Notes from the Storytelling Coach

The name we give to our helpers influences what we expect from them. Do we want them to direct us? Teach us? Criticize us? What should be our helper’s goals? Is the helper more of a parent or a midwife? What name fits the idea of supportive, respectful helping?

Further, is this idea of a helper adaptable to fields other than storytelling? And is coaching something that will evolve or can we now describe it now, once and for all?

Seven minutes, fifteen seconds

Episode 4 of the Storytelling Coach Podcast.

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In 2008, I was meeting with members of the Utah storytelling guild, helping them think about what activities might best help them strengthen their community and promote storytelling in Utah.

One teller, Rachel Hedman, suggested a series of “story slams,” one-evening competitions in which anyone can offer a story on the evening’s theme. The story’s are judged and scored; the night’s winner usually receives a prize of some sort.

I have long opposed competitions in the arts. Can you score a Beethoven symphony over a Brahms symphony? Works of art are unique and complex. The idea of ranking them along a single continuum has always seemed like an invasion of our competitive culture into something inherently non-competitive. After all, if Beethoven had written a tenth symphony, it wouldn’t have taken away the value of his previous nine. Nor did Brahms’ symphonies diminish the value of Beethoven’s. Competitions are zero-sum games, whereas works of art are more like “magic pennies” – the more you send into the world, the more benefit you and others gain.

Therefore, my response to Rachel’s suggestions was this:

To bring in new and varied listeners to storytelling, we will undoubtedly need to make our existing events less comfortable for us, our existing listeners. I am uncomfortable with the idea of a story slam. Therefore, I won’t participate in organizing one.

But I support someone else doing it! Making me uncomfortable is probably necessary to expand the audience for storytelling.

A Story Slam in Boston?

Fast-forward to September, 2009. A group calling itself MassMouth asked me to attend one of their new Boston story slams as a judge. I refused until I could at least visit a slam and decide whether I wanted to support this competitive form of storytelling.

In December, I attended the third MassMouth slam, with a theme of “It’s My Job.” Jackson Gillman drove me into Boston (we both live south and east of Boston). On the way, he told me about attending the past two slams. Three things he told me piqued my interest:

• In one of the slams, several professional tellers told and told well. But a first-time teller told a story that was clearly superior to all the others – and walked off with the prize.
• The atmosphere is encouraging, not at all competitive.
• Because of the judging, Jackson found himself reluctant to tell a story that isn’t highly polished. For a story swap (non-competitive story-sharing event), he would likely tell a story-in-progress. But for this, he worked hard to perfect a story and get it down to the five-minute limit.

Once I arrived at the slam, I discovered some more interesting facts:

• The room – which can hold about 60 people at the most – was packed. There was an air of excitement.
• About one-third the attendees appeared to be below the age of 30 – a much younger crowd than attends other storytelling events.
• Many of the attendees had attended one of the first two slams, and were returning with friends
• Several non-professional tellers told, such as the former school secretary telling about one day’s dose of unruly children, worried parents, and frustrated teachers.

All this makes me think that this series is definitely a service to storytelling. It’s bringing in new audiences. It’s improving the quality of stories told by experienced tellers. For me, the element of competition is balanced by an implicit message:

Anyone can tell a story; the stories of ordinary people are worth listening to.

The top two winners are eligible to tell in the “Big Mouth-Off” in April. And the top prize there is a one-week stay at a restored town house in Tuscany, Italy!

Okay, I want that prize!

I admit it: in this tough economy, the villa in Tuscany sounds like a great way to get a vacation for Pam and me – just for the cost of some frequent flier miles (to get to Italy).

So I decided to compete, myself.

For the March slam in Boston (the last before the Big Mouth-Off), the theme was “Outrageous!”

What would I tell? I’m generally more at home with stories of personal transformation, rabbinic wisdom, or social liberation. I certainly don’t think of myself as a teller of humorous or “outrageous” stories. I spent two one-hour sessions with my story-buddies before settling on an experience I had in the 1960′s: having to sing a song at gunpoint.

I had already included this experience in a longer tale, Hopping Freights. But in that 90-minute story, I put this episode in the context of a decision about how to respond to the draft during the Vietnam War.

After several coaching sessions and a trial performance at the Story Cafe in New Bedford, MA, I had re-shaped the episode and drastically shortened to fit the 5-minute time limit.

See more videos of Slam participants on MassMouth

I’m proud (and, in light of my reservations about competition in storytelling) somewhat humbled to have won that story slam. You can see my winning performance in the video, above.

To survive, public storytelling events need to evolve. I now believe that story slams – when done with care and embraced by a supportive community – can be part of a useful evolution that brings storytelling to wider audiences.

Five incredible storytellers are at my house right now, taking the Building a Doorway for New Storytelling Customers workshop. (In the picture, left to right: Cynthia Changaris, Debra Ballou, Meg Gilman, Brian Hetherington, Teresa Whitaker.)

Meg Gilman let me describe her work her as an example. In the workshop, she decided that she loves the challenge of difficult audiences so much that her doorway will be for people who need an entertaining, educational speaker for a difficult audience. “Bring them on!” says Meg. Another participant suggested the title “Presentation Impossible” for Meg. Still another, “Speaking Commando.”

The process of helping each participant build a doorway has been exhilarating. For the first day, we focused on noticing – and accepting – who we are as tellers, as marketers, and as self-employed business owners. What do we each have energy for? What things do we need help doing? What forms of communication energize us? What is the current state of our five-ring communities, of our relationships with those who need our work and who support us?

Then we helped each person decide on a group of people that she or he wants to develop more relationships with. For example, Meg wants to attract those who work for an organization, have been given the task of hiring a speaker or trainer, yet feel that they have an “impossible” or “difficult” group. Since Meg loves varied audiences, varied topics, and lots of challenge, this is a perfect choice for her.

Next, we helped each person imagine a “doorway” for inviting those people into relationship. A doorway is a structure you have created for beginning or advancing your relationships with those who support you financially or otherwise. (Read more about doorways.) For example, Meg’s new doorway will be an email newsletter about (the phrasing will change before launch) “Ways to Make Your Organization’s Speaking or Training Event Succeed – In Spite of a Difficult Audience.”

Finally, we have the work to do of holding each other accountable for carrying out the construction and maintenance of our doorways. We will use the phone and the internet to keep in touch, offer assistance and encouragement, and notice where our plans need to be tweaked in order to succeed.

My personal take-away from this workshop has been the energy generated by focusing the group’s attention on the needs of one member – and then listening intently, asking clarifying questions, brainstorming about the benefits that person’s work provides, and then listening further to the member’s reactions. As this process is repeated, the member has felt empowered around marketing and the group has also felt empowered.

Work like this is too difficult to do alone. After all, it involves describing ourselves as others see us – no matter what internal voices try to undermine or distract us from our value to others. But a compassionate group can be guided to make this work efficient and fun. Having lived this process for three days so far, I too feel surrounded by empowerment. Together we can accomplish what might overwhelm any one of us!

Just came back from Brother Blue’s wake. Jay and Linda O’Callahan drove up with Pam and me from Marshfield to a funeral home in Cambridge, MA. It was bitter sweet to share memories of Blue on the drive up.

Saw scores of storytellers at the “visiting hours.” I would have rather seen them at a party than a wake, but it was my first time to see them at all since I moved back from OK. Hugging so many and saying heartfelt hellos was grounding and delightful.

Ruth Hill (Blue’s wife) was magnificent, shaking hands and talking to each person in the line to view Blue’s casket. In death, even though I had never seen him so still, Blue’s spirit was still evident. I could have cried for an hour.

So today was an affirmation of storytelling community, combined with the irreplaceable loss of Blue. Even after he “blew away” (his term from long ago), though, he brought us together in celebration of story and life. 

One of Blue’s gifts was to be able to summarize a person’s unique qualities in a phrase or two. I will always cherish what he said to me every time we met: “Look at him,” he would say to the world in general, with his arm on my shoulder. “He was born ancient and wise. His spirit is 10,000 years old!”

If that’s true, Blue would know. His spirit must have been even older. He seemed like a natural force, like water seeping up through rocks or like sunlight insisting on finding its way into the dark corners of a forest.

A force like that never really stops. Perhaps on its own, perhaps through those of us who were touched by him, his spirit must surely still be at work, dancing through the landscape of dreams, the oceans of stories, the quiet waters of our lives.