As journalists, stories are our currency. Daily reporters are often responding to news, to events, to pronouncements, to gatherings. It’s reactive–as it should be. But then there’s the other side of our profession where we’re out looking for things to write about. It might be that we have some larger subject that’s been troubling us. Say, the street violence in our cities. Or the continued segregation of our schools. Or the travails of undocumented immigrants. This is where I often find myself. Something out there has got me agitated. Has me deeply curious. Has me engaged. And so I need to find a story, a small, intimate story that will help us reflect on something much larger. I think of this as the bigness of the small story.

Let me just say right up front, I believe fiercely in the fierce power of narrative. There’s far too much shouting going on in the world, too much ranting, too much stay-at-home, here’s-what-I-think diatribes from people who have little curiosity for the lives of those at all different from their own. The beauty of stories is that they don’t lecture us or yell at us or pander. Rather, they let us find our own way. They take us places we wouldn’t otherwise visit and introduce us to people we wouldn’t otherwise meet. And, too, they can affirm our experiences. They can make us feel less alone. The novelist Tim O’Brien once wrote, “Stories can save us.” 

Stories get their greatest power by finding empathy, by letting us look at the world through the eyes of others, by helping us acknowledge what pushes and pulls at people, helping us understand why people make the choices they do. Isabel Wilkerson, in her book Caste, writes of what she calls “radical empathy”: “…putting in the work to educate oneself and to listen with a humble heart to understand another’s experience from their perspective, not as we imagine we would feel. Radical empathy is not about you and what you think you would do in a situation you have never been in and perhaps never will. It is the kindred connection from a place of deep knowing that opens your spirit to the pain of another as they perceive it.” Empathy is not only the centripetal force of storytelling, it’s the central force of community. It’s what binds us. And so stories – when told honestly and squarely – have the power to create connections. 

Where to find stories? It’s simple – and yet complicated. It’s simple in the sense that you need to put yourself out in the world. You need to go and talk to people, to spend time in communities and places which feel unfamiliar. You need to listen. Here’s where it gets complicated. You need to be willing to get knocked off balance and to have your assumptions challenged. Too often, we meet people and because of their circumstance or race or age or gender and sexual identity or immigration status, we think we know them when in fact we know very little. Listen closely to what people have to say – as well as what they don’t say. Ask questions. Hang out. Watch them interact with others. Observe. Watch for how they treat others. Watch them at work — and at home. Let them be your guide. 

How do I know when I might be on to a good story? Well, first, are there questions I have? Are there things I don’t know? Things I want to learn? And then, are these people whose stories I want to tell? Here, I ask myself, is this someone I want to spend time with? If I don’t want to spend time with them, I guarantee you neither will my readers. Is it someone who engages me? Who surprises me? 

And then, because we’re journalists, we have to ask: Are there ways to check and double check everything we’re told, everything we learn? It could be that we witness events firsthand. Other times we ask people to recreate moments – in which case it’s necessary to find others who can confirm their accounts. Is there documentation – police reports, hospital reports, court or school records – that also can verify what we’ve heard? We need to get it right. It all must be based in fact. And out of those facts we want to get as close to writing literature as we can. Finally, we need to be true to what we see, hear and uncover. We can’t pull our punches. We can’t massage the facts and details to enhance the narrative or make the retelling more smooth.

Sometimes I find a story – and I don’t know the outcome. In writing about the street violence in Chicago, I was introduced to a 17-year-old boy, Marcelo Sanchez, who had been shot in the leg by a rival gang. He suffered deep anxiety as a result. He had trouble sleeping. He had trouble staying still. I met him after he’d been arrested for stealing cell phones from strangers he accosted on the street. I didn’t know where it would take me – or him, but I was drawn to Marcelo. He was extremely thoughtful and reflective. He was also deeply remorseful about what he had done. He faced a number of felony charges, and if convicted it would change his life forever. And so, I followed Marcelo over the next two years as he fought his case – and as he grappled with his PTSD. I won’t give the story away but suffice it to say that Marcelo’s journey surprised me. It knocked me off balance. And it taught me a lot about what it takes emotionally and physically to emerge from trauma with your soul intact. 

Sometimes I come to a story once it’s concluded, and so I need to go back and recreate it – and recreate it with a sense of immediacy as if I was there. So much of this in the interviewing, where we’re sitting across from someone and metaphorically closing our eyes and asking questions so we can get to a place where we feel like we’ve been there with them. In addition to extensive interviewing, I might visit the place where the moment took place. I might visit it alone as well as visit it with the person I’m writing about. I’ll try to find others who were there. I’ll look for any documentation. It might be something as simple as determining the weather on that day – or something more complicated like reading a police report or a trial transcript. Again, we need to get it right. 

I work in different mediums. In print. In audio. And in film. On occasion, I find a story that I think works best in one medium over another, but most often it’s less about the medium than the publication. Is this a story best told in 3,000 words on The New Yorker website? Or is it a piece that merits and needs more space? Is it a story that might work best on a radio show like This American Life which is more open than most to experimentation in storytelling and relishes unusual stories?  A compelling story is a compelling story, and I would argue that most stories can find a home in print or audio or even film. I’m agnostic when it comes to the medium. I just want to spin a good (factual) yarn. I just want to find a story that pushes me and others to think about the world just a little bit differently.   

Recommended reading and listening.

This is just a sampling of the stories that have inspired me.