Tell Me Something Good

Let the Story Do the Work by Liz Warren

In the early days of the Storytelling Institute, I was practicing a story with my colleague, Ricardo Provencio. When the story was over, Pro said, “Well, you have at least three endings to that story. I suggest you pick the one that doesn’t tell people how to feel.” He made me laugh, but he was right, and his advice has stayed with me.

Telling our listeners how to feel about a story or spelling out exactly what the story means to us, is a temptation that most of us face as storytellers.

We want to be sure that our intent is heard.

We want to be sure that the listeners truly understand the message and meaning of the story.

We want to manage both the story and listeners’ experience of it.

I think this most often reflects how deeply we care about the story and its importance to us. We intend to honor the subject of the story as we understand it, so we instruct our listeners on how to feel and think.

We shouldn’t do that without thinking very carefully about what it means for the story. At the very least when we state the meaning of a story we are veering into other narrative genres – lectures, speeches, and sermons. Beyond that, when we explicitly tell listeners what to think or feel we are tacitly communicating that we don’t trust them, or that we don’t trust the story, or that we don’t trust our own ability to construct a story.

I’m not saying that we shouldn’t know what the story means to us. We should. We need to have a clear intent in constructing and telling a story. The key is in the construction. We build the story to communicate our intent so that we don’t have to state it explicitly. That is where the artistry comes into our job as storytellers. We bring all our skills to bear in creating a story and then we let the story do the work.

One very effective way to do this is to have the characters in the story speak the message. Laura Rutherford did this at the end of her story “Stop the Trains” about the harbor pilot who was blamed for the Halifax Explosion in 1917. In her research, Laura learned that he was not at fault. But she didn’t say that. She had him say it to his daughter at the end of the story. “You did nothing wrong . . . and neither did I.” The rest of her story was constructed to support that statement, so we went away with the understanding she intended.

Establishing the historical, social, and personal contexts in which a person lived is another effective way to direct listeners to a particular point of view about their deeds. Sometimes our research will reveal actual statements by the subject of the story that we can incorporate in the story to communicate our intent. Other times we can build up a sufficient understanding of the person to create dialogue for the story that is supported by our research into the context and events of the person’s life and accomplishments.

We can’t control what the stories we tell mean to people or how they are understood. Even stating explicitly what we think a story is supposed to mean doesn’t insure that. Better to do the hard work of building a story and letting the story do the work.

(The photo at the top of the post shows me with Ricardo Provencio and Don Doyle in Pine Arizona for Tellabration in 2008.)

A Different Viewpoint by Elizabeth Wunsch

“Do remember a time when you were lost?”

That was a storytelling prompt that stood out for me. It triggered a memory. Of Brooklyn summer vacations at my Grandparent’s house. Of being three - four years old. Taking a trip to Coney Island. A big white beach umbrella with red roses that saved me from being forever lost.

But, what is this story really about?  How do I approach its crafting? Was it about my Grandparent’s warnings not to wander? Stay close to the umbrella that shaded our beach site or “you’ll be lost forever!” Was it about my uncontrolled curiosity and rambunctious nature illustrated as I rode the subway to Coney Island and ran down the seedy boardwalk in delight? Or was it about my need to be as close as I could to the ocean waves?

Surely it is a combination of all these things, but that would be an epic tale. I want to chisel down and craft the story from one of theses points of view, all of which revolve around that white umbrella covered in red roses. I thought about this in the days after the class prompt. I recognized many points in my journey that correlated with these different points of view. The story was beginning to find its needed viewpoint.

I went to the closet in my garage. I brought out the yellow plastic cased item. It was old and I was careful as I pulled it from its yellow case. A 68 year old white beach umbrella covered with red roses. In perfect shape except for some aging at it’s edges. It was delicate but strong. Vibrant. Beautiful. As I gazed at it I realized that maybe this story is about something else.

I will let this story percolate a bit as I look deeper within myself. A new realization. A new point of view  that will guide this story to its telling completion.