Journaling for Health Part 4: Pennebaker’s Summary
This is part 4 (of 5) of a series on journaling to improve health, or what James W. Pennebaker, the seminal scholar on the topic, calls “expressive writing.” I’ve been doing research into expressive writing, which has been demonstrated to improve mental and physical health, in order to roll my learnings into an interactive experience currently in development.
In a 2004 commentary designed to defend the expressive writing paradigm from a press for the “whys” behind it (Sloan & Marx, 2004), James W. Pennebaker admits that the dynamic of the curative mechanism remains unknown. However, he sums up the finer processes that participants in expressive writing studies undoubtedly experience, which are paraphrased here:
1) Participants organize previously disorganized, emotional memories of events into language, consciously giving the event a newly coherent structure or narrative. (This mechanism has defied researchers’ understanding—i.e. although it’s tempting to say that story-making or narrative allows participants to better integrate and deal with trauma, they don’t know how or if this process might contribute to health benefits.)
2) Confronting an emotional event, or re-exposing participants to a trauma habituates the participant to the event and reduces the impact of emotional responses to it.
3) After writing about a trauma, people think less about it and free up working memory with which to focus on other tasks.
4) Past trauma effects present social interaction; over time, participants gradually change how they interact with others, are more likely to talk about the trauma, laugh about it, and subtly alter their social circles (Pennebaker, 2004).
The first of these subtle processes is intriguing for many. Although narrative by itself cannot yet be associated with health benefits, there does appear to be something salutory about the process of changing unstructured thought or feeling into the structure of language. In most of these studies such a dynamic is present: there is a conscious movement by the individual to give linguistic structure to previously unstructured knowledge.
References
Pennebaker, J.W. (2004). Theories, Therapies, and Taxpayers: On the Complexities of the Expressive Writing Paradigm. Clinical Psychology: Science and Practice (Vol. 11, No. 2, pp. 138-142).
Sloan, Denise M.; Marx, Brian P. (2004) Taking Pen to Hand: Evaluating Theories Underlying the Written Disclosure Paradigm. Clinical Psychology: Science and Practice (Vol. 11, No. 2, pp. 121-137).
Journaling for Health Part 3: The Health Benefits of Narrative
This is part 3 (of 5) of a series on journaling to improve health, or what James W. Pennebaker, the seminal scholar on the topic, calls “expressive writing.” I’ve been doing research into expressive writing, which has been demonstrated to improve mental and physical health, in order to roll my learnings into an interactive experience currently in development.
In 2002, when Graybeal, Sexton and Pennebaker tested the hypothesis that narrative was the curative mechanism in writing (Pennebaker & Seagal, 1999), their results went a little wonky. They predicted that writing a good story (one with a beginnng, middle and an ending) would bring their authors the most positive health benefits. However, they weren’t able to match good stories in expressive writing samples with health benefits in their writers. They concluded that “the psychological correlates of story-making are unknown” (Graybeal, Sexton & Pennebaker, 2002, p. 580).
Results were inconclusive largely because barely anyone participating in the study went to a doctor afterward. Researchers simply couldn’t say if the sessions had any effect on participants’ health. Additionally, in measuring the number of participants who did visit their doctors after the study, a slightly higher number of these folks had written essays judged as good stories. Further, they found that word usage previously thought to be associated with storyness—e.g. causal words like “because” and “reason,” or insight words like “understand” and “realize”—were not associated with the essays judged as good stories.
If the only clear thought in your mind now is, “Huh?” you’re on track with me.
The study did have some curious aspects to its method, though, such as defining a good story as an essay with a beginning, middle and end. Certainly, the components of a narrative that brings transformational catharsis and resolution must have more going on than this. Also, doctor visits were only measured for a month after the sessions, which was a much shorter amount of time than other studies’ measurement periods. Finally, the study asked participants to write about emotional and unemotional topics “in counterbalanced order, separated by five weeks.” The counterbalancing would seem to neutralize the effects of emotional vs. unemotional writing. Since it’s emotional writing that has demonstrated health benefits, wouldn’t one wish to compare samples of emotional writing that had good story-making qualities with emotional writings that had poor story-making qualities?
Basically, they didn’t disprove the hypothesis that the creation of narrative contributes to expressive writing’s health benefits. They simply weren’t able to confirm it.
References:
Graybeal, A; Sexton, J. D.; and Pennebaker, J. W. (2002). The Role of Story-Making in Disclosure Writing: The Psychometrics of Narrative. Psychology and Health (Vol. 17, No. 5, pp. 571-581).
Pennebaker, J.W.; Seagal, Janel D. (1999). Forming a Story: The Health Benefits of Narrative. Journal of Clinical Psychology (Vol. 55, No. 10, pp.1243-1254).
Journaling for Health Part 2: How Does Expressive Writing Work?
This is part 2 (of 5) of a series on journaling to improve health, or what James W. Pennebaker, the seminal scholar on the topic, calls “expressive writing.” I’ve been doing research into expressive writing, which has been demonstrated to improve mental and physical health, in order to roll my learnings into an interactive experience currently in development.
In studies, expressive writing has been consistently shown to improve mental and physical health; however, there is no agreement about how it works.
Some propose that writing enables people to disclose previously repressed thoughts and feelings, the inhibition of which takes physiological effort. This is called Inhibition Theory, and it suggests that the physiological work of repressing emotion might stress one’s system over time. Repression leads to decreased immunity and poor health. Others endorse Cognitive or Behavioral Change Theory, which advocates the notion that people benefit from facing a troubling topic, changing the manner in which they think about it, then changing the manner in which they behave in response to it (Graybeal, Sexton, & Pennebaker, 2002).
As someone with a keen interest in narrative and a background in literature and writing studies, I would suppose that—in addition to Inhibition and Cognitive Change theories—some form of Narrative theory might also be set into the mix. Human beings are storytellers. Without stories, we lack meaning–and without meaning, our lives feel nasty, brutish and short. With a good story, nearly any harsh reality can be transcended or integrated into a meaning that enriches us.
Pennebaker, too, supposed that narrative must be integral to expressive writing’s salutory effects. In the nineties, he developed a piece of text analysis software called Linguistic Inquiry and Word Count. LIWC measured the degree to which people used specific categories of words. Using this software across a range of studies, researchers found that people who benefited from expressive writing went from using fewer causal words, like “because” or “reason,” and fewer insight words, like “understand” or “realize,” to using a high rate of causal and insight words by the end of the study.
Pennebaker & Seagal write, “In reading the essays of people who showed this pattern of language use, it became apparent that they were constructing a story over time. Building a narrative, then, seemed to be critical in reaching understanding” (Pennebaker & Seagal, 1999).
References
Graybeal, A; Sexton, J. D.; and Pennebaker, J. W. (2002). The Role of Story-Making in Disclosure Writing: The Psychometrics of Narrative. Psychology and Health (Vol. 17, No. 5, pp. 571-581).
Pennebaker, J.W.; Seagal, Janel D. (1999). Forming a Story: The Health Benefits of Narrative. Journal of Clinical Psychology (Vol. 55, No. 10, pp.1243-1254).
Journaling for Health Part 1 (of 5) : Write for Your Health!
We’re working on a project that will involve the audience’s use of an online journal. The journal is being integrated into an interactive experience that’s designed to help its audience work through inner conflicts and break away from negative patterns. I can’t say too much about the details (the project is still in the works), but the upshot is that I’ve been doing some research on the benefits of journaling, or what James W. Pennebaker calls ‘expressive writing.’ Pennebaker is the trailblazing scholar behind the discovery that writing expressively improves mental and physical health.
In 1989, Pennebaker performed a study involving undergraduate students who were asked to write for 20 minutes a day for four days in a row. The control group was asked to write about trivial topics and to refrain from offering any emotional description. The experimental group was asked to write about the most traumatic event in their lives and to do so with total emotional disclosure. Here is a copy of the experimental group’s assignment:
For the next four days, I would like for you to write about your very deepest thoughts and feelings about the most traumatic experience of your entire life. In your writing, I’d like you to really let go and explore your very deepest emotions and thoughts. You might tie your topic to your relationships with others, including parents, lovers, friends, or relatives, to your past, your present, or your future, or to who you have been, who you would like to be, or who you are now. You may write about the same general issues or experiences on all days of writing or on different traumas each day. All of your writing will be completely confidential.
After the study, the students who wrote about “the most traumatic experience” of their lives visited their doctors at a greatly reduced rate compared to the control group (Pennebaker, 1989).
During the last twenty years, researchers have been exploring and expanding this research. Newer studies have demonstrated that writing expressively about emotionally traumatic or stressful events strengthens immunity, decreases intrusive thoughts & depression, improves grades, and gains faster job placement for the unemployed (Graybeal, Sexton, & Pennebaker, 2002; Lepore, 1997; Spera, Morin, Buhrfeind, & Pennebaker, 1994; and Smyth, 1998).
It’s pretty amazing that writing for just 20 minutes a day for 4 days in a row has this kind of an impact. Consistently, when measured after weeks and months, expressive writers markedly outpaced control groups in demonstrating better health and positive life changes. Wow.
References:
Graybeal, A; Sexton, J. D.; and Pennebaker, J. W. (2002). The Role of Story-Making in Disclosure Writing: The Psychometrics of Narrative. Psychology and Health (Vol. 17, No. 5, pp. 571-581).
Lepore, Stephen J. (1997). Expressive Writing Moderates the Relation Between Intrusive Thoughts and Depressive Symptoms. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (Vol. 73, No. 5. 1030-1037).
Pennebaker, J.W. (1989). Confession, inhibition, and disease. In L. Berkowitz (Ed.) Advances in experimental social psychology (Vol. 22, pp 211-244).
Smyth, J.M. (1998). Written Emotional Expression: Effect Sizes, Outcome Types, and Moderating Variables. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology (Vol. 66, No. 1, 174-184).
Spera, S.P.; Morin, D.; Buhrfeind, E. D.; and Pennebaker, J.W. (1994). Expressive Writing and Coping with Job Loss. Academy of Management Journal (Vol. 37, No. 3, 722-733).
An alternate reality newspaper (in which the White House has been rebuilt after 9//11) created to explore the T.V. show Fringe.
I have been thinking a lot about these two words lately. They both describe something that we are going for here at GLOPiLOT. But they also both describe a very wide range of results and so may not be specific enough to describe what we are trying to communicate.
For instance, is the Internet as a whole an interactive experience? If I go to a web site and can choose what pages I read and in what order, that seems to qualify as an interactive experience. And cool as that may be it is not the level of interactivity that I am talking about when I say we create interactive experiences. Our clients would feel pretty ripped off if it was!
What about immersion? We can argue that a novel is immersive; it takes you into another world that is co-created by the author and your imagination working together to create a compelling escape form the everyday. But that’s easy, right? I mean, creating great books is not easy at all, but the end result of picking up a great book and being swept away, that’s pretty simple. It is a very passive form of immersion.
So now consider a media collection such as the one surrounding the J. J. Abrams show Fringe. The show itself is an even more passive form of being swept away than a novel, but the video medium engages both site and sound. Plus, and here is where it gets really cool, they create web sites for faux companies and organizations from the show for you to visit and explore. They even created a whole newspaper from an alternate world that ties in with the story-line of the show. Sight, sound, touch and even smell (if one could but hold the newspaper). This is just a basic example of what some storytellers are doing with new and old media to deliver a narrative experience, but doing so in parts. This approach allows for a fan to wander upon the parts and explore them as they desire. Plus it creates multiple opportunities for fan-to-fan viral marketing activity. Now that’s immersive!
So have I come to any conclusions? Probably not. But hopefully I have clarified that there are new levels of interactive and new levels of immersion that are being created right now. We at GLOPiLOT may not be creating anything as vast as the Fringe or Lost Experience (yet!), but we are aware of the possibilities and excited to play with them.
Fig. 1 - The IBM 286. (Ain't she a beauty?)
In 1984, when I was twelve and my dad bought us an IBM 286 (Zowie!), I was a little peeved that he refused to get us an accompanying game to play on it. Clearly bored to death, I got curious about some BASIC and BASICA programming language tutorials that were strewn about near that big, pale, beige pile of plastic and glass. With them, I got the whirring beast to do some neat color tricks and to generate an oddly fulfilling cascade of repeating text. But that kind of kid/computer interaction couldn’t really compete with Zork’s interactive text-based knife fight with a thief….
So, I went back to reading for fun—even majored in Lit.
The next time I was truly dazzled by a video game was a decade later in 1994. The 286 (which I’d taken with me to college—yes, the computer really did last ten years) didn’t have a CD-ROM drive. It couldn’t handle Mosaic or Netscape Navigator. My copy of Wordstar (word processing software) didn’t even have italics! (Guffaw.) Seriously, my computer might as well have been constructed with squirrel bones and wood.
It was at this low moment in my digital life that fate intervened. Somehow, somewhere, I was exposed to a screenshot and a vague description of Robyn and Rand Miller’s revolutionary interactive adventure game Myst. That tiny whiff of Myst was all I needed to pack the 286 into a closet and make a bee-line for my first Mac PowerPC tower with its handy-dandy CDROM drive. Soon to follow was my copy of Myst.
When that yonic fissure cracked open on my screen and I saw the stars of the heavens in that opening QuickTime movie—holy effin’ Hannah. I just about crap myself.
A silhouette of a man slowly tumbles into a fissure in time and space. As he falls away, the worn, hardbound book he’d been holding falls toward you. The calm, wise voice of Atrus reads from the last entry in his journal:
I realized the moment I fell into the fissure that the book would not be destroyed as I had planned. It continued falling into that starry expanse, of which I had only a fleeting glimpse. I have tried to speculate where it might have landed, but I must admit that such conjecture is futile. Still, questions about whose hands might one day hold my Myst book are unsettling to me. I know my apprehensions might never be allayed, and so I close, realizing that perhaps the ending has not yet been written.
See the opening of Myst here:
The euphoria of seeing advanced graphics coupled with immersive sound in an interactive virtual storytelling environment had me clicking around the richly rendered Myst island for long, entranced hours. The sound of wind and ocean water! Oh and the gears, all the gears turning and locking into place! The story’s delivery medium—a simple slide show of high-resolution (for its time) graphics mixing with well-placed QuickTime movies and sound effects—took interactive graphical adventure gaming, along with the art of storytelling, into a new, mind-blowing dimension.
Early Interactive Fiction: Ambiguity & Personalized Narrative
Fig. 1 - John Tenniel's illustration of Alice meeting the caterpillar (from LambertvilleLibrary.org)
Okay. So, typing the command “KILL THIEF WITH KNIFE” in Zork because some shady, muttering bastard is trying to kipe your bejeweled egg might not have been as enriching an experience as reading about Alice in Wonderland facing off with a giant, hookah-smoking caterpillar who’s asking her THE philosophical question.
Alice in Wonderland (as it was and is for many) was the first novel I read and has never been demoted from its spot as My Favorite Book. Still, Zork’s text-based adventure had something Lewis Carroll’s book lacked: interactive narrative engagement. Sure, I could imagine the scenes in Alice—but I couldn’t affect them.
More significantly, these were Alice’s adventures, not mine. She was blonde. I was brunette. She was British. I had a thick New York accent. And I wouldn’t have been caught dead in that kooky Sunday dress she wore all the live-long day. Fahgedd’aboudit.
In Zork, I wasn’t just a pre-teen from Long Island imagining I was the adventurer—I was the adventurer! I was a small brunette, wearing jeans and a blue hoodie. Climbing down into that dungeon with my lantern lit, I was ready for that grue!
The universal ambiguity of naked text and the use of second person singular in Zork allows players to seamlessly imagine themselves in the role of the adventurer. The narrative warns: YOU are likely to be eaten by a grue. The grue is not at all interested in the taste of Alice on its tongue—it’s after you. In other words, the experience is exceedingly “personalized.”
Interactive experience designers make gargantuan efforts to create immersive, emotionally connective, interactive experiences by devising complicated, cookie-heavy, database-driven personalized experiences. That’s not to say these massive efforts don’t work. But I’m finding a simple, powerful lesson in unadorned text and that faceless, second-person pronoun. Ambiguity, ironically, is highly emotionally connective.
Early Interactive Fiction Part 3: The First Interactive Fiction Game: Colossal Cave Adventure
Fig 1. ADVENT, later Colossal Cave Adventure, being played on an Osborne mini-computer around 1982 - http://bit.ly/4hl0Xp
The very first interactive fiction game was called Advent or Adventure, and later was widely known as Colossal Cave Adventure. The game was written in 1975 by Will Crowther, a cave diver and programmer, who wanted to enjoy it with his two young daughters. (The game is based on a cave that Crowther knew well, Bedquilt Cave in Kentucky. Apparently, there’s a cave called Colossal Cave nearby; however, the details of the game are based on Bedquilt.)
Colossal Cave Adventure (entirely text-based) quickly spread across ARPAnet in 1977 and galvanized the first generation of video game designers. It inspired Infocom’s text-based Zork along with Atari’s graphical version, Adventure. It was only after playing an errant copy of ADVENT (found on developer Ken Williams’s work computer) that Roberta Williams was stirred to write and draw Mystery House. (The game development duo would later create the popular King’s Quest series.)
Although it was text-based, Colossal Cave Adventure was the catalyzing spark behind a new creative genre: graphical adventure games. (See Wikipedia on Colossal Cave Adventure.)
Early Interactive Fiction Part 2: Narrative, Collaboration & Immersion
Fig. 1 - The cover of Mystery House. The graphics in Mystery House looked nothing like this. The cover, instead, makes reference to a number of famous pieces of short horror fiction, like Poe’s "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Black Cat," "The Pit and the Pendulum" and Alexander Pushkin’s "Queen of Spades."
When I was ten, my reader’s imagination helped to immerse me in the text-driven Mystery House (Sierra On-Line, 1980). In spite of Roberta Williams’s masterful stick drawings, her words helped me to visualize richly rendered graphics of my own. As a result, I felt more connected to this interactive fiction game than to graphical action games.
Fig. 2 - A tri-toned stick-corpse in the backyard of the Mystery House
All I needed was that blip of glowing, command line text that shot up from the bottom of my screen telling me that I’d just accidentally started a fire in the dining room, that the basement was moist and covered with algae, or that there was a dead body in the yard—a daisy in his hand. I constructed the details in my mind’s eye, along with a kind of holographic map of the house’s nooks and crannies, its secret passages and rooms, and the thick pine forest that surrounded it.
Roberta Williams’s crude, arbitrarily three-toned line graphics (see fig. 2) helped the narrative in a kind of diagrammatic way, but it was really the words themselves—the written plot, the textual thread of the narrative—that I found riveting. Later, when I played the text-based interactive fiction game Zork (Infocom, 1979), I was delighted and terrified by the line: “It is pitch black. You are likely to be eaten by a grue.” I didn’t know what a grue was—but it was shadowy and slick and mouthless in my mind—it was the living dark.
Here’s an irresistible excerpt from the entirely text-based Zork:
Up a Tree
You are about 10 feet above the ground nestled among some large branches. The nearest branch above you is above your reach. Beside you on the branch is a small bird’s nest. In the bird’s nest is a large egg encrusted with precious jewels, apparently scavenged by a childless songbird. The egg is covered with find gold inlay, and ornamented in lapis lazuli and mother-of-pearl. Unlike most eggs, this one is hinged and closed with a delicate looking clasp. The egg appears extremely fragile.
Sure, it’s not Shakespeare, but as the video game adventurer, I’ve just discovered the bejeweled egg of a childless songbird! What a wonderful little tug at the emotions this is.
Zork relied upon nothing but its written narrative to portray its plot and environment. A visual rendering of the world is left up to the player alone—just as it is in literature. In order to play Zork well, the adventurer must pay close attention to the narrative and imagine it accurately—they’re required to see it happening. Players are further connected to the game because they and the game designers are creating the experience collaboratively. A great interactive experience is as much the audience’s creation as the designers’.
Click here to play Zork:
http://www.xs4all.nl/~pot/infocom/zork1.html
Early Interactive Fiction Part 1: Striving for Literary Narrative
For me, the small, silly terrors that early, home-console games like Atari’s Kaboom relied upon couldn’t hope to compete with the deftly-crafted plot of a good book. Not surprisingly, the interactive graphical adventure game Mystery House was inspired by a mystery novel—Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. (The book was more directly adapted into an interactive graphical adventure game recently in 2005).
When a game has a narrative like a novel, the player’s situation is slowly revealed, the story unfolds and changes occur as if in real time. The player decrypts clues embedded into descriptive details and leisurely—savoring the pleasure of teasing out a well-woven plot—she arrives at the clarity of the end.
This kind of game is a delight to play. It unfolds its labyrinthine story for you; it responds to your actions; and, crucially, it challenges you to think more clearly, to be more curious, to use your imagination and beat the author to the punch. Good interactive graphical adventure games should strive to rival good fiction.