Atonement and Repair: Stories That Reshape the Narrative About the Past
By Barbara Linn Probst | October 16, 2024 |
When we think about what a story “is,” our first thought is probably of a forward movement through time, from now to later, driven by something the protagonist wants to attain, alter, or prevent.
There’s nothing wrong with that description. I even wrote a blog about it earlier this year, examining the ways that goal, desire, and search can fuel the movement into a future that differs in a story-relevant way from how life was when the tale began.
However, this future-oriented description doesn’t fit every story. Some stories are driven, instead, by a yearning to reshape the past. Not literally, unless it’s a time travel story where the protagonist actually gets to go back for a do-over. Rather, it’s the longing for a new narrative about the meaning and consequences of something that’s already happened: the event can’t be undone, but it can be framed in a new way.
There are three key words in that sentence that I’d like to explore: narrative, meaning, and consequences.
Narrative
I was introduced to the idea of narrative when I was in graduate school, training to be a clinical social worker—specifically, the role of narrative as a therapeutic tool.
Developed in the 1970s and 1980s by Michael White, an Australian social worker, narrative therapy is based on the idea that each of us has a story about who we are. This story, our “narrative of identity,” is told to us and about us—by parents, teachers, the media and surrounding culture—until it becomes the story we tell ourselves. As that narrative becomes internalized, it determines what we believe is possible and what is not. The role of the narrative therapist is thus to help people create stories about themselves that are healing, liberating, and empowering, thereby opening new interpretations of the past and new possibilities for the future.
Narrative inquiry, also known as narrative analysis, is the “research cousin” of narrative therapy. While narrative therapists seek to make life more fulfilling through the transformative power of a new story, narrative researchers seek to illuminate human experience by analyzing existing and accepted stories. They examine verbal texts, both written and oral (e.g., journals, letters, conversations, interviews, family histories and myths), in order to understand how individuals and groups construct identity: Who am I, how do I fit in the world, how does life work for someone like me?
When these stories—revealed through research— serve to oppress, constrain, or marginalize a group, the narrative researcher may use his findings for advocacy and social justice.
Narrative in fiction
“Constructing, telling, and re-constructing the story of who I am” are concepts that apply equally well to fiction.
Like people in real life, fictional characters have stories they tell about who they are (and aren’t), where they belong (or don’t), and what is possible (or isn’t). These stories can be limiting or inspiring, fueling action or inhibiting it, re-enforcing the status quo or affirming the need to break free from it.
In other words, they determine goal, motivation, and plot.
A character’s personal narrative can certainly change during the course of a novel, and often does. We call those stories “character-driven,” in contrast to stories where identities serve as pillars around which events take place. Character-driven novels show how the protagonist’s personal narrative veers, reverses, widens, or gains focus, as one identity (assumed and/or imposed) is replaced by another (chosen and/or earned).
A new, emerging story about oneself may challenge past beliefs and fuel the actions that result in making that story come true. That is: by acting as if one is brave, the character becomes brave; a new internal narrative leads to a new external reality. Conversely, those actions—which the character didn’t believe she was capable of—may cause her to realize that she has already changed. The outgrown identity no longer fits; a new external reality leads to a new internal narrative.
Conflict arises when a character’s past/familiar story and new/emergent story differ in an important, irreconcilable way. It can also arise when the story that a character tells himself is different from the story that people around him are telling. The difference can be motivating (I’ll show them that I’m more than a stable boy) or self-defeating (I’ll never live up to my father’s grand vision.)
Meaning and consequences
The meaning of an event is a personal construction: why and how it happened, how I responded, how other people responded, how I think they (or I) “should” have responded. The answers to these questions are shaped by my beliefs about who I am and how life works. Same for a fictional character.
In a novel, as in life, an event can have different meanings for different characters, though they might not know it. A triumph for one person may be a tragedy for another; what seemed like a casual remark to one person may be felt by another as a shattering rejection.
So too, an incident that one person barely remembers can become a festering wound for someone else, gaining significance as time passes. As the external consequences of an act become apparent or begin to escalate, internal responses like blame, guilt, shame, pride, and regret may intensify as well. Like the act itself, the consequences will be different —and of different importance or duration—for different characters.
A character who feels responsible may try to escape, hide, shift blame, punish himself, or make things better. That is: he may try to change the meaning of the event by changing the weight of its consequences. It isn’t necessary (or possible) to change what actually happened; what matters is to change the story about the event.
Atonement and repair: “re-storying” the past
We’ve all done things that we wish we hadn’t: words spoken in the heat of the moment, actions whose consequences we didn’t foresee. So too, we regret the missed opportunities, the failures to respond when our response might have made a difference.
For many of us—especially when the harm we caused was due to misperception, passivity, or a fleeting passion—remorse lingers, and we want to make it up to those we’ve hurt. We try to mitigate the effect of our actions: to compensate, repair, pay for what we’ve done.
We also want to make it right with ourselves: to atone through penance, sacrifice, suffering. And, through that, to restore an identity we can live with: to create a “better story” about who we are.
- The outward-facing desire is to repair.
- The complementary, inward-facing desire is to atone.
- Two sides of the same goal.
In many novels, there is a crucial incident in the past that was never resolved—a mistake, failure, betrayal, trauma—and has lain dormant, as if waiting to resurface. But now, in the forward-moving plot, the protagonist must come face-to-face with a piece of her past.
That “resurfacing” is the inciting incident that launches the story and unfolds along two interwoven paths:
- The outer plot: the external events that lead to the resolution of an act or event in the past
- The inner plot: the psychological steps/shifts that lead to the creation of a new story about the past and the possibility of a new story about the future
Together, the re-storying of past and future bring about a longed-for renewal. When the protagonist is redeemed, renewed, and re-storied, those around her may be re-storied too.
This bi-directional concept of a story as a vehicle for changing the protagonist’s narrative about both past and future is, for me, a way to enrich my notion of what a story can be and do. It adds depth and complexity to how I think about goal, motivation, arc—enhancing my appreciation for the novels I read, and offering a layered approach to my own work that feels more psychologically rich than a simple uni-directional plotline.
Can we explore this together, through some examples?
Can you think of an event in a novel (one you’ve read or your own WIP) that changes a character’s view of the past? What about an event that affects a character’s sense of what is possible in the future? Can you think of an event (maybe one that’s coming to you right now, to be woven into your WIP) that impacts a character’s sense of both past and future?
Barbara (she/her) is an author of contemporary women’s fiction living on an historic dirt road in New York’s Hudson Valley. Each of her acclaimed novels (Queen of the Owls, 2020; The Sound Between the Notes, 2021; and The Color of Ice, 2022) was a medalist for prestigious national awards, including the Sarton Award for Contemporary Fiction, the Independent Book Publishers Award, the Hawthorne Prize, and the Nautilus Award for Fiction. Her fourth novel, Roll the Sun Across the Sky, launches in May 2025 and has received stellar advance praise. Barbara has also published more than 80 articles on the craft of writing and the writing life. She has a PhD in Clinical Social Work and has been a therapist, teacher, researcher, and advocate for out-of-the-box kids and their families. When not writing, she’s a serious amateur pianist and a traveler to spots from Iceland to the Himalayas. Learn more on her website .
[coffee]
Barbara, thanks for this. It’s helping me to clarify an issue with my WIP. The MC is very much haunted by a trauma that happened 20 years ago; so far, I’ve sent her back to confront the person involved (who she hasn’t seen since) WILLINGLY. What your post helps me see is a much more interesting alternative: What If she is forced into this confrontation instead?
It’s also making me feel better about the core idea: that one person can be completely haunted by an incident that is barely remembered by the other. Thank you!
I’m really intrigued by your alternative idea! It makes it so much more interesting because it invites additional conflicts and dilemmas, internal and external … And also, the conflict between two memories and versions of the past … which means two versions of the future. Go for it!
This is why I’m drawn to the Second-chance Romance category. Second-chance by definition means there’s a past that needs to be addressed, usually by both parties. That past will come at them in the present, until they confront it and hopefully redefine it together.
I just finished reading The Blackwater Lightship by Colm Toibin yesterday (not a romance), where the protagonist Helen’s past changes as she’s forced to live with her family after years of being estranged. She recognizes how that past possibly incorrect narrative has shaped her present relationships in unhealthy ways.
I wrote a second-chance romance Better Late Than Never, where the couple avoid looking back, try to create a new story, but realize they must confront what once separated them if they hope to remain together.
In my latest unpublished novel the past and present are dual timelines, where the past is always pushing the present until the protagonist confronts it, in the form of her father, and rejects his definitions, declaring her own narrative.
I appreciate this essay. It’s all truth. Thank you!
So glad the piece spoke to you! As you say, the “past” is not composed of “events” (like chairs) but of the way we remember and give meaning to those events. Changing that narrative can be a supremely empowering act! And, of course, there is the question is who is invested in a particular narrative of the past? Who stands to lose, and who stands to gain, by altering that narrative? Ah, writing is endlessly fascinating! We are so lucky that we get to do this cool thing :-)
Rich, layered analysis, as always from you, Barbara. Lots to chew on here that could make our narratives richer. We’re all trying to make sense of our time here on earth, to give our life meaning, to be the best person we can be. Making sure our characters are grappling with some of those same questions can’t help but make our novels more resonant for readers.
Thanks, Maggie. Your point about how we are trying to “be the best person we can be” is right on point because isn’t that the core of our motivation for how we talk to ourselves and others and what has taken place? We create a narrative that affirms and supports the role we have placed everyone in … which is why dual POV novels can be so fascinating! Happy writing!
Barbara, this is such a beautiful reflection for life itself. Thank you. I just finished a draft of a story inspired by this sentence from Stoner by John Williams: “He dimly recalled that he had been thinking of failure–as if it mattered. It seemed to him now that such thoughts were mean, unworthy of what his life had been.” I read this in Steve Almond’s book Truth is the Arrow, Mercy is the Bow. And I just loved what he said about it, how it’s the most forgiving sentence ever. Sometimes a single moment of grace, to see ourselves as God sees us–beloved–is all that’s needed to be flooded with gratitude and redeem all that was lost.
That is the exact sentence that resonated with me so deeply in Almond’s book! In fact, it is the genesis of this essay :-)
It is also deeply related to my forthcoming novel, where I grapple with the “what if” our narrative about the past—our regret, guilt, shame, the benefits we reaped but didn’t deserve—is all wrong? What then? What is my responsibility? What if I am actually not as good (or bad )as I thought?
And yes, a moment of grace can give a story (or a life) a whole new meaning. Thank you for saying that!
I love the connection we have with that sentence, Barbara. I see it’s spawning stories for us both…and I’m a sucker for redemption stories.
Vijaya and Barbara, I loved Stoner and the Almond book too. It’s remarkable how a “quiet” novel has such shattering power. Thanks for the thoughtful post.
Stoner is one of the best novels I’ve ever read. If you liked that sentece, try reading the novel.
Barbara what a wonderful and enabling post!
The concept of personal narrative opens doors (double doors and triple garage doors even) to characters and stories. In the future, beginning with my WIP my characters will have personal narratives that affect the story. How my characters got as far as they did without them is a mystery. I guess they had them all the time, I just didn’t know what they were and couldn’t have articulated them.
The idea that personal narratives can be assumed or imposed and that they may change by being chosen or earned reaches into the dark depths of what is going on in characters, and therefore what drives story.
I always enjoy and learn from your posts, but this one provided an epiphany. Thank you so much.
Thank you so much for your comment! I agree that every character has a core, beloved narrative (of self, of other people, how the world works). As the author, we don’t always have to put that on the page, but we need to understand it because it is the source of the character’s motivation. IMHO. To give an example: “winning the race” is not the character’s goal! It is the representation of the goal. The goal itself is rooted in something interior and psychological, maybe even existential, that (often) has to do with fulfilling or changing a deeply-rooted narrative. Thus, “winning the race” can have a different mean for different character.
Now you’ve gotten me going! I always learn so much from the comments :-)
Thank you so much for this post. I’m going to print it up for safe keeping.
The novel that first came to mind about the protagonist’s ideas of the past and seeking change within and without is The Kite Runner.
So glad the post spoke to you, Tina! I’ve been intrigued by the idea that a story doesn’t need to always (or only) be viewed as moving “forward” into the future. It can also be driven by a need to repair or configure the past, as Hosseini does so masterfully in The Kite Runner. I hope this is inspiring you to play with layers of meaning (and the fluid impact of time) in your own writing :-). Happy writing!
How do we know that the “new narrative,” which of course enables some desired positive change, is actually honest? Even if it’s not a true picture of what happened, but it does result in positive change, does the end justify the means? We think of a therapeutic narrative change as something to do with childhood trauma resulting in a false self-image that keeps us from fulfillment and happiness. But there are other kinds of narratives. It seems to me that it’s quite possible for someone to construct a new narrative about their past that is simply untrue. If it has good results, for example, helping someone feel brave today even though actual cowardice caused great trouble for others in the past, is it justified? What if he held back some key information from a friend because of jealousy, should he construct a narrative that he was really trying to help? I am writing a WIP that follows the lives of several close friends over four decades and there’s a lot of threads to unravel among them that involve withheld information and unforeseen consequences of careless acts.
Aha! I find your comments inspiring and engaging, not grumpy at all! They are exactly the kind of interrogation that every good story needs—challenging the writer to excavate hidden layers and wander down alternative paths ,,.
As I read your comments, I was reminded of my days teaching qualitative research, when I reminded novice researchers that they will never discover something called “the truth” because everything is constructed by the teller, depending on socio-cultural positioning personal history, temperament, etc. and the motive/impression they want to make on the person they’re talking to. There are always “many truths” and “degrees of truthiness,” so context is essential. The end result is often a mosaic.
So too with our characters, I think. Each character may hold a different version of what is true. Or deliberately believe an untruth, or pretend to, or change his mind, or remain unsure. Like you, I have a new novel coming in the spring that involves “withheld information and unforeseen consequences of careless acts.” Complex stories like ours are fun to write, no? And hopefully engaging to read!