CHAPTER 11
Experience Is Sensory

HUMANS EXPERIENCE THE world through five primary channels: what we smell, taste, hear, touch, and see. Perceptions that begin as raw data coming in by way of our senses are then matched to an existing pattern. Because any one “thing”—apples, for instance—displays wide ranges of size, color, and shapes, the brain is designed to accept a “close enough” match rather than seeking a literal exact replica. When we look into a pasture, our brain initially registers the colors brown and white, low sustained vocalizations, and barnyard smells. In the split seconds required to comprehend that sensory data, your brain has found and chosen the perception known as “cow.” Objectively, the vast array of patterns that fit the sensory pattern we call cow are not the same at all. Subjectively, we only pay attention to the similarities. We know a cow when we see one. We are sure of that “fact.”

If you have ever made fun of your sixth-grade teacher by calling her a cow, you used the power of associations inherent in perception. You probably discovered that you could enhance the vibrancy of the perception of teacher as cow by making mooing noises and by mimicking the rotary chewing motion of a cow chewing cud. You were a little genius storyteller—and still are, when you get back to the basics. Too many courses on psychographics, demographics, and market segmentation have eroded your connection to the physical origins of storytelling.

Analysis and high-level conceptualization are very important tools, but once you know your target’s statistics, these abstractions of reality are too hypothetical to stimulate sensory experiences that originate perceptions and emotions. Sure, a lone number can take you on a roller coaster of emotions (for example, stock prices) but only because of the physical associations you have with high versus low numbers: Mercedes versus a used Ford, champagne versus beer, retirement on a golf course versus a job as a security guard at the mall. It is what the number means in terms of the well-being of your body, spirit, and environment that stimulates emotions.

Storytelling intentionally uses sensory language or sensory experiences (Disneyland, Canyon Ranch Spa, etc.) to stimulate desired patterns of association and create new patterns of association:

Roller Coaster = Fun; Disney = Roller Coaster; therefore,
Fun = Disney

The simultaneous stimulation creates new associations.

When you activate memories of a cow (chew, moo, blank stare) and associate those patterns with some poor teacher, you are using a basic building block of storytelling. Never mind that there is no plot. Unless you are studying storytelling for literary purposes, the “requirements” of plot and character can be more intimidating than helpful. Ground yourself in the basics of sensory stimulation, and the rest will follow.

New patterns are built from existing patterns. For instance, if someone has never been to Russia, I can take them there with a story, but I have to use known sensory experiences as building blocks to develop the scenery, characters, events, and consequences. Most people already know what snow is. They have also seen old ladies that are poor. They have seen homeless people in big cities. I can use those building blocks to tell a story about seeing a Russian woman who appeared homeless. The bias in my selection of sensations to stimulate can’t be overstated. All storytelling is inherently subjective.

While I was in St. Petersburg, Russia, I was told that older women were a large segment of the homeless population. I saw old women with tattered dresses and coats, selling small trinkets and handkerchiefs rather than begging for rubles. You might begin to picture this scene using the sensory-building details your brain rushes to provide. If you have seen Dr. Zhivago you might use the train scene for background. Then my telling of this story begins to frame your conclusions about this scene:

In Russia, many old women have no safety net because the shift to a free market from communism was abrupt and left millions of people who were subsidized all their lives without enough time to build up savings or assets.

Anchor this with more sensory data:

The woman burned into my memory stands in the freezing rain with as much dignity as she can, wearing an old crocheted sweater under her coat. The sweater was too fine to be warm and had one rhinestone button left. Her eyes were harder than I expected, when I bought one of her handkerchiefs.

Now the real spin starts. Once I’ve created a mental image with added sensory details, I can direct the emotions her image generates in you to several equally viable “stories” that call your own future into question and create new associations for the emotions her image may stir up in you (anxiety, despair, pity, discomfort).

A Democrat from the United States might continue by saying social security is vital to a free market economy because otherwise people fall through the cracks. A Republican might emphasize how years of government subsidies became so large they collapse under the burden and leave people trained to rely upon the state, with no skills or savings to support themselves in their old age. Every story is spin, depending on how you tell it. Shouting your own conclusions, like “Social Security is BAD” or “Social Security is GOOD,” neglects to anchor your desired associations with the physical experiences; emotions lay the foundation for new associations.

Climb back down the mental ladder of conclusions you may have reached years ago, all the way to the sensory experiences that were your original raw data. Revisiting these original events helps you create a story with similar sensory experiences that will create similar perceptions for your listeners. When your listeners take in these sensory experiences in the desired order, you take them rung by rung through the steps of discovery and conclusions up the ladder you wish them to climb.

Regardless of what conclusions a story reinforces, it all begins with powerful sensory memories that activate strong good or bad associations, so you can direct those emotions toward new associations. When the new associations are stimulating enough to be remembered or retold, every “reexperiencing” of the new associations further anchors the patterns and increases the probability that future events will trigger your new patterns of association. This is how urban legends gain acceptance—not because of their factual bases—but because of their power to stimulate strong emotional reactions.

Urban legends thrive when they trigger retelling urges inspired by strong emotional associations (e.g., Warning! Warning!). Vibrancy imprints imagined sensory memories before doubt has a chance to slam the door shut. The first time most people hear or read the “stolen kidney” legend about waking up in Las Vegas in a bathtub of ice without their kidneys, they imagine the ice in the bathtub, picture the hotel bathroom, and see the handwriting on the note that tells them to call the hospital—all before their frontal lobes have a chance to challenge the plausibility of strangers harvesting kidneys by drugging hotel guests.

Sure-Fire Sensory Associations

Urban legends display an array of sure-fire associations, mostly useless because they are total fabrications, but educational nonetheless. What do these “stories” have in common? NASA Experiments with Sex in Space; Nostradamus Predicted 9/11 Attack; Spiders Under the Toilet Seat; Bill Gates to Share His Fortune; and the worst: Young Cancer Victim Needs Your Help. All of them activate enough emotions to momentarily override rational reasoning.

The “Spiders under the Toilet Seat” story is particularly interesting. It is a good example of a story that generates a physiological response. The author of this hoax used sensory details that are so vivid they feel true. The first bites “happened” at an Olive Garden restaurant (specific—a place you know, even if you haven’t been there) from a two-striped Telamonia (Telamonia dimidiate) spider (such a scientific sounding name creates validity). A realistic sounding history provides a plausible back story: A lawyer from Jacksonville returned from Indonesia (familiar sensory details: lawyer, Jacksonville, Indonesia) and ultimately died from a puncture wound on his right buttock. Your brain connects the dots: Hey, that spider must have hidden in the lawyer’s suitcase from Indonesia. I’m guessing very few people can read the original e-mail without clinching their right buttock muscle away from an imaginary spider bite. Once a story stimulates a physical sensation in your listener’s body and is associated with highly familiar or strongly emotional experiences, it has sticking power.

Most people could use a lesson in sensory stimulation. One of my heroes already understands the power of stories to bring numbers to life. Economist Steven Levitt’s book, Freakonomics,¹ is full of stories that use emotionally charged associations (e.g., “Why do crack dealers live with their mothers?” and “How are real estate agents like the KKK?”) to frame his numbers with imagined consequences.

He is a master at stimulating sensory and emotional sensations that correlate with the questions he asks and the answers he finds. I heard him speak at a building industry conference. If possible, he is even a better storyteller in person than in his books. He began with what I might call an I-Know-What-You-Are-Thinking story. This story demonstrates a reliably vibrant sensory hook: the fart. Notice how he anchors his story with familiar and specific details:

A recent survey of economists asks “what is the most important skill for an economist?” Seventy percent answered “a proficiency in math,” and only 2 percent answered “a good working knowledge of the economy.” [Pause for laughter.]

I am not good at math. I recently went to my high school reunion and my math teacher, Mr. Drexel, remembered my name. He said “Aren’t you the one who got 2 out of 5 in calculus?” I had to answer “yes.” Apparently I got the lowest score of any of his students … ever. That’s why he remembered me. My first math class at MIT, I turned to a classmate and asked, “Hey, is there a difference between the curly d and the straight d?” The guy just looked at me with pity and said, “You are in SO much trouble.”

I was so far behind my peers there was no way I could catch up. I wondered what to do and then I remembered a story my father told me. When he was in medical school, his mentor took him aside. Apparently his aptitude wasn’t so stunning either. His mentor told him, “Levitt, you don’t have much talent for medical research. There are two ways you can go here. You could fight your way among the crowds of people who choose the most popular areas to research, or you can find an area where NO ONE is researching and own it.” That is how my father decided to specialize in intestinal gas. In fact, he eventually became known as the “King of Farts.” I took his words to heart and looked for my niche. Freakonomics is to traditional economics what intestinal gas is to traditional medicine.

Levitt starts with a sensory memory most of us share: high school math. Listeners’ memories flash a scene from their high school math class: guaranteed common experience in that crowd. My math teacher was Mr. Jackson. (Yours?) Levitt’s story is endearing and preempts the audiences’ expectations for him to display math genius behaviors. He establishes his own anti-math genre of economics as, if not superior, certainly more fun than the egghead version. Describing his dad as the “King of Farts” brilliantly calls out our inner kid, who is always willing to snicker at a fart reference. With this simple story Levitt connected to the audience, made his point, and guided expectations to match what he planned to deliver. It’s much easier to satisfy expectations when you set them up to match what you intend to offer.

Levitt interacts with people as much, or more than, with numbers. It is an active participant in real life. His curious explorations of the real lives of others supply him with stories that pop readily to mind whenever he needs to explain a concept. Those who never venture into the world don’t have many stories to tell.

Full Body Research

Simply identifying the age range and habits of your target audience is not enough. Objective data describes from the outside in. Storytelling starts from the inside out. This means you shut off your computer, set aside the marketing research (after you’ve read it) and get out there and interact personally with the people you wish to influence. If you want to ignite your creative intelligence, give your body and senses something to work with. Your brain may process abstract data, but only your body can take in the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings that stimulate creative approaches at the sensory level. Statistics and reports don’t stimulate your senses to identify sensory connections that might attract your target’s attention long enough to establish a new association or new story.

Use your experiences to connect to your audience’s experiences. Find common ground and use it as a bridge for connection. Don’t send other people to research the market—go out there yourself and educate your body as well as your brain. The ideas you reap from full body research equip you with stories that stimulate creativity. A recent article in the New York Times by William C. Taylor profiled the kind of research that finds stories.² The hedge fund, Second Curve Capital (focused on bank and financial services stocks) regularly sends its employees—the analysts, compliance officer, computer geeks, and receptionists—to the streets to do full body research. For this “branch hunt” they are equipped with digital cameras, audio equipment, and crisp $100 bills to capture “flesh and blood experiences” of being a customer. Brown’s favorite story is about trying to open an account at a Chase bank and mentioning that he was switching from Citibank. The Chase employee said, “I’m surprised you want to switch, I have my account at Citibank.”

Brown says, “The biggest mistake companies make is managing to the averages. How long, on average, to open an account? What’s the average level of customer satisfaction? Averages hide as much as they reveal.” Like we discover through the art of storytelling, much of reality is hidden by averages and numbers. Only full body research that results in “flesh and blood experiences” (a/k/a stories) reveals real-life experiences that tell the “rest of the story” that numbers leave out. Any situation you seek to understand for purposes of influence or to gauge future actions is best researched personally with as little an agenda as possible.

In Nigeria I had the opportunity to look for “stories” that women tell themselves about power. I told a story first—an English folktale called “Lady Ragnell”—and asked the women present to tell me a story in return about the last time they felt powerful. One woman told of having enough of her own money to lend a nephew $200 without asking permission from her husband. Another told of demanding an arrogant doctor recheck the leg of a neighbor’s child to make sure he hadn’t left some glass in his leg (he had). And a Muslim woman told of asking an administrator who denied receiving a timely application from a student to look at her face, against Muslim custom, and check again on his assertion that “he had never seen her.” He had been holding the student’s application back waiting for a bribe. She knew he was lying. She called him on it. Numbers from a survey analysis of women in Nigeria would not—could not—tell me what these personal experiences reveal.

Anyone who can’t think of a story about their company culture or customers is spending too much time in their office looking at numbers and not enough time with the real people who live in the world he or she wants to influence. Empirical research leads to bad ideas, like brochure campaigns about diabetes in poor communities. Money is wasted because those brochures hit trash cans by the thousands. Spending a week in your targeted community without a survey to hide behind is likely to reveal flaws in thinking, such as: distributing brochures = better education about diabetes. These brochures are never read and don’t do a damn thing to improve eating habits in the obese. If all medical researchers who perform studies lived with their “population” for a week or more, we would see new kinds of research (not to mention a heightened appreciation for those who research intestinal gas).

Better still, wouldn’t it be nice if all the gatekeepers at medical journals (ad agencies, marketing departments, and product design groups) got the same opportunity? Criteria that are easy to research and most pure in a scientific sense are not necessarily the most useful in changing behavior. When subjective issues are prevented from “distorting” research, the results are stripped clean of context. It may be accurate, but isn’t emotionally stirring and often leads to ineffective “solutions.”

The risk of course is that full body research will deconstruct cherished assumptions, reveal flawed logic, and topple ivory towers. Yes, storytelling can take us backwards before we get to go forwards again. Chapter 12 discusses the potential for turf wars that might erupt when discoveries reveal a bit more reality than some people find comfortable.

In the meantime, practice recreating flesh-and-blood sensations in your stories by using ones that are familiar. Experiment with the following exercise by creating sensations in your own body. If a story doesn’t work on you, it probably won’t work on others. Practicing creating sensations will deepen your understanding and raise your standards. Our purpose is to elicit sensations that make your story feel like a real-life experience. Here is a little example:

Imagine a cutting board, and on that board a juicy lemon warm from sitting in a sunny window. You can smell the oils of the zest. Imagine a very sharp knife and pick that knife up and cut the lemon in half. See the two halves rock away and beads of lemon juice collect and then drip down into a puddle. Now you can smell the juice as well as the zest. Take one of the halves and cut it in half again. Pick up one of the quarters and bring it to your mouth and bite deep, wrap your lips around it to make a yellow smile (like when we were kids), and let the juices run down your chin.

What happened? Did you feel your saliva glands tingle, did your mouth water? That’s because your imagination thought there really was a lemon. This is how story works. It activates the power of the imagination to simulate a real experience.

Your goal is to tell a story that activates the imagination of your listeners so they see, hear, smell, touch, and taste (through imagination) your story as if it were really happening. That is vibrancy. Done well, the experience records in the brain as deeply as a real-life experience.

Practice

Choose one of your story ideas and develop vivid, stimulating descriptions for each of the five senses that build context for your story. Don’t cheat and hop around to different stories—you won’t learn as much that way. This is not a list of things you necessarily will tell; most simply make your story more real in your own mind. These details help you viscerally reexperience the story. When your imagination is so vividly stimulated with the “reality” of the story, other people begin to feel that reality too.

Don’t worry about whether you will actually use the details—that’s not the point. This is practice to help your brain develop good habits in physically reexperiencing the story yourself as you tell it so the “magic” happens in your tone, facial gestures, body movements, timing, and word choice. Tone, gestures, timing, etc. flow effortlessly when your mind is reexperiencing the sights, sounds, taste, smells, and tactile sensations of your story.

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(Brainstorm as many details as you can for this story. Don’t worry about order.)

Taste

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Touch

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Smell

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Sounds

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Sights

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Now tell the story (without your notes) to a low-risk listener and see how it goes. Record your experience:

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Notes

1. Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner, Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything (New York: HarperCollins, 2005).

2. William C. Taylor, “Get Out of That Rut and Into the Shower,” New York Times, August 13, 2006.