DIRECT EXPERIENCE – BEST PATH TO EMPATHY?
‘En carne propia‘ – ‘in your own flesh’ – is always the best way, subject to the limitation that reflection is necessary to develop empathy, and a certain amount of facility with the concept of sharing something emotional with another human being, which is not necessarily evident in all cases of shared experience.
Having cancer does not confer automatic empathy with other victims of the disease.
And direct experience also has the flaw of actually being divisive if the two people with the same experience have reacted very differently, and they put that down to some inherent quality in themselves. This results in the ‘I got cancer, and I did X, and now I’m far better than those lazy sods who won’t make the effort to do X…’ phenomenon.
Because direct experience doesn’t include another person.
You’d think it would make people empathetic, or at least sympathetic toward the others in similar circumstances, but no.
Fiction is a largely underused way to deliberately develop empathy
The fiction-based trick is that you can be pulled into experiencing what another person – a character in a book – experiences, IF there is enough information in the writing.
On August 22, 2017, I had a guest post on Big Al’s Books and Pals, and I posted the link to that article here. The title Al chose out of the ones I supplied as suggestions was ‘Want to be someone else? Read fiction.’ Which is true, but didn’t mention empathy. My bad – I should have chosen my own title.
I had a couple of interesting conversations there with readers of the blog who commented, and that was the extent of the feedback.
I’m reproducing the whole post here:
Fiction is uniquely positioned to develop and increase empathy, because it provides a way around and under and through the barriers most people put up around their hearts and minds.
Humans think in stories. Why? Because we spend our lives learning the rules that ensure our survival.
Our brains are wired to learn in two ways: first, by direct personal experience – a hard way to learn some rules. Our feelings then cement the lessons, make them unforgettable.
And second, by empathy – acquiring knowledge through the experience of others.
For this, reading fiction is the best way to learn. The rub is the experience has to feel real for it to serve that purpose, exactly as if it happened to us. And the way we do that is through our emotions, which are engaged when the experience is ours.
Fiction is better than facts: facts have no emotional component to make them stick. We store them away, hope to remember them when we need them. Going on a hike across the desert? Bring water. Check.
Fiction is better than non-fiction: reports of the experience, say, of crossing the Antarctic in the middle of winter, are both entertaining and raise in us sympathy for the sufferings of the explorers. Poor guys!
And reading fiction is much better than video input for one simple reason: we can’t pretend video is happening to us when it is so clearly happening to someone else. Sympathy, not empathy.
And that’s the key: reading fiction is the best way we have to feel the emotions created by experiencing something as directly as possible without it happening to us. Because, as we read, we have to put in the effort to create, out of black marks on a page, the actual experience in our minds.
Listening to stories works almost as well, but requires a storyteller, and the emotional component is affected by that teller.
Reading is just you and the book.
Oh, and the author.
Most fiction invokes the sympathetic response in the reader – the entertainment value hooks the reader, and we’re off on an adventure. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this, because we need entertainment to relax after our own lives, however crazy or calm. Lots of entertainment.
But the best fiction aims deeper: to ‘grab the jugular.’ To ‘feel like a punch in the gut.’ Or the dreaded, to make you think. Which is really to make you experience, to fully engage your empathy, to make you feel as if it happened to you. To teach you. To change you.
Here is where another of the rules of life comes into play: humans hate being preached to. The preaching is an overt attempt to change the reader or the listener, via logic backed up with emotion. Usually negative emotion, fear: you are bad, you will go to hell, you must change! You are bad, you will destroy the Earth, you must change! If you touch the stove, you will get burned, don’t!
So the author without the moral authority of the preacher or the physical authority of the dictator has to be sneaky. Covert. Tease and wheedle rather than command. Better still: make you complicit in your own change. Make you want to change.
And how does the author do that? By pulling you in with superior entertainment value (remember, we need lots of stories) up front, and by layering the experience which creates the empathy for the new experience under that. Great stories, story moral picked up by the reader from being the character, having the story happen directly to him.
We then come full circle to Show, Don’t Tell. Show the character having the divorce or being attacked by terrorists or marrying the prince. If you have your parameters right, if you’re telling the story the right way, the reader has identified with the character, and the reader is getting divorced. The reader has to escape the terrorists to save the President. The reader walking down the aisle just realized the rest of her life is proscribed by royal protocol.
The author’s power is very real.
Authors don’t always use this power to its fullest, because there is a final step: choosing the purpose of the empathy, choosing the change for a higher aim: the good of humanity.
Sounds horribly preachy, doesn’t it?
What prompted this post is that I don’t like a recent way this power is being used, to push an agenda which makes me sick to my stomach: the proposal, supported by carefully crafted stories, that people who are defective/handicapped/ill should remove themselves from the world because they are a burden to other people, and that this frees the other people to go on to something better.
Disabled people already face an uphill battle in many areas of their lives. Having society go back to an earlier model of disability which says that ‘they’ are a burden to other people, and therefore don’t have the right to the same hopes and aspirations as the ‘normals,’ is a huge step backward. To encourage them to consider removing themselves is a further abuse against their rights to live and to love.
As an author of fiction, I have the following tools:
I know how to create sympathy and empathy.
I know how to appeal to men and women.
I know how to entertain.
I know how to bury something deep in the fabric of a story.
I know how to make you identify with a character.
I know how to create situations that test the limits of character and privilege.
I know how to manipulate your emotions.
And I know that ‘disability porn’ – using disabled people to be ‘inspirational’ – is roundly despised by disabled people everywhere.
By picking the right story to tell, I believe I can make you buy my premise that disability is not the end of life as you know it.
Now that I’ve revealed many of my secrets, you still have to decide whether you’re going to let me try. And then decide if I know what the heck I’m talking about.
Why repost my own post?
Because I don’t think readers of the original blog, which sends out daily emails with reviews of indie books, are used to posts that are not a review, and I’m hoping the ideas will resonate with readers of this blog.
The empathy that fiction can generate is limited. Too many times I have had readers denigrate my characters for being too different from them. A lot of the time this starts as “I don’t believe X would really do Y”. When I ask further, it almost always comes down to “I wouldn’t do Y.” Sometimes I can fix it by giving more backstory or other details. Sometimes, it’s just that even in fiction there are limits.
That’s why it takes me so many words! You start from a neutral position, and spend lots of words, and if you do it just right, ‘wouldn’t do Y’ doesn’t even come up.
There are, of course, limits – but some of them are the writer’s limits and how much time they’re willing to spend. Or they’ve picked a character with a real problem. I stay away from those, because I’m not interested in problem characters. Other than ones like Bianca who are quite well supported by the culture she lives in.
I’m not challenging you – but I need to develop empathy, so I learned how. I don’t think I could write Lolita, though.
Thanks, Kate, and welcome.
“What prompted this post is that I don’t like a recent way this power is being used, to push an agenda which makes me sick to my stomach: the proposal, supported by carefully crafted stories, that people who are defective/handicapped/ill should remove themselves from the world because they are a burden to other people, and that this frees the other people to go on to something better.
“Disabled people already face an uphill battle in many areas of their lives. Having society go back to an earlier model of disability which says that ‘they’ are a burden to other people, and therefore don’t have the right to the same hopes and aspirations as the ‘normals,’ is a huge step backward. To encourage them to consider removing themselves is a further abuse against their rights to live and to love.”
Thank you for this.
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I can understand societies such as the supposed American Indian or Native Alaskan ones where a non-productive member heads out into the cold winter because there isn’t enough food for the tribe. Just barely. And I don’t know if that is the way they truly were, but I can sort of see it in a survival situation.
In ours, where people like me can still hope and desire to contribute to society in many ways IF said society will get off its collective rear end and make a true commitment to accessibility and proper pay for proper work, this is horrifying.
There’s a kid with CP on our block. College degree and all. No work for him. There are intellectually-challenged kids and adults who are great workers (I know of a lovely autistic young lady who is a dedicated caretaker for another young lady in a wheelchair who is actually disabled). And I remember Christopher Reeves and Stephen Hawkins.
We each get ONE life.
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You’re welcome. But I thought everyone was coming around to understanding this – and it is not so.
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Reblogged this on Tasmanian Bibliophile @Large and commented:
A thought provoking post by my friend Alicia. What do you think?