It is one of the most famous opening lines in American literature. When Joan Didion published The White Album in 1979, she wasn't just trying to be poetic or catchy. She was stating a biological fact. We tell ourselves stories in order to live, and if we didn't, we’d probably all lose our minds within a week. Life is just a chaotic stream of images, sounds, and random events. Without a narrative to stitch them together, we’re just standing in a rainstorm of data with no umbrella.
Didion was looking at the wreckage of the 1960s—the Manson murders, the political upheavals, the breakdown of social norms—and realizing that the "story" people believed in had shattered. She felt it personally. She was having a nervous breakdown, or something like it, and the only way out was to write her way into a new understanding.
But this isn't just about 1960s California. It’s about why you can’t get over that breakup from three years ago, or why you’re convinced your boss hates you because they didn't say "hi" in the breakroom this morning. We are narrative machines.
The Neurology of Narrative
Neuroscience has caught up to Didion’s intuition. Our brains don't actually see the world "as it is." Instead, the thalamus and the cortex work together to create a predictive model. We take bits of sensory input and wrap them in a story so they make sense. If you hear a loud bang, your brain doesn't just process "decibels." It immediately asks, "Car backfire or gunshot?" The answer you choose determines your physical reaction.
Stories are survival.
Jonathan Gottschall, in his book The Storytelling Animal, argues that humans are "wet-wired" for story. We spend our lives in a "Neverland" of imagination. Even when we sleep, our brains keep the narrative engine running through dreams. This isn't a luxury; it’s a way of simulating threats and social interactions. We practice living by telling ourselves stories about what might happen.
If you stop and think about it, your "identity" is just a collection of curated memories that you’ve edited into a coherent script. You’re the protagonist. You’ve had a "journey." You’ve overcome "obstacles." If you viewed your life as just a series of chemical reactions and accidental encounters, you’d find it very hard to get out of bed.
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The Danger of the Wrong Script
Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves are lies. Not the fun kind of lies, but the kind that keep us stuck in toxic loops.
Didion wrote about the "shifting phantasmagoria" of her experience. She realized that the stories she was using to explain the world were no longer working. This is what we call a "crisis of meaning." When the story fails, the person often fails with it.
Consider the "Just World" fallacy. We want to believe that good things happen to good people. It’s a comforting story. But when something terrible happens to someone kind, the story breaks. We either have to admit the world is random and cruel, or we have to invent a reason why that person "deserved" it to keep our story intact. Most people choose the latter. It’s easier than facing the void.
How we tell ourselves stories in order to live through trauma
Trauma is essentially a story that has been violently interrupted.
Psychiatrists like Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, note that people who have experienced trauma often struggle to tell a linear story about their lives. Their memories are fragmented. They are flashes of smell, sound, and terror. Healing from trauma often involves "re-storying"—taking those jagged shards of experience and finding a way to fit them into a narrative that includes a "before" and an "after."
Narrative therapy is a real thing. It works because it externalizes the problem. Instead of "I am a failure," the story becomes "I am a person who has struggled with the obstacle of failure." It’s a subtle shift. It’s a massive difference.
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Basically, if you can change the narrative, you change the nervous system’s response to the memory.
The Cultural Narrative and "The White Album"
In her essay, Didion mentions seeing Jim Morrison of The Doors in a recording studio. She describes him as a "shaman." She wasn't being literal; she was describing the role he played in the collective story of the time. We look to celebrities, politicians, and influencers to be characters in our larger cultural drama.
When those people fail or act out, it feels personal because it threatens our understanding of the world. We need the "shaman" to act like a shaman. When the story of the 1960s turned dark—think Altamont or the Sharon Tate murders—the narrative of "peace and love" didn't just end. It curdled.
We’re seeing this today with social media. Everyone is a brand. Everyone is a protagonist. We’re all constantly editing our stories in real-time, filtered through Instagram or TikTok. We’re telling a story of success and aesthetic perfection to hide the reality of our messy, boring lives. We do this because the story of being "successful" is what keeps us going in a hyper-competitive world.
Honesty is hard. Storytelling is easy.
The Problem with "Order"
Didion's point was that we impose a "narrative line" on disparate images. We see a naked woman on a bed and a man with a gun and we assume a plot. But maybe they don't even know each other. Maybe they aren't in the same room. Our brains fill in the gaps because the gap—the "not knowing"—is terrifying.
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This is why conspiracy theories are so seductive. They provide a grand story. Instead of believing that a virus emerged randomly or that a lone gunman acted without reason, people prefer a story where a secret cabal is in control. Even a scary story is better than no story at all. At least in a scary story, someone is in charge. Randomness is the ultimate monster.
Actionable Steps for Reclaiming Your Story
Knowing that we tell ourselves stories in order to live gives you a weird kind of power. You can't stop the storytelling, but you can start proofreading.
- Identify your "Core Narrative." Write down the story you tell about your biggest failure. Is the story "I'm incompetent," or is it "I tried something hard and the timing was wrong"? Both could be true, but only one lets you move forward.
- Look for the "But." Whenever you tell a story that ends in a dead end, add a "but." "I lost my job, but I now have time to figure out what I actually like doing." It sounds like cheesy self-help, but it’s actually just sophisticated editing.
- Question the "Villains." In your personal stories, who is the bad guy? Are they actually a villain, or are you casting them that way to avoid looking at your own role in the plot?
- Read Joan Didion. Seriously. Start with The White Album or Slouching Towards Bethlehem. She doesn't offer easy answers, but she shows you how to look at the world without blinking.
- Practice "Non-Narrative" Moments. Spend five minutes a day just observing things without labeling them. A bird is just a bird; it’s not a "sign" or a "symbol." This helps reset the narrative engine so it doesn't overheat.
The world doesn't have a plot. It doesn't have a theme. It just is. But we aren't built to handle "just is." We need the beginning, the middle, and the end. We need the hero's journey. Just make sure the story you’re telling yourself is one that actually makes your life worth living, rather than one that keeps you trapped in a script you didn't even write.
The story is your life. You might as well be a good editor.
Stay curious about the myths you live by. If the story isn't working anymore, it’s okay to burn the script and start a new chapter. That's the only way we survive the "shifting phantasmagoria" of being alive.