Storyworthy

by Matthew Dicks

  There were four other rental counters lining the wall, so we went from counter to counter, begging customer-service representatives at each to rent us a car. After three emphatic rejections, we came to our last chance, an Alamo counter manned by a young man in a Philadelphia Eagles jersey. I sensed an opportunity. Wanting to be the kind of guy who can take care of his woman, I told Elysha to hang back and let me handle this. “I’m getting you a car,” I said with all the bravado that I could muster.

  This was important to me, because I’m not a real man. I can’t build or repair a thing. I can’t assemble children’s toys or construct one of my son’s LEGO sets. IKEA directions might as well be in Swedish for me. I have a hard time hammering a nail into a wall.

  But I have friends who built their own houses. Restored their own cars. Chop their own firewood. These are men who can lift their entire house off the foundation to repair the main beam. I can do none of these things. I don’t even really know what a main beam is. My hands do not build or repair, they purchase and replace. As a result, I often feel like less than a man in many contexts.

  This was my opportunity to step up and deliver. To show Elysha that I was a man who could get things done. That she was marrying someone who could take care of her.

  When I started crafting the story, I began in the airport in Connecticut, waiting to board the plane. It made sense. Begin the story at the start of our journey.

  Then I moved the beginning of the story onto the plane just before takeoff. Why include the airport terminal in Connecticut? Fewer locations in a story always makes things simpler and easier to digest for an audience.

  Then I moved the beginning of the story into the sky between Hartford and Boca Raton. Why include takeoff in the story when the actual plane ride is irrelevant?

  Wait. If the actual plane ride is irrelevant, why not eliminate the plane altogether? Why not begin the story as we disembark the plane and enter the Boca Raton airport?

  Wait again. Why not start my story while we were standing in line at Enterprise Rent-A-Car? Why not begin the story a few feet from where it will end? This is where the story really takes place.

  Through this revision process, I managed to move the beginning of my story about twelve hundred miles in distance and five hours in time. I also eliminated two airport terminals and an airplane in the process. In the end, the story takes place in one place: the building adjacent to the Boca Raton airport where cars are rented to travelers.

  I started as close to the end as possible.

  Simplifying also helps storytellers tell their stories better. When time and space is limited, it’s easier to remember your story. Easier to master your transitions, and easier to remember those favorite lines that you don’t want to forget. But simplification is even more important because of the difference between oral storytelling and written storytelling.

  A written story is like a lake. Readers can step in and out of the water at their leisure, and the water always remains the same. This stillness and permanence allow for pausing, rereading, contemplation, and the use of outside sources to help with meaning. It also allows the reader to control the speed at which the story is received.

  An oral story is like a river. It is a constantly flowing torrent of words. When listeners need to step outside of the river to ponder a detail, wonder about something that confuses them, or attempt to make meaning, the river continues to flow. When the listener finally steps back into the river, he or she is behind. The water that has flowed by will never be seen again, and as a result, the listener is constantly chasing the story, trying to catch up.

  To keep your listener from stepping out of your river of words to make meaning, simplification is essential. Starting as close to the end as possible helps to make this happen. Sometimes the closest place to start is thirty years before your five-second moment. If that’s the case, so be it. But when that beginning can be pushed closer to the five-second moment, your audience will be the better for it.

  Movies operate similarly. Think about Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven franchise. In each of these movies, a group of likable thieves gather in Las Vegas to rob a world-class casino of hundreds of millions of dollars. In the real world, a heist like this would take months or even years to plan, but that would never make for a satisfying story. Instead, Soderbergh has these professional thieves plan their caper over the course of a few days. This is a ridiculous way to plan a robbery. But compressing the action into a smaller amount of time makes the story more exciting. It intensifies the action and emotion. It increases the likelihood of problems.

  It also simplifies the story. Watching career criminals plan a heist over the course of six months would be tedious, complicated, and monotonous. It would be easy for Soderbergh to lose the attention and focus of his audience. But when he jams all of that action into a few days, the story is simplified to an enormous degree. Soderbergh starts his stories as close to the ending as possible. He gets it.

  Standing in front of the Alamo counter, I turn to Elysha. “Wait here,” I say with as much bravado as I can muster. “I’m renting us a car.” As I approach the counter and the man standing behind it, the fact that this is an Alamo counter is not lost on me.

  My own personal Alamo. My final stand. My last chance for glory.

  As I approach, I consider pretending to be a Philadelphia Eagles fan. They have just played my beloved New England Patriots in the Super Bowl the month before (and lost), so I know enough about the Eagles to convince the man behind the counter that I support his team. Perhaps we can find common ground. I envision us bonding over our mutual love of a team that he obviously loves, and I am more than willing to love for the next ten minutes. I’ll talk about my admiration for Brian Westbrook, a shifty running back who has hands as soft as clay, and I’ll rail against the much-despised owner of the team and his inability to leave the football to the coaching staff.

  I’m nearly set on this idea when he says, “Hi, can I help you?” and I instinctively revert to truthfulness and authenticity.

  I had yet to stand on a stage and tell a story at that point in my life, but even back then, I thought that authenticity was the best way to appeal to people and to move them emotionally.

  “Sorry about the Super Bowl,” I say, pointing at his jersey. He’s wearing number 5, of course. Donovan McNabb, the Eagles’ quarterback. “I’m a Patriots fan, and I’ve got to tell you, we were terrified about facing McNabb. He was the last quarterback we wanted to see in the Super Bowl.”

  “Yeah,” Eagles Fan says, dejected. “That was a lousy day for Eagles fans.”

  “If only they could give the guy a little help,” I say. “Sometimes that’s all a guy like McNabb needs is a little help. Someone to stand by him.”

  “Exactly!” he says, suddenly perking up. “Why can’t they get him a no-drama receiver to catch the damn ball?”

  “And maybe a couple more guys on the offensive line for some protection,” I add.

  “Yes,” he says, almost pleading.

  I understand his pain. I watched the Patriots lose the Super Bowl in both 1986 and 1997 before they finally broke through with their first Super Bowl victory in 2001.

  I was a fourteen-year-old boy in ’86, watching the game in the living room of my childhood home. I wept as the Bears ran “Refrigerator” Perry into the end zone to make the score 44–3.

  In ’97, I was watching the game in the home of close friends. When Green Bay wide receiver Desmond Howard ran back the second-half kickoff for a touchdown, I threw my shoe through their living-room wall — directly above the television — in a mindless act of rage. Watching your team lose the Super Bowl is the worst.

  We talk some more about the game. Debate the effectiveness of the Eagles’ much-maligned head coach, Andy Reid. Commiserate over the impossibly talented yet equally annoying receiver Terrell Owens. A Patriots fan and an Eagles fan — bitter opponents just two weeks ago — find common ground by talking about the big game. “A little help
might have changed everything,” I say.

  Then we get down to business. I tell Eagles Fan that I need a car for the week, and as I start to complete the paperwork, he examines my driver’s license. “Oh,” he says, looking up. “I can’t rent a car to you. Your license is expired.”

  I feign surprise. Then disbelief. Then disappointment. I try to channel the sadness and distress of the 1986 version of me following the Super Bowl. I drop my head. I sigh deeply.

  Then I look up. I ask him to look over at Elysha. “See that girl over there? She’s my fiancée. She’s agreed to marry me, but I keep screwing up. I’m holding on by a thread. This might be my last chance.”

  “Sorry, man,” Eagles Fan says, and he means it.

  I wait a beat. My eyes return to my shoes. I sigh again. Then I look up. I look into Eagles Fan’s eyes and say, “Listen, I could use some help here. I can’t let this girl down. I’m always letting her down. You know, sometimes that’s all a guy needs is a little help. Someone to stand by him. A no-drama wide receiver.”

  Eagles fan smiles. Nods. Then he rents me the car.

  Elysha can’t believe it. Neither can I. I’m not the kind of guy who makes things like this happen.

  Here are a couple more practical tips for choosing an opening:

  1. Try to start your story with forward movement whenever possible.

  Establish yourself as a person who is physically moving through space. Opening with forward movement creates instant momentum in a story. It makes the audience feel that we’re already on our way, immersed in the world you are moving us through. We’re going somewhere important.

  2. Don’t start by setting expectations.

  Listen to people in the world tell you stories. Often they start with a sentence like, “This is hilarious,” or “You need to hear this,” or “You’re not going to believe this.” This is always a mistake, for three reasons.

  First, it establishes potentially unrealistic expectations. “Hilarious” is an exceptionally high bar. “You’re not going to believe this” is probably an impossible mark to hit. Never start your story by setting expectations for it, realistic or otherwise. No one wants a rubric or an introduction at the beginning of a story. They simply want a story.

  Second, starting your story with a thesis statement reduces your chances of surprising your audience. When you tell me that the story is hilarious, I’m already primed for humor. When you say, “You’re not going to believe this,” I am prepared for the improbable. Surprise is a beautiful thing in a story. Apart from vulnerability, it may be the most beautiful thing about stories. Letting your audience know that your story is hilarious or improbable hinders your ability to catch them off-guard and offer them a surprise later on.

  Third, these are simply not interesting ways to start a story. A thesis statement, a prediction about the audience’s response to the story, or a summary of its theme or mood does not immediately draw us into the story’s time and place. We don’t feel transported to a new and interesting locale. We don’t get the sense that we are traveling back in time. We feel lectured to. We feel cheated.

  Start with the story, not with a summary of the story. There is no need to describe the tone or tenor at the onset. Just start with story, and whenever possible, open with movement. Forward progress. It’s a simple and effective way of grabbing the listeners’ attention and focusing it somewhere specific. It makes them feel that we’re already off and running.

  In “Charity Thief,” my opening sentences tell you that I am hurtling down a lonely stretch of New Hampshire highway, headed in the direction of home.

  In “This Is Going to Suck,” I’m walking out of a record store on a December day, two days before Christmas, with a shopping bag in my hand.

  Forward momentum. These stories are going somewhere. We are already on the move. Jump aboard for the ride.

  Pay attention to the opening scenes of movies. So many of them use this strategy as well. We open on the protagonist or someone similarly important to the story. That person will be moving. Walking. Running. Driving. Flying. Climbing. Fleeing. Falling. Swimming. Crawling. Diving. Filmmakers want to immerse you into their world as quickly as possible. They want you to forget the theater and the popcorn and the jackass who is texting beside you. They want you to be absorbed by the story. They want you to forget that you even exist for the duration of the film.

  Star Wars: A New Hope opens on two starships racing through space.

  Vertigo opens with a man frantically climbing a ladder, pursued by a police officer.

  Raging Bull opens with a figure shadowboxing in a boxing ring as flashbulbs pop off.

  The Dark Knight begins with a bank robbery in progress.

  Apocalypse Now opens with helicopters setting fire to a jungle.

  Raiders of the Lost Ark opens on Indy and his team marching through the dark and forbidding jungle toward a mysterious mountain.

  Jurassic Park opens with a cage containing a velociraptor moving through trees toward a group of armed men.

  Titanic opens with a submarine’s descent toward the wreckage of the doomed ship.

  Casablanca opens with a narration and a visual of refugees escaping from France to Casablanca during World War II.

  Many movies open with simple overhead views passing over an ocean, a cityscape, or a mountain pass. Many movies based in New York City open with an overhead approach of the island over water. This has nothing to do with the film but allows the director to open with momentum. Forward movement. We’re headed somewhere important.

  Here’s the good news: If you stop reading right now, you’re already a better storyteller than most. If you are telling a story about a five-second moment of your life — a moment of transformation, realization, or revelation — you’re doing well.

  If you’ve also found the right place to begin your story — a place that represents the opposite of your five-second moment, and one as close to the ending as possible — you’ve established a clear frame and arc in your story. You’ve identified the direction your story is headed in, and you and your audience probably have a good sense of where that may be. You are already going to be well received by audiences big and small.

  If you’re careful about choosing that opening scene — not simply choosing the first thing that comes to mind but instead asking yourself what the opening scene needs — and you open your story with story and not any form of unnecessary or qualifying introduction, you are going to grab your audience’s attention right off the bat.

  Stop here and you’ll be better than most. Truly.

  But don’t stop, because all you have now is the beginning and ending of your story. That middle part — the arc — needs to be filled. You have to carry your audience from beginning to end, holding their attention, captivating them, causing them to laugh and cry and wonder.

  There are ways to do this too. Ways to keep your audience’s attention firmly in place. Let me show you how.

  STORY BREAK

  Thirteen Rules for an Effective (and Perhaps Even Inspiring) Commencement Address

  1.Don’t compliment yourself. Don’t praise your accomplishments in any way. It is not your day. Even if you’re delivering the valedictory speech, it’s still not your day. It’s a day for every person in your graduating class. Don’t place your accomplishments ahead of theirs. You’ve already been recognized as valedictorian; that should be more than enough credit for one day. Make the speech about something other than the great things you have done.

  2.Be self-deprecating, but only if it is real. Don’t ever pretend to be self-deprecating. Your audience will see right through you. This is even worse than being self-congratulatory.

  3.Don’t ask rhetorical questions. These questions always break momentum and displace your authority as the speaker onto your audience. Also, audience members will sometimes answer these questions and interrupt you, which is never good.

  4.Offer one granular bit of wisdom, something that is both applicable and memorab
le. Anyone can deliver a speech filled with sweeping generalities. Most people are capable of offering old chestnuts and choice proverbs. The great commencement speakers manage to lodge a small, original, useful, and memorable idea in the minds of the graduates. It’s the offer of one final lesson — a bit of compelling wisdom and insight that the graduates will remember long after they have tossed their caps and moved into the greater world.

  5.Don’t cater any part of your speech to the parents of the graduates. As much as they may think otherwise, this is not their day either. This is a speech directed at the graduates.

  6.Make your audience laugh.

  7.Never mention the weather or the temperature. If it’s a beautiful day, everyone knows it. If it’s not, reminding your audience about the heat or rain is stupid. There is nothing more banal and meaningless than talking about the weather.

  8.Speak as if you were speaking to friends. Be yourself. If your language sounds more formal than your normal speech, you have failed.

  9.Emotion is good. Be enthusiastic. Excited. Hopeful. Even angry if needed. Anything but staid and somber. This is not a policy speech or a lecture. It is an inspirational address.

  10.If you plan on describing the world the graduates will be entering, don’t. It’s ridiculous to assume that the world as you see it resembles the world that this diverse group of people will be entering. Your prognostications will most assuredly prove to be wrong. These graduates’ paths will be multifarious. Some will be moving on to higher levels of education. Others will be hired for jobs that may not even exist yet. Others will join family businesses, travel the world, launch their own companies, or return home to care for aging parents. Telling these people what the world will be like for them requires hubris on a monumental scale.

  11.Don’t define terms by quoting the dictionary. “Webster’s Dictionary says” are three words that should be banned from all speeches and essays until the end of time.