The alchemy of attention

The classroom is an ideal setting to discover the complexities and limitations of human nature. As a university lecturer, I've had to learn, unlearn and refine the subtle yet beguiling art of capturing students' attention. Gone are the days when a 15-minute Youtube video on a topic could substitute for asking students to read and discuss a 15-page journal article. The former provided a welcome change from the latter and made the lecture more engaging.

In recent semesters, I've encountered social science students who want these videos played at 1.5x speed so they can get through them more quickly. Many of them urge me to find YouTube Shorts or Instagram reels that capture the essence of the topic in a concise, bite-sized format. Stunned by their shrinking attention spans, I’m tempted to ask how they manage to sit through a two-hour film at a cinema, where speed controls aren’t an option. An article published in The Atlantic by Rose Horowitch, titled ‘The Film Students Who Can No Longer Sit Through Films’, seems to answer my question.

As per research conducted by Dr Gloria Mark, Chancellor’s Professor of Informatics at the University of California, Irvine, the average time we remain focused on a task has dropped from 2.5 minutes to a mere 47 seconds. Against this backdrop, our dwindling attention spans may well become the next major epidemic. If the situation persists, voluntary attention will become a rare luxury—one that few possess and even fewer value.

The power of storytelling

Even in such dire circumstances, our universal love for storytelling will endure. Since time immemorial, humans have told stories in a tireless effort to navigate the ambiguities of our world. The art of storytelling is arguably the oldest antidote to utter despair and despondency. In a time before Netflix binges were the norm and stories could be accessed at the click of a button, spinning tales was a pleasurable pastime that helped people endure cold, lonely nights. People would gather around the orange glow of a campfire and narrate chilling tales from faraway lands—places they might never visit, but could reach on the wings of their imagination.

Before the advent of writing, storytelling relied on oral narratives passed down from one generation to the next. These tales served as a means of channelling human experiences and conveying belief systems. They were never static; much like a game of Chinese Whispers, each retelling shaped the direction of the story in new and varied ways. The most powerful agent in this process was undoubtedly the raconteur, who possessed the unique ability to unlock fresh pathways within the tale.

Beyond oral traditions, the walls of caves were also adorned with paintings and illustrations—a canvas that told a story of its own. Over time, storytelling found expression in the written word and gradually took shape in theatre, television and on OTT and other digital platforms.

The fundamental aim of storytelling isn’t just to entertain. Instead, it seeks to create a fertile ground where the intricacies of life can be depicted, examined and thoughtfully processed. A powerful story is, therefore, a laboratory where experiences can be scrutinised, often in hindsight rather than in real time.

Push and pull

However, not everyone possesses the flair for storytelling. In fact, the skill to tell a memorable story has to be honed through practice. At its core, a good raconteur knows how to captivate readers with a vast repertoire of techniques.

A few weeks ago, I took on the challenging task of sharing these trade secrets with a small group of students in my Feature Writing class. If the techniques outlined in textbooks are anything to go by, a good story—whether a fictional account or a journalistic piece—must have an impressive hook.

Students who encounter this idea in a textbook may labour under the misconception that hooks rely on an objective, universal formula. No one tells them that the all-important hook is often a fragile force, which is susceptible to collapse when it falls into the wrong hands. A strong hook is a relentless attention-seeker that draws readers into a story. Even then, there is no guarantee that an opening passage can command every reader’s attention. The lead sentence acts like a magnet, but it can just as easily repel audiences. That’s because the hook isn’t tailor-made to suit everyone’s tastes and can send mixed signals to readers.

Unsurprisingly, students in my class seldom reach a consensus on whether the hook of a feature we’ve read is effective. The opening passage reveals different things to readers, depending on how receptive they are to its subtle cues. Simply put, the limited attention they can give to the article must be conserved and focused on what interests them.

Stiff competition

This trend can be attributed to the sheer abundance of options at the disposal of younger audiences. The written word competes for attention with OTT platforms and often loses the battle. As a writer who confronts the blank page on a daily basis, I’ve been deeply concerned about this competition. At first, I felt writers must bear the onus of drawing readers away from OTT platforms. I even experimented with writing cinematic prose that mirrors the techniques used by scriptwriters on Netflix and Amazon. The goal was never to imitate, but to adapt to an emerging trend in the hope of gaining greater visibility.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that novels aren’t the same as film or television. A book must possess a three-dimensionality that extends beyond dialogue and an excessive emphasis on ‘showing’ over ‘telling’. Anyone who chooses to read a book instead of binge-watching a mindless series on Netflix has already opted for an intellectual experience, one driven by challenges and a hint of complexity. They wouldn’t want novels to recycle the same tropes and techniques found on the very platforms they are trying to avoid.

Readers first

The only way to truly hold anyone’s attention is to empower them through the act of storytelling. The success of any story lies in its retelling. This is a privilege granted to the reader or the listener, rather than the raconteur. In the narrative chain, the storyteller is merely the original source. The narrative acquires a life of its own once it is reinterpreted and retold through the listeners’ perspective, creating a form of empowerment that transforms them into active participants instead of passive bystanders.

It isn’t easy to embark on the ink-and-paper route. Racked by self-doubt, writers turn to the blank page in an attempt to allay their deepest insecurities and confront their inner predicaments. Not all novels begin as masterpieces; some of them need time, space and careful editorial input to evolve into remarkable works of fiction. The process of working on multiple drafts can take months, sometimes even years. The final product is, undoubtedly, the most polished version of the manuscript, which the author feels comfortable sharing with readers.

Be that as it may, it would be naive to assume that all readers will respond to the text in the same way. Many devour books that took authors years to write in a matter of hours and do not hesitate to voice their honest opinions, even if they are largely negative.

Some readers offer constructive feedback, balancing their praise with their concerns about the plot, pacing and characterisation. Others, however, are unsparing in their criticism and cynicism, sometimes rallying an entire army of readers to shun the dreaded novel.

Mainstream literary criticism has little or no room for the second category of readers as it predominantly focuses on building an architecture of ideas around a book. Nevertheless, cynical readers cannot be overlooked as they engage with a story and aren’t afraid to be candid about its strengths and shortcomings. Online platforms such as Goodreads and the Story Graph exist precisely to cater to the needs of readers who wish to voice their opinions about books. The continuing relevance of these platforms demonstrates that readers cannot be elbowed out of the equation so easily. Rather than fearing these spaces, authors should embrace them as venues for meaningful, no-holds-barred discussions on their stories.

A vast majority of sceptical readers approach a novel with noble intentions. They open a book in the hope of immersing themselves in an engaging and entertaining narrative. Many are genuinely swept up in the story and expect it to culminate in a satisfying, memorable denouement. These expectations are primarily shaped by their own interests, biases and experiences. It is unfair to expect writers to always cater to the needs of a diverse and unpredictable audience. Even so, books are produced and consumed within a capitalist marketplace and readers often approach them as consumers in a free-market economy.

In light of this reality, it is hardly surprising to encounter unflattering remarks portraying a novel as a ‘missed opportunity’, one that might have blossomed into a soul-stirring narrative in more capable hands. Of course, readers must exercise restraint in these circumstances as they cannot allow their own narrow expectations to overshadow the authorial vision. Even then, there is no harm in providing honest feedback. Through these comments, readers are simply attempting to locate their own preferences within the reading experience.

A safe space

Book clubs can provide an ideal space for this process to unfold. First, they allow readers to share a diverse range of interpretations about a literary text, no matter how unrealistic or unconventional they may seem. Second, a book club functions as a safe space where people can express their views on a book without fear of judgment or recrimination. Third, such platforms transform reading from a solitary pursuit to a communal experience. As a result, readers often find strength in numbers and engage more critically with the themes of a novel.

On a practical level, readers don’t simply imbibe stories like a hypodermic injection; they are discerning, intuitive and intelligent and require the right conditions to exercise these qualities and invest more deeply in a narrative.

Storytellers aren't insulated from the ecosystem of a book club. On the contrary, they can play a proactive role by engaging directly in its discussions. This can help forge a bridge between authors and readers, drawing the latter into the rich expanse of the storyteller’s creative landscape.

Over the years, I’ve been invited to participate in several book club sessions centred on my work. The goal has never been to attend these sessions as a snooty author with airs, but as a storyteller curious about the reception of his work. Every member of the book club has taken the time to read my novels. By inhabiting my fictional universes, they have staked a claim on them and become part of them. In those moments, the storyteller retreats into the shadow and might very well cease to exist. What matters then is the reader’s interpretation of the words that once flowed from my pen.

During these sessions, I’ve encountered cynical and enthusiastic readers of my work. As they venture to ask me some intriguing yet uncomfortable questions, I’m reminded that while a literary text may have a single author, its interpretation lies in the hands of numerous readers. In those rewarding moments, their perceptions become the measure against which I reassess my own work. The discussion unlocks hidden chambers of my mind, allowing me to mine new veins of meaning and explore some hitherto unknown aspects of my creative process. This strange symbiosis reveals that a storyteller’s craft is meaningless unless it finds resonance in the reader’s heart.

In an era where attention deficits run rife, a story can only reverberate in the hearts and minds of readers if it invites active engagement and intellectual stimulation. Passive readers lack the motivation to question, interrogate and immerse themselves in the hidden complexities of the narrative. Such readers don’t truly inhabit the story, but view it as a fleeting distraction.

Stories need readers with a degree of agency who are unafraid to ask unsettling questions and share unique insights about their direction. These queries and observations are a welcome sign that readers have a keen interest in developing a deeper understanding of the narrative. Unfortunately, most readers are seldom encouraged to invest themselves so deeply in a tale, and even writers often lack the patience to sustain such engagement. In the end, the story becomes the primary casualty of this lack of willingness.

The writer is the critically acclaimed author of No Funeral for Nazia and Typically Tanya

All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer