.3 (2001): 431-431.
  4. Sutter, Daniel. “News media incentives, coverage of government, and the growth of government.” The Independent Review 8.4 (2004): 549-567.
  5. Boydstun, Amber E., Anne Hardy, and Stefaan Walgrave. “Two faces of media attention: Media storm versus non-storm coverage.” Political Communication 31.4 (2014): 509-531.
  6. Walgrave, Stefaan, et al. “The nonlinear effect of information on political attention: media storms and US Congressional Hearings.” Political Communication (2017).

Stories help us heal when our thinking deepens over time

Shekhar Kapur gestures while telling a story, illustrating when it is that stories help us heal

[1]

Stories help us heal when they add understanding

One of the exciting aspects of the Linguistic Inquiry and Word Count program was that we were able to identify word categories that reflected the degree to which people were actively thinking. Two of the cognitive dimensions included insight or self-reflection words (such as think, realize, believe) and another made up of causal words (such as because, effect, rationale).

The people whose health improved the most started out using fairly low rates of cognitive words but increased in their use over the four days of writing. It wasn’t the level of cognitive words that was important but the increase from the first to last day.

In some ways, use of insight and causal words was necessary for people to construct a coherent story of their trauma. On the first writing session, people would often spill out their experience in a disorganized way. However, as they wrote about it day after day, they began to make sense of it. This greater understanding was partially reflected in the ways they used cognitive words. These findings suggested that having a coherent story to explain a painful experience was not necessarily as useful as constructing a coherent story.

We can get stuck, and while we’re stuck it’s no longer true that stories help us heal

This helped to explain a personal observation that had bothered me for years. When the first writing studies were published, my work was often featured in the media. At cocktail parties or informal gatherings, I sometimes found myself to be a trauma magnet. People who knew about my research would gravitate to me in order to tell me all about their horrific life experiences. Many of them also were in very poor physical health. At first, I thought that their talking about their stories would be good for them. However, I’d see the same people at another gathering months later and they would often tell me exactly the same stories and their health would be unchanged.

The word count research revealed the problem. The people telling their traumatic stories were essentially telling the same stories over and over. There was no change to the stories, no growth, no increase in understanding. Repeating the same story in the same way is not unlike ruminative thinking—a classic symptom of depression.

Stories help us heal when they add perspective

There is an important lesson here. If haunted by an emotional upheaval in your life, try writing about it or sharing the experience with others.

However, if you catch yourself telling exactly the same story over and over in order to get past your distress, rethink your strategy. Try writing or talking about your trauma in a completely different way. How would a more detached narrator describe what happened? What other ways of explaining the event might exist?

If you’re successful, research studies suggest that you will sleep better, experience better physical health, and notice yourself feeling happier and less overcome by your upheaval.

Thanks to the Linguistic Inquiry and Word Count program, we found that three aspects of emotional writing predicted improvements in people’s physical and mental health: accentuating the positive parts of an upheaval, acknowledging the negative parts, and constructing a story over the days of writing.

Stories help us heal when we switch between perspectives, and we include first-person

The more people changed in the ways they used function words from writing to writing, the more their health later improved. As we started to focus on different classes of function words, one particular group of culprits stood out as more important than the others: personal pronouns. More specifically, the more people changed in their use of first-person singular pronouns (e.g., I, me, my) compared with other pro- nouns (e.g., we, you, she, they), the better their health later became. The effects were large and held up for study after study.

The writings of those whose health improved showed a high rate of the use of I-words on one occasion and then high rates of the use of other pronouns on the next occasion, and then switching back and forth in subsequent writings.

In other words, healthy people say something about their own thoughts and feelings in one instance and then explore what is happening with other people before writing about themselves again.

The multiple perspectives in stories help us heal, in a way, like therapy helps us heal

This perspective switching is actually quite common in psychotherapy.

If a man visits his therapist and begins repeatedly complaining about his wife’s behavior, what she says, how aloof she is, and so forth, the therapist will likely stop the client after several minutes and say, “You’ve been talking about your wife at length but you haven’t said anything about yourself. How do you feel when this happens?”

Similarly, if another client—a woman in this case—with marital problems sees her therapist and spends most of her time talking about her own thoughts, feelings, and behaviors without ever talking about her spouse, the therapist will probably redirect the conversation in a similar way by asking, “You’ve told me a lot about your own feelings when this happens—how do you think your husband feels about this?”

Perhaps like good therapy, healthy writing may involve looking at a problem from multiple perspectives.[2]


  1. Kapur, Shekhar. “We are the stories we tell ourselves.” com, Mar. 2010, www.ted.com/talks/shekhar_kapur_we_are_the_stories_we_tell_ourselves/transcript. Accessed 14 June 2017.
  2. Pennebaker, James W. The secret life of pronouns. What our words say about us. Bloomsbury Press, 2011, Scribd pp. 23-27.

Nonfiction narratives help us see how new information fits together

A storyteller’s hands grasp an unseen object, illustrating nonfiction narratives, which are complex and embedded
[1]

Nonfiction narratives give us the stories we crave

…when I read the best analytic writing… it often feels like a story to me. The writing unfolds. I enjoy the playing out of ideas and positions, the ways they conflict, the ways questions are raised and explored—the way they are narrated. All of these writers are masters of the embedded story that grounds any point in live experience, which gives it what rhetoricians call presence.

So here is my modest proposition—that narrative is the deep structure of all good writing. All good writing. “Narrative imagining—story—is the fundamental instrument of thought. Rational capacities depend on it. It is our chief means of looking into the future, of predicting, of planning, of explaining”…even research reports must tell a story.

We never really read for raw information. We can’t.

So-called “informational texts” work only when the writer has been able to establish a set of expectations to drive the reading. This frame stabilizes the reading, gives it purpose, provides a pattern to place the “information” in.

Nonfiction narratives are journeys we take with the writers

Reading, as I am describing it, is not a treasure hunt for the main idea; it is a journey we take with a writer.

Extended informational writing is mediated by a teller; someone is guiding us through facts, theories, or perspectives. We can sense his or her cognitive energy, the fascination with the topic, the delight in the odd and unexpected fact, the sense of irony or humor that leavens even writing on the most serious topics. There is a relationship, a trust even.

When, in the name of pure objectivity, these traits are withheld (usually the case with textbooks), we have difficulty reading; the writing is called academic, synonymous, in the public mind at least, with dullness. Or to use a term from the field of reading, these texts are inconsiderate.

Nonfiction narratives aren’t like textbooks

Whenever I raise the question of comprehending nonfiction, someone asks, How will your ideas help students read textbooks? The short answer is, they won’t.

Textbooks are not read—that is, they do not require sustained attention to the development of an idea, the kind of reading that it might take to read an essay in The Atlantic or a professional research article.

Take, for example, a standard high school text like Biology (Biggs, Glencoe/McGraw-Hill, & National Geographic Society, 2007), which weighs in at a hefty 6.2 pounds. For all its bulk, students are rarely asked to read more than three paragraphs before a text break or a new topic occurs. The writing itself seems geared for presenting terminology (all bolded) rather than for engaging a reader. Two or three terms are introduced per page, for a total of approximately 1,500 terms for the entire book. The pages are extraordinarily busy, with sidebars, photos, and diagrams, all distracting in a People Magazine sort of way. So what we have is essentially a dictionary with elaborated definitions.

Nonfiction narratives embed tensions and resolutions that embed information

In the classification schemes of the most respected literacy educators… informational reading is “efferent” and functional, a carrying away, in this case, of information.

Take, for example, Siddhartha Mukherjee’s The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer… What I got was the experience of being with the author as he led me through the cycles of hope and defeat, the carnage of so many patients in such grueling trials, and the hesitant but steady progress of researchers. I retain the sensation of cancer itself becoming the main character of the book—evasive, adaptive, persistent, multiple, an adversary of extraordinary wiliness and devastation. I retain these narrative contours—and the information I retain adheres to them.

…to be taken into a book like The Emperor of All Maladies is to move outside ourselves and to be present as a first-rate mind explains the science and human drama of cancer research.

These writers never leave narrative far behind. Instead, they use narrative in more complex and embedded ways.[2]


  1. “stories. for grownups.” PatSpalding.com. Accessed 11 Mar. 2017.
  2. Newkirk, Thomas. “How We Really Comprehend Nonfiction.” Educational Leadership 69.6 (Mar. 2012): 29-32.

Great storytelling shares self-knowledge

Robert McKee shows that great storytelling shares self-knowledge.

Great storytelling matches how we remember

So, what is a story?
Essentially, a story expresses how and why life changes.

How would an executive learn to tell stories?
Stories have been implanted in you thousands of times since your mother took you on her knee. You’ve read good books, seen movies, attended plays. What’s more, human beings naturally want to work through stories. Cognitive psychologists describe how the human mind, in its attempt to understand and remember, assembles the bits and pieces of experience into a story, beginning with a personal desire, a life objective, and then portraying the struggle against the forces that block that desire. Stories are how we remember…[1]

In this world, you will have trouble[2]

What makes a good story?
You emphatically do not want to tell a beginning-to-end tale describing how results meet expectations. This is boring and banal. Instead, you want to display the struggle between expectation and reality in all its nastiness.

What’s wrong with painting a positive picture?
It doesn’t ring true. The great irony of existence is that what makes life worth living does not come from the rosy side. We would all rather be lotus-eaters, but life will not allow it. The energy to live comes from the dark side. It comes from everything that makes us suffer. As we struggle against these negative powers, we’re forced to live more deeply, more fully.

So acknowledging this dark side makes you more convincing?
Of course. Because you’re more truthful. One of the principles of good storytelling is the understanding that we all live in dread. Fear is when you don’t know what’s going to happen. Dread is when you know what’s going to happen and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Death is the great dread; we all live in an ever shrinking shadow of time, and between now and then all kinds of bad things could happen. Ever since human beings sat around the fire in caves, we’ve told stories to help us deal with the dread of life and the struggle to survive. All great stories illuminate the dark side. I’m not talking about so-called “pure” evil, because there is no such thing. We are all evil and good, and these sides do continual battle. Audiences appreciate the truthfulness of a storyteller who acknowledges the dark side of human beings and deals honestly with antagonistic events. The story engenders a positive but realistic energy in the people who hear it.

Does this mean you have to be a pessimist?
It’s not a question of whether you’re optimistic or pessimistic. It seems to me that the civilized human being is a skeptic – someone who believes nothing at face value.

Great storytelling faces trouble

So, a story that embraces darkness produces a positive energy in listeners?
Absolutely. We follow people in whom we believe. To get people behind you, you can tell a truthful story. The story of General Electric is wonderful and has nothing to do with Jack Welch’s cult of celebrity. If you have a grand view of life, you can see it on all its complex levels and celebrate it in a story. A great CEO is someone who has come to terms with his or her own mortality and, as a result, has compassion for others. This compassion is expressed in stories.

How do storytellers discover and unearth the stories that want to be told?
The storyteller discovers a story by asking certain key questions.

  • First, what does my protagonist want in order to restore balance in his or her life? Desire is the blood of a story. Desire is not a shopping list but a core need that, if satisfied, would stop the story in its tracks.
  • Next, what is keeping my protagonist from achieving his or her desire? Forces within? Doubt? Fear? Confusion? Personal conflicts with friends, family, lovers? Social conflicts arising in the various institutions in society? Physical conflicts? The forces of Mother Nature? Lethal diseases in the air? Not enough time to get things done? The damned automobile that won’t start? Antagonists come from people, society, time, space, and every object in it, or any combination of these forces at once.
  • Then, how would my protagonist decide to act in order to achieve his or her desire in the face of these antagonistic forces? It’s in the answer to that question that storytellers discover the truth of their characters, because the heart of a human being is revealed in the choices he or she makes under pressure.
  • Finally, the storyteller leans back from the design of events he or she has created and asks, “Do I believe this? Is it neither an exaggeration nor a soft-soaping of the struggle? Is this an honest telling, though heaven may fall?”

Great storytelling shares self-knowledge

Does being a good storyteller make you a good leader?
The art of storytelling takes intelligence, but it also demands a life experience that I’ve noted in gifted film directors: the pain of childhood. Self-knowledge is the root of all great storytelling. A storyteller creates all characters from the self by asking the question, “If I were this character in these circumstances, what would I do?” The more you understand your own humanity, the more you can appreciate the humanity of others in all their good-versus-evil struggles. I would argue that the great leaders Jim Collins describes are people with enormous self-knowledge. They have self-insight and self-respect balanced by skepticism. Great storytellers – and, I suspect, great leaders – are skeptics who understand their own masks as well as the masks of life, and this understanding makes them humble. They see the humanity in others and deal with them in a compassionate yet realistic way. That duality makes for a wonderful leader.[1]


  1. Fryer, Bronwyn. “Storytelling that moves people. A Conversation with Screenwriting Coach Robert McKee.” Harvard Business Review 81.6 (June 2003): 51-55.
  2. The Bible. New International Version, 2011. John 16:33.