BY MICHAEL KEARNS

Storytelling Matters: Creating a Narrative

Rock stars and “rock stars” (that includes politicians, authors, athletes, etc., who are perceived to have high wattage charisma,) aren't the only folks who are defined by an individuated narrative.

Do you have a narrative? The Zombies, a popular English rock band in the sixties, posed the questions: “What's your name? Who's your daddy? He rich? Is he rich like me?” This song is begging to be answered with a narrative.

As a literary device, a narrative is the telling of an event, or a sequence of events, true or fictitious, but more likely a combination of truth and fiction. In pop culture, a narrative is an amalgamation of your story, your bio, your profile, and (very often) your bullshit.

C'mon, everyone has a solo performer within, bursting to share their narrative with an audience (of one or more). Consider twelve-step programs where narratives are often delivered like pre-packaged stand-up comic routines; or psychiatrist appointments where narrative can equal diagnosis (and often, prescriptions). Or, my least favorite: the First Date Narrative, in which you essentially perform a one-man show in an overpriced restaurant with lines of your monologue interrupted by pesky asides from the waiter.

The Internet can truncate the notion of the narrative because a few salient words of description often foreshadow the entirety of your life story: “big bottom,” for instance, or “absolutely no partying.”

A good narrative doesn't just regurgitate the tedious facts: “I was born in…and then I moved to…I went to school at…I came out in…I worked as a…And then I worked as a…” A powerful narrative creates an image. The details must be illuminated by juicy stories that ultimately coalesce and summon an image, an aura, a mystique.

For instance: “I was born on January 8, 1950, exactly fifteen years after Elvis' birth. My birthplace? The Missouri town immortalized in Tennessee's The Glass Menagerie and the film version of Meet Me in St. Louis, starring Judy. I was destined to be gay, seek stardom, and use hard drugs.”

But kinda like hairstyles, narratives can be tricky. It has been suggested that what Hilary Clinton lacks is a compelling narrative, unlike her opponent, Barack Obama whose “change” message is sturdily supported by his personal history.

Does your narrative attract, seduce, inspire? Or does that babble you recite prevent you from achieving a state of personal and professional electability?

Comparing Clinton's narrative to Bush Junior's, Maureen Dowd of the New York Times recently wrote: “The press tends to swallow campaign narratives of sin and redemption, hard lessons learned.” (A narrative that also reads like Amy Winehouse's Grammy appearance.)

“After giving up drinking and becoming Texas governor, W. had supposedly changed from an arrogant, obdurate, Daddy-competing loser to a genial, bipartisan, mature winner,” Dowd points out. “As it turned out, a total makeover is not possible after 40.”

Keep that in mind, along with a few “Do's and Don'ts” when redacting your narrative.

A writing class adage that is often applied to scribes who are writing their autobiographical material is a bit coy: “Don't let the truth get in the way of a good story.”

A narrative “white lie” that veers from the absolute truth is permissible. “It was storming on the day of the funeral” might be more evocative than the glaring reality of facing death under sunny skies. Go for it.

Note that this does not mean that you say you were born in 1973 if you were actually born in 1953. You'll be in big trouble when you slip and mention that you remember The Day That Marilyn Died.

Don't be afraid to self promote, but hyperbole only works if you're certain the exaggerated posture won't come back to haunt you. Saying you won a Tony Award for playing Hamlet when, in truth, you went out on Halloween as Lady Macbeth? Not a good idea. Certain things can be verified, especially with Google at our fingertips.

Ultimately, it's our populous queer narratives that ultimately distinguish us as a culture—whether delivered in a book, on a stage, or across the table from a potential Mr. Right.

Storytelling is an act of survival, whether individually or collectively; it's an ancient art that entertains and illuminates, teaches and chronicles.

Your narrative matters. Make it snap, crackle and pop.