Stories that sell
published April 13, 2007
Contrary to expectations, the saga of the British sailors captured and held in detention for two weeks by Iranian guards did not end with their release. Now they are under fire for selling their stories to some media organizations, profiting (one, the lone female in the group, by as much as £100 thousand) from their ordeal. That they get to return to their jobs after a two-week break is perceived by some as a bonus. An unjust one.
Family members of other soldiers killed in combat are aghast at the sale of story rights. Their own kin died in the line of duty. They grieved. While some widows obtained financial help, never did any of them—including parents—think of selling their stories of loss. This, no matter how colorful, heart-wringing or inspiring they think their loved ones’ lives were.
Were the sailors correct? I do not think so. Their experience, however harrowing, (forget for a while that video of them, released by the Iranian government to counter their claims of psychological torture, playing table tennis) were among the risks attendant to the job. There really should be no bonuses here.
But I won’t spend the rest of this column writing about those sailors when there are too many issues here at home begging to be taken up. Let their own papers do that for them.
I will, though, spend the next paragraphs talking about why stories get sold. Any story.
This isn’t new to us. We have movies, television shows, books and “exclusive” magazine articles. People purporting to have extraordinary experiences sell, or are cajoled to sell, their stories to movie and television producers or book or magazine publishers who are willing to invest money on the rights and on efforts to tell that story to the public.
Telling the public, of course, presents a likelihood of gain. See the profiting part is what makes all the difference here.
The assumption is that the story being bought is of extraordinary character (i.e., extraordinarily inspiring, amusing, frightening, etc) that makes good material for public consumption. Public consumption is of course measured by the gross sales of movie tickets, viewership ratings or number of copies sold.
Producers and publishers like real people. Fiction is nice but anybody can do a film or write a book on purely imagined circumstances. On the other hand, the sign “this is a true story” attracts people immediately. People react more positively to stories they know really happened. Somehow, we like outrageous twists in real life.
And so the profits are churned.
But there is another assumption, a hidden, more dangerous one: That the seller of the story has a moral claim to the proceeds of the sale. He may have suffered, been abused, gone through hell —or heaven. Hence, he “deserves” to be compensated for these experiences. It is permissible for him to earn a few thousand pesos, or a few hundred thousands if the story is really big, by the virtue of having had an interesting episode in his life.
Who am I to speak against these workings of the market economy? Nobody. And who are we to judge the people who sell their stories? They are human. They have needs to meet and a desire to improve their lot. Those whose lives get made into movies don’t object to the other bonus—that of being portrayed by movie stars who look so much better than they do.
But they are victims. Worse, perhaps, because they became willing accomplices to the insidious violation committed against them. They are used and exploited. They find that the proceeds of their story rights are nothing compared to the profits generated by the producers or publishers who are too busy sniffing for the next story for sale.
Is five minutes of fame enough consolation?
* * *
Of course it’s a free world, or a free part of the world where we are. People can tell their stories however way they want. They want it through a movie, through exclusive story rights? No problem. They want it shown in Maalala Mo Kaya or some similar show? That is their prerogative. If soldier Faye Turney wants to pocket her pounds selling her version of their capture and ordeal to a particular organization, that is as good, too. As long as the audience is happy, entertained, inspired.
More and more, though, there have been a lot of avenues for people to tell their individual stories, or even vent their feelings of anger, frustration, elation. These methods come for free. The traditional ways would be writing narratives like journals or autobiographies. If one is well-funded, one could write a screenplay and produce a home-shot film.
The other ways would be getting these manuscripts to actual public consciousness. Publishing houses can be approached. Contests may be joined. Letters to the editor submitted to publishers (long shot) or publications. If one is lucky enough to have a column every Friday, one can tell portions of these stories, parts which one thinks are worthy of readers’ time and attention.
The point is this: The privilege lies in the telling, not in being heard.
Everybody at some point must have had that significant moment, that defining moment, that shining or providential or trepidating moment. No one person enjoys a monopoly of interesting stories. Everyone has a tale to tell.
The implied exchange and interaction is what makes our world more interesting and more alive. Good copy abounds. Certainly, nobody would be correct to be so full of himself as to feel entitled to say his piece. As though people will rush and elbow each other out just to listen.
It is this feeling of entitlement that is dangerous. It will tolerate messages that don’t mean a thing or don’t add value. Worthless stories. Irrelevant ones. Rubbish, as the British say.
