In both the micro- and macro-level identity-performative cases the agent’s cognition is sidelined. Narrative is less how we know the world than it is a vehicle for being known in the world. The acting-for-the-story perspective posits stories as resources for identity-constructing persons rather than as guides to action; hence it takes the desire to realize a particular story or identity to be foundational. We act for the sake of a story; we do not act based on stories.
The identity-performative perspective on narrative has obvious affinities with Goffman’s (1959) dramaturgical theory of social action and the doing gender approach (Butler 1990; Messerschmidt 1997; C. West and Zimmerman 1987). It is compatible with cultural criminology, for which crime and other transgressions as well as “criminal justice” are creative processes of meaning-making (Ferrell et al. 2004). The emphasis throughout is on action or practice, which communicates but is not textual in the technical sense of that word. The contributions of this view include its foregrounding of identity, gender identity not least of all; its recognition that we are always sending messages about ourselves to ourselves and to other people; and its provocative formulation of social action as signifying in the first instance. Yet, my inquiry into narrative immersion and impact does not easily align itself with the identity-performative perspective. A culturally favored narrative is already solidly in place from this theoretical position; therefore, the precise workings of that narrative (and how they may change) are not specified. The particulars of narratives have no special relevance to the theory; it may not be possible even to discuss narrative impacts. Going forward, I am keen to unpack the seductions of narrative that inspire crime and other harm, rather than the “seductions of crime” (Katz 1988) as story-making. Here I want to reiterate that these approaches are not logically incompatible. Actions may be “planned to generate an already imagined story of those actions” (Frank 2010a, p. 132), and the story may shape how people, including those who conceived it, think and feel. Storytelling may be seen as both strategic and impactful, something we manipulate and something that manipulates us.
NARRATIVE TRUTH AND NARRATIVE IMPACT
The supposed falsehood of certain stories has, in my view, been a distraction to narrative inquiry within criminology (Presser 2016). It has been presumed that only “real” things cause crime. Hence, many analysts who collect and/or appreciate narrative data seek to verify the authenticity of what the narrator has reported. But narratives affect us whether or not they are “true.”4 Gerrig (1993) writes: “With respect to the cognitive activities of readers, the experience of narratives is largely unaffected by their announced correspondence with reality” (p. 102). Inaccuracies and even outright duplicity therefore should not prevent social researchers from taking stories seriously.
What do we mean by truth? A story is generally called true if it corresponds to some verified reality. False stories are said to be discordant with that reality: they advance untruths or omit essential facts. A general suspicion regarding the truthfulness of harm-doers’ stories prevails in part because stories are used to explain one’s actions—which include actions held to be unethical. Those held liable for their actions tell stories: the motivation exists to be dishonest in order to get out of trouble and/or to continue doing what they are doing. But stories, always retrospective, also point forward. They give shape to what one will do next. The productivity of stories, rather than their epistemological basis, is what narrativists in the social sciences are wont to expose.
That factual accuracy does not determine the power of narratives should be quite evident from recent world affairs. Consider Pizzagate, the “fake” but influential online news story of Hillary Clinton’s pedophile enterprise mentioned at the launch of this chapter. Consider too the more or less fanciful tales used to recruit child soldiers, incite genocides, gain spiritual followers, or outpace political competitors. Stories that cast doubt on anthropogenic climate change take liberties even with established facts, but the impact of those stories cannot be denied. Nor does the accuracy of my personal or mundane stories matter, such as the one I tell myself of someone cutting me off on the road or leaving the milk out overnight. However untrue, they make me angry in the event. The turbulent 2016 race for president of the United States made abundantly clear that supporters open themselves to the influence of even outlandish stories that they want to believe (see, e.g., Gabriel 2016; Kang and Goldman 2016). Rapid-fire proliferation of information through technological innovation may have primed people to prioritize believability over accuracy on the idea that truth is difficult to nail down. Yet, it has been noted for some time that, among other things, a story’s verisimilitude or believability rather than its actual truthfulness determines its impact (Bruner 1986; Busselle and Bilandzic 2008). Emotion scholars agree that it is “the impression of reality created in the subject” and not objective reality that evokes feeling (Tan 1996, p. 67).
I have been discussing examples of stories that recipients believe to be true. We are led to wonder, though: Are we affected by stories that we believe to be false? The question has special relevance in the face of seemingly cynical political leadership. Do leaders—does anyone—believe their own duplicitous accounts?
Research demonstrates that we are affected by stories we know to be fictional (Green and Brock 2000; Green, Garst, and Brock 2004; Oatley 1999; Strange and Leung 1999). Impacts of the novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin on nineteenth-century American society (Hanne 1994) and of Richard Wagner’s operas on Adolf Hitler (Gottschall 2012) are well documented.5 Experimental research demonstrates stories’ effect on readers’ attitudes whether or not the stories are designated as fact or fiction. Few would call fiction false, but neither is it true in the technical sense of reporting on the real-world experiences of real-world individuals.6 In fiction, “something is consciously and openly ‘feigned’” (Strange 2002, p. 265; emphasis in original).
Are we also affected by the false story that calls itself nonfiction—what Kermode (1967, p. 190) calls a myth as opposed to a fiction? The notion of true (or false) nonfiction stories is, in fact, far from straightforward. Accounts of experience in the real world are molded by the unreliable reconstruction of memory, the requirement of adapting to cultural templates and demands, a desire to make ourselves (story protagonists) look good, the requirement of tailoring the story to imagined audiences and the active influence of interlocutors at hand. All stories are selective in which facts they include; they cannot possibly include everything. Faithful copy may be pursued but it is never actually achieved. These considerations connect to the poststructuralist critique of the notion of stories “out there” awaiting representation. In short, truth as commonly construed is an impracticable standard for storytellers.
I suspect, though, that when we question the truth of a nonfictional story, we have in mind a self-interested storyteller who is keeping something under wraps for which the story is cover. We suspect an ulterior motive for telling the story. In fact, most communication is geared toward purposes other than simply to deliver information (Austin 1962). I might tell you a woeful story from my childhood to enlighten you as to my background while also (or actually) trying to bond with you or to make you feel guilty for some slight. I feel no qualms about not revealing this other motive, and my society makes no demands that I do; indeed, it would seem strange if I did. We should thus set aside the idea that having purposes for storytelling beyond sharing makes the story suspect.
Suppose, though, that a story is told in bad faith. Are cynical storytellers affected by their false stories—those that package disinformation? That my insincere story influences me derives first from the fact that I am held to act accountably to it. Social sanctions befall those whose narrative is discrepant with what they do. In the short or long run, political leaders are held accountable for the narratives they tell by those who believed them