Confusion Induction

Putting a Porch on It

“De Gustibus Non Disputandum Est” — In Matters of Taste There Is No Dispute

Let’s consider starting in chaos versus starting in scene. And by chaos, I mean starting in a general summary or a vague establishing of context for the story. For example, check out the little montage on the front end of The Magnificent Ambersons. In Victorian literature, this was called “putting a porch” on the story. An entryway. A way in.

A classic example kicks off A Tale of Two Cities.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

Consider the opening crawl from Star Wars.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… It is a period of civil war. Rebel space ships striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire… During the battle, rebel spies managed…

Consider The Great Gatsby.

In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”

He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought — frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.

None of these really start “in scene.” According to Tom Spanbauer, they’re what Gordon Lish might dismiss as “throat clearing” a sort of vague summary or thesis statement, something to be avoided in Minimalism. But in the context of hypnotism…

In Hypnotism, These Might Act as Forms of Confusion Induction

From what little I’ve come to understand, hypnotism acts by either shocking or exhausting the rational mind. In short, by triggering the fight-or-flight response. The subject’s rational mind shuts down, and the more primitive amygdala takes over. Most often, hypnosis is a form of “amygdala hijack” — overwhelming the prefrontal cortex so that a post-hypnotic suggestion can be made during the brief time the less-rational amygdala is in control.

One method for hijacking the amygdala is with shock — as we’ve explored, here. Another common method is to overload, confuse and exhaust the rational mind. The hypnotist calls your attention to the sound of your breathing, to a spot on the wall, to the noises from the street, to the temperature of the room, to the way your palms feel… In short, your mind is tasked with too many details. Your attention begins to slip. It’s called “Confusion Induction.”

As your rational mind tires, you become open to suggestion. That said, such dreamy, generalized “best of times” remarks also function as the mic check. The “Testing, testing, one, two, three” to catch the reader’s full attention.

Perhaps That’s Why We See Such Long, Long, Long Set-Ups on Stories?

Consider the “porch” on Thurnley Abbey…

Three years ago I was on my way out to the East, and as an extra day in London was of some importance, I took the Friday evening mail-train to Brindisi instead of the usual Thursday morning Marseilles express. Many people shrink from the long forty-eight-hour train journey through Europe, and the subsequent rush across the Mediterranean on the nineteen-knot Isis or Osiris; but there is really very little discomfort on either the train or the mail-boat, and unless there is actually nothing for me to do, I always like to save the extra day and a half in London before I say goodbye to her for one of my longer tramps. This time--it was early, I remember, in the shipping season, probably about the beginning of September--there were few passengers, and I had a compartment in the P. & O. Indian express to myself all the way from Calais. All Sunday I watched the blue waves dimpling the Adriatic, and the pale rosemary along the cuttings; the plain white towns, with their flat roofs and their bold "duomos," and the grey-green gnarled olive orchards of Apulia. The journey was just like any other. We ate in the dining-car as often and as long as we decently could. We slept after luncheon; we dawdled the afternoon away with yellow-backed novels; sometimes we exchanged platitudes in the smoking-room, and it was there that I met Alastair Colvin.

Colvin was a man of middle height, with a resolute, well-cut jaw; his hair was turning grey; his moustache was sun-whitened, otherwise he was clean-shaven--obviously a gentleman, and obviously also a preoccupied man. He had no great wit. When spoken to, he made the usual remarks in the right way, and I dare say he refrained from banalities only because he spoke less than the rest of us; most of the time he buried himself in the Wagon-lit Company's time-table, but seemed unable to concentrate his attention on any one page of it. He found that I had been over the Siberian railway, and for a quarter of an hour he discussed it with me. Then he lost interest in it, and rose to go to his compartment. But he came back again very soon, and seemed glad to pick up the conversation again.

Of course this did not seem to me to be of any importance. Most travellers by train become a trifle infirm of purpose after thirty-six hours' rattling. But Colvin's restless way I noticed in somewhat marked contrast with the man's personal importance and dignity; especially ill suited was it to his finely made large hand with strong, broad, regular nails and its few lines. As I looked at his hand I noticed a long, deep, and recent scar of ragged shape. However, it is absurd to pretend that I thought anything was unusual. I went off at five o'clock on Sunday afternoon to sleep away the hour or two that had still to be got through before we arrived at Brindisi…

This goes on even longer before we drop into the story about the Abbey. All of this is just to create the teller of the tale — Alastair Colvin — who tells the actual tale in an extended flashback. But maybe all of these details — about London, about train schedules, about purple vines — are a form of Confusion Induction. Like the crawling text before Star Wars, very little of this information will stick in the reader’s mind. But that’s not its real purpose, to convey information.

For another interesting version of induction, check out the nonverbal opening sequence in the film Citizen Kane. It’s more or less a slide show which keeps the dominant element — the lighted window — in exactly the same spot on the screen, even as the viewpoint changes. Also note how this ominous sequence is followed by the noisy, quick-cut newsreel sequence. First, we’re quietly confused, then we’re exhausted by too many details presented too quickly. Only then do we settle into dramatized scenes — once the rational mind is conquered.

Consider that this trick — of presenting too much, too fast — is the reason for the quick-cut opening sequence in the film Magnolia. The theme common to all the anecdotes is synchronicity or incredible coincidence. Thus the sequence establishes the cultural precedent for the rain of frogs that changes the course of everyone’s lives in the film.

Now consider that the Magnolia rain of frogs is a form of “Shock Induction.” First the story lulls and confuses us with anecdotes: Confusion induction to overwhelm our rationality. Then the story uses another form of amygdala hijacking — with shock — to force all of the subplots to crisis and to epiphanies.

At the moment the whole story teeters on the brink of tedious melodrama, we get proof that the miraculous can happen. Such was my experience with The Sultan’s Elephant in London. Classic Shock Induction. In the face of something miraculous, the mind becomes unmoored. And Magnolia works because the Confusion Induction used at the beginning establishes the cultural precedent for the unexplained incredible to just… occur. Incredible but inevitable, that’s the formula.

As the voiceover puts it, “These strange things happen all the time.”

Which Brings Us Back to “De Gustibus Non Disputandum Est”

Me, personally? I’ve always disliked the first sequence in Gatsby. It’s not until we’re visiting the Buchanans for dinner that I’m “in” the story. Yet, many people will tell you that it’s only the first portion of the book that’s “real” storytelling. They dismiss the more cinematic scenes as, well, too much like a movie.

And while I can quote you the opening portion of A Tale of Two Cities — especially the part where the farm worker is tortured to death for failing to kneel at the sight of some muddy monks in the distance — I’m not on board until the stagecoach is being menaced by the possible highwayman in the first “real” scene.

That said, not every subject (i.e. reader) is susceptible to novelty/shock as a means of induction. Confusion will charm them, and lure them, more effectively.

As For Your Storytelling Taste, Ask Yourself:

• Do your favorite stories — prose or film — open with a single scene or with a montage?

• Do those stories open with voiceover?

• Are you seduced more by sudden novelty or by unspooling charm?

• In your life, which brings you more inspiration? A gradual, comfortable unfolding? Or a quick reveal?

• Do you rip off Band-Aids or slowly peel them back?

• Do you wiggle a loose tooth until it comes out? Or, tie a string to it and yank?

• Do you dive into water or gradually wade in?

• Do you pick at the tape on birthday presents, or shred the festive wrapping?

Whatever the case, consider that both shock and confusion are worthy methods of overcoming the reader’s rational mind. In the Comments, please cite examples of Confusion Induction in your favorite books, stories or films. What do you love because it swamps you with too much?

As always, every story is an experiment.

A big thanks to John Raisor for sending me a copy of the book Supercommunicators: How to Unlock the Secret Language of Connection. It brings to mind my reporting days, when my focus was always outward. Good interviews were always about “looping,” what Supercommunicators calls the process of repeating back (paraphrasing) what a speaker has already said, then basing new questions on what’s been revealed.

This focus — on what’s been said, on always building from what’s been said — reminds me of Gordon Lish’s concept “The Line of Flight.” In theory, in good Minimalism, everything must evolve organically from the first words of the work.

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In two weeks I begin acting lessons. It strikes me that hypnosis and acting — becoming psyched, getting into character — are related, and that both will be useful to writers. As always, I’ll keep you posted.