The Spirituality of Storytelling: Creating Within the Gaps

A talk given on January 5, 2025, for the Unitarian Universalist Church of Pensacola

Click here to watch a recording of this talk

Several years ago, I had the chance to attend a writing workshop. It was facilitated by a well-known writer in the mainline Christian world, and it was one of those workshops where you have to submit a piece weeks in advance for everyone to read, then you gather around a table, and you aren’t allowed to say anything at all while everybody tells you what you could’ve done better. (For the record, this might be the least-fun way to facilitate a writer’s workshop.) The piece I submitted was this didactic short story I’d been working on during my deconstruction, and it was about a pastor and an intern meeting with a church member, sitting around drinking tea while discussing political issues. It was super compelling. I remember sitting there, though, while all of the other students took turns giving me feedback—trying to protect my feelings—and then it got to the facilitator. I waited, anxious. He was the only one I really wanted to hear from anyway. And as he looked back over my piece for a second, then back up at me, I thought, Uh oh. “Well,” he started, “I appreciate where this is coming from…” (never a good start), “but my main issue is that it’s really just a bunch of people sitting around agreeing with each other. I mean, for a work of fiction, nothing actually happens.”

Ouch.

My first reaction, of course, was, Well, he just doesn’t get it—a common first-time writer’s tool to soften the blow. Except the truth was, he very much got it. It was me who had missed the point. I cringe when I look back at that piece, not just because it brings up a not-so-fun memory of being smacked down by one of my heroes, but because he was right. There’s no tension. There are no feelings. There’s no growth. Because I was too nice to my characters, there’s not much of a story.

The facilitator’s words stuck with me. Not just because he was right about my piece, but because he was right about me. His feedback hit at something deeper than just the story. It wasn’t only that I avoided tension in my writing, but I also avoided it in my life. I hated it. I didn’t know what to do with it. It was the enemy to be avoided, not embraced or explored by any means, so why would I do that to my characters?

I thought about this years later as I read Robert McKee’s textbook on storytelling. In it, writing about “the substance of story,” McKee introduces this concept he calls the Gap. The Gap, according to McKee, is that crucial moment where a character has taken action to get closer to their desired goal, and it just doesn’t work. It’s where the subjective world of the character’s mind collides with the objective world of reality, and a “Gap” cracks open. It’s a Gap between “the world as the character perceived it before […] and the truth [they discover] in action.” It’s the moment when Frodo and his friends are trying to get to the Prancing Pony, and they do, but Gandalf isn’t there, and they have to trust a stranger instead. It’s the moment when they’re trying to move on to Rivendell, but they can’t because Sam makes a fire, and they’re set upon by wraiths. It’s the moment where they’re trying to see Elrond, and they do, but the ring can’t stay there, and they have to take it to Mordor themselves. (I watched The Lord of the Rings this weekend with my kids. Does it show?)

The Gap is an inconvenient element, sometimes incredibly painful, but from the meta-view of telling a good story, it’s unavoidable. Furthermore, it’s only because of the Gap that any kind of growth or transformation becomes possible. As McKee says, it’s only by the power of the Gap that a character is forced to “dig more deeply into [their] human capacity” (or their hobbit capacity) to be able to move forward and become more fully their True Selves. Without the great and terrible Gap, Frodo never comes to a place where he can ride into eternity without fear. He’s still where he started: Drinking with his gardener and eating way too many meals a day.

Later, when McKee is defining the craft of storytelling, he comes to call it the art of “creating within the Gap,” which is perfect. That’s what my story lacked in that workshop—and I mean both my written story and my lived story. I lacked a healthy appreciation for what the Gap is. In the time since, I’ve come to have a very different relationship with the Gap—not just in writing, but in every aspect of my life. It’s not an enemy anymore—not only an enemy, anyway. We’ve been through too much together. When I started to deal with anxiety attacks in grad school, it opened a Gap that pushed me all the way down to the bedrock of my spirituality, showing me, not what I wanted to be true, but what was true. When COVID hit and I found myself spending every day at home with my four- and six-year-old children, it opened a Gap that forced me to confront a lot of my beliefs about productivity and patience. The Gap meets me at the hospital where I work—where I try to help people find a stable enough foundation to create within it. I see it when I open a news app in a hundred headlines—a hundred pieces of bad news—a hundred invitations to embody my deepest values. The Gap is still terrible, and I don’t know if I can say we’re friends… but I have a lot more respect for it now. I don’t see it as toxic, but sacred, and sometimes sacred things are scary.

The more I write and the more I live, the more I realize that this theory of “creating within the Gap” isn’t just a basic theory of storytelling. It’s a basic theory of spirituality. So, this morning, I’d like to explore what it means to treat the Gap as sacred—not to minimize the pain it can cause, but to appreciate its capacity to do something beautiful.

The first thing we have to acknowledge when we’re talking about the Gap is that we have to be careful before we say anything, because we’re talking about a paradox. Pretty much anything I say about it is going to be on one hand deeply true, and on the other, deeply, offensively false. For example: The Gap is a teacher, yes. It arrives with opportunities to move us along toward new life. But can you imagine saying that to one of the characters in a story you’re writing? Neil Gaiman told a story once about another author who asked him: Can you imagine having to meet your characters? Having to answer for what you put them through? Because while the Gap is a teacher, at the same time, the Gap is a fierce adversary. It comes with sharp claws and blunt hammers to demolish the life we love. The Gap is a paradox, as most spiritual things tend to be.

A lot of spiritual traditions harmonize with the narrative theory on this one. At the center of the Jesus story is an unjust execution—arguably the worst Gap that could’ve opened in any story—and it’s followed, shockingly, but a resurrection. Does it justify the crucifixion? I don’t know. But it’s just the way the story works. At the core of Buddhism, likewise, are the Four Noble Truths: 1.) There is suffering. 2.) We can work with that suffering. 3.) The suffering doesn’t last forever. 4.) There is a path that leads out of suffering. Again, if he were using McKee’s language, I think he might say, Noble Truth One: There is the Gap. 2.) It is possible to create within the Gap. 3.) The Gap is not the whole story. 4.) There is a path that helps move through the Gap well. In both of these traditions, the Gap is a paradox. At once devastatingly destructive and unavoidably important.

So, what does this mean for us? For me, it means I’ve had to get over my assumption that the Gap is either inherently “good” or inherently “bad” because from the perspective of the whole story, dualistic categories just sort of fall apart. We wind up in this nondual realm beyond the land of the right or the land of the wrong—in a field of is-ness. The only thing I can say with certainty is that Gap is inevitable. It simply is. I don’t have to label it. Just figure out what to do with it. This is what I love about the pragmatism of the Buddha. Noble Truth One: There is the Gap. Noble Truth Two: We can create within the Gap. Let’s do it. Now, this doesn’t mean we can push ourselves to Truth Two before we’re ready. Sometimes, the Gap is just too painful, and all we can do is sit in Truth One for as long as we need to. You can’t rush it with a character, and you can’t rush it with yourself. When you do that, you get false, forced growth that repels an audience and strikes those around you as very uncomfortable. We give the Gap the time it takes. Then, when we’re ready—if we’re ready—we can move to Truth Two. Asking questions. Taking agency. Creating within the Gap that will frame our next action.

And that brings us to the next interesting thing about how the Gap works. It’s not quite as predictable in stories as writers often want it to be. Opening up a Gap doesn’t necessarily mean your character will create in the way you want them to. It may sound nuts if you’ve never tried writing, but your characters make their own choices, even if they’re not the ones you want them to make. Sometimes those choices take them on positive growth arcs, and that’s fantastic, but sometimes the arc goes south. Other times, it stays flat. It all depends on how (or if) your character chooses to get creative within the Gap.

What makes the difference? Well, there are certain things your character can do that will lead them towards growth. Listen to wise counsel, give themselves time to face their feelings, seek out some perspective… these things turn the Gap into a verdant shade of green that waters the seeds of the True Self they’re becoming. This is what some authors call a “positive growth arc.” Let’s take Aragorn, for example (since we can’t seem to stop thinking about Lord of the Rings). He surrounds himself with loyal friends and wise counsel… he is able to hold onto hope to look at himself honestly… and so one Gap after another moves him from a lonely ranger to the King of Gondor. That’s a positive arc. For every Aragorn, though, there’s also a Smeagol. This is what authors call a “negative arc.” Here, your character faces their Gap, but instead of making choices that move them closer to their True Selves, they make choices (or refuse to make choices) that wind up digging them deeper into the False. Where Aragorn relies on friends and wise counsel, Smeagol isolates himself. He pushes his friend away (or, more accurately, kills him) and then runs away to the mountains. Where Aragorn is able to find perspective, Smeagol fixates only on the object of his attachment, making him more fearful and greedier every day.

And finally, for every Aragorn and Smeagol, there are also countless unnamed characters. They see the Gap and just sort of stick to what they do best. They don’t get bitter. They don’t rally themselves. They just kind of choose to hunker down or go back to their gardening. As a result, while the main characters come back with treasure, they stand to the side and watch. This is a flat arc, which is kind of an oxymoron.

Now, I’m not saying either the flat arc or the negative arc is a bad thing. In fact, I think judging our characters (or ourselves) for the ways we react when we react to the Gap is a great way to guarantee a negative arc. Our characters do the best they can with what they know. So do we. Even Frodo yells at Sam, and Boromir’s arc goes all over the place before it lands somewhere beautiful. Then, there are times when a Gap is just too overwhelming, and all it does is tear a character down. What I’m saying is, when it comes to the Gap’s impact on a character, it’s also beyond “good” and “bad.” The Gap is neutral. It’s not the content of the Gap that determines where the arc goes, but the way your character chooses to create (or not create) within it. The same is true, I believe, for us.

And this brings me to my last question. If these unavoidable, paradoxical Gaps open up in our characters’ stories to move them towards something, what is it, exactly, we want them to move towards? Who do we want our characters to have become by the end of their story? You might argue that there are infinite answers to this, but I wonder if that’s true. I wonder, if we look at some possible answers to this question, if we might discover that all the best selves we can imagine for our characters are actually all incarnations of one, unifying True Character. A True Self.

Here’s one way to do that. Some authors will use what are called “character archetypes” to get some clarity on what their characters need. For example, “the Maiden,” in her arc, needs to be able to leave her family and go out on her own. “The King,” in his arc, needs to learn to wield his power well, which means letting it go when the time calls. “The Crone,” in her arc, needs to learn to let go of youth and engage as an elder. At the end of all the archetypes, though—there is the final, wisest character. “The Mage.” This character has been through all the arcs, has learned all the lessons, and now must bring them all together into one, final task: To let go and come into union with Divine mystery. This often means death, whether literal or symbolic. The final arc.

On “the Mage,” author K.M. Weiland writes: “If we recognize that story structure always comes full circle, we can see how the final character arc of the life cycle—the enlightened Mage—is in many ways a fulfilled return to the Child’s deep connection to and instinctive understanding of life.” The Mage becomes the “Wise Innocent,” returning to the child’s “capacity for joy, innocence, trust, and resilience.” Think about Yoda. Dumbledore. (I would say Gandalf, but I know you’re probably done with Lord of the Rings.)

The Mage doesn’t have to be old. They can be anyone. They’re just an idea. But what if the Mage is the True Self hiding under each archetype? What if the lesson they learn is the ultimate lesson that has to be learned in a dozen forms over a dozen archetypal arcs, all variations of this one? Because isn’t that the ultimate task? To let go of attachment and aversion—and trust? To let go of all the fear- or pride-based stories they tell about who they are and engage in deep vulnerability? This character has a peace that can’t be touched. A love that can’t be quenched. A freedom that is contagious. What if the Mage is the Truest Self of any character we can imagine, and the Gap is what they need to get there? What if that’s true of us, too? What would it look like to engage the Gap in our own lives and ask—what would the Mage do? What attachments or aversions is the Gap inviting me to confront in order to be free? To better serve those around me? If this is my story, what does that look like?

So, to close, let me ask again what it means for us to cultivate a healthy relationship with the Gap? To bow to it as sacred? To see the Gap as an inevitable, paradoxical phenomenon in which we are being invited to create? What would it mean to be intentional about how we “create within the Gap”—the tools we use and the questions we ask—in order to foster a positive growth arc and not a negative or flat one, watering the seeds of the Mages that we really are?

Amen.