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Chapter 3. How Can We Improve Our Storytelling Ability?

Very closely related to conversation (and often a part of it) is storytelling. Stories may be told to entertain or to prove a point.

Just as people enjoy traveling, playing games, working, and other forms of activity, they also enjoy hearing others tell about these activities, IF THEY TELL IT WELL.

1. Essentials of Storytelling

The essentials of a good story are as follows: the characters, the setting, the plot, the movement, and the climax. Let us examine closely each of these.

The Characters

The characters in a good story are definite, well-drawn, and distinct. Usually they have names, ages, and features that are clear and concise. In short, they are real-life people. Descriptions of them should enable the listener to feel that he knows them well enough to enjoy and understand their activities.

How well can you describe a character?

What do you think of the following story, stressing character detail?

The little old lady in the little red hat died on Sunday in St. Vincent's Hospital. She had told the nuns when she was brought in a week ago Monday that she was 94 years old. She said she was Mrs. Ida Robinson.

Guests and help at the Aberdeen Hotel on Thirty-second Street, west of Fifth Avenue, knew no more about her than that, though she had lived in a tiny $10-a-week room under the roof a full six years. They wondered about her past.

She had been a proud little thing. Other Aberdeen guests figured she weighed seventy pounds at most, all of it fiery independence. There was a jaunty tilt to her little red hat, an almost aggressive angle to its stick-up feather.

She always carried a brown paper shopping bag. In it she hid a much-worn, over-sized handbag. Her hair was snowy. Her eyes were lively black. Her few dresses were inexpensive but were always neat and tidy. She always wore high heels.

Ladies who habitually sit in the Aberdeen lobby thought, in all kindness, that Mrs. Robinson used too much rouge for a lady of 94, but the men defended her coloring. They said it was certain proof that she had been a stage personality at one time.

No one ever dared ask the little old lady. She discouraged friendships. She would feel her way along the lobby wall, taking two-inch steps on the high heels, and she would support herself against building fronts on her way to a bench under Horace Greeley's statue, a little west of the hotel.

If gentlemen, young and old, offered an arm, the dark eyes would coal up. The little old lady would thank them to "Step aside". She took her meals at the Phoenix, a counter place down the street. If someone else had her seat, she'd wait grimly until it was free again.

Same thing down at St. Francis of Assisi Church farther west on Thirty-second Street. She shuffled to the same pew every day. If someone was in it, she would support herself just outside until it was vacant. The little old lady gave ground to no one.

One day last summer Mrs. Robinson fell on her way to the restaurant. Passers-by picked her up and sat her in a borrowed chair. When a brisk young intern clanged up a few minutes later, she glared at him. She told him coldly in her cracked voice: "Go about your business, young man," and he did.

A week ago last Monday a maid found the little old lady unconscious on the bit of worn carpet in her room. A priest administered last rites. Then an ambulance took the little old lady away. The walls of her room held a dozen religious pictures and a large crucifix. There were no papers to tell of the tenant's past.

A yellowed news clipping in a newspaper morgue told of an Ida Robinson who had designed costumes for animals at Luna Park in Coney Island sixty years ago; at the old Hippodrome on Sixth Avenue; at the Coney Island Mardi Gras and at the Ruffalo Exposition in 1901. She had worked for Weber and Fields, too.

That Ida Robinson was a little woman. She used an eighteen-foot ladder to dress circus elephants. She got up costumes for society masque balls. When the lobby folk heard that, they nodded. "That would be her," they said. "She would climb an elephant, or anyone else who got in her way."

If anyone remembers the little elephant dresser, city authorities would like to know where she has kin. If not, she may have to go to a pauper's grave, and that wouldn't seem proper. She carried her fire too long for that.*

The Setting

Stories are often more meaningful if we know the surroundings in which the events took place. The detail in which the setting is described is determined by the importance of those details to the total effectiveness of the story.

Usually the time and place must be included. Beyond that, ONLY the details necessary for a full appreciation of the story should be included. If the listeners have been in the same situation often, the narrator will need only to mention the setting; if they have not, the setting will need to be carefully drawn in words that will permit the listeners to "picture" the scene.

Note how Charles Dickens carefully sets the scene for his story in this selection from one of his most popular stories, A Christmas Carol. Dickens is one of the greatest masters of storytelling that ever lived. In this instance, he goes into detail to describe the setting of his story, because it is a place the listener (or reader) does not know and it helps us to understand the characters and plot. Notice how Dickens carefully establishes a mood within the room, by describing only those things which are important. Can't you tell a good deal about Scrooge just from the description of his office?

Once upon a time-of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve-old Scrooge sat busy in his countinghouse. It was cold, bleak, biting weather, foggy withal; and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already; it had not been light all day; and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighboring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Scrooge's countinghouse was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, the master predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle, in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

The Plot

People often get themselves into situations that are amusing, puzzling, dramatic, and even tragic. We enjoy hearing how men and women get into these situations and how they get out of them. The basic thread of a story is called the plot and is the heart of a good story. Essentially, a plot consists of a problem which the principal characters must face; they attempt to solve the problem, as well as the complications which the problem creates, and the final success or failure of their efforts ends the story.

The best plots are those situations in which the characters seem to get involved easily, naturally, or even unavoidably; failure to avoid the expected and dire consequences seems certain; and/or accomplish an unexpected and satisfactory escape or fulfillment of the consequences.

One of the reasons why Shakespeare's tragedies are considered so excellent is that the characters become involved, not by chance, but because they could not help themselves. Macbeth, for example, an ambitious man, is tempted to murder Duncan because of natural impulses of ambition. It appears that he will escape punishment, but the satisfactory fulfillment, his death, ends the play.

The plot of a story used by Booker T. Washington in his 1895 speech at the Atlanta Exposition is simple but effective. It could be lengthened considerably by adding more detail:

"A ship lost at sea for many days suddenly sighted a friendly vessel. From the mast of the unfortunate vessel was seen a signal, "Water, water; we die of thirst!" The answer from the friendly vessel at once came back, "Cast down your bucket where you are." And a third and fourth signal for water was answered, "Cast down your bucket where you are." The captain of the distressed vessel, at last heeding the injunction, cast down his bucket, and it came up full of fresh, sparkling water from the mouth of the Amazon River."

The Movement

We have all heard stories that seem to get nowhere. They are hard to listen to, and we wish the storyteller would get to the point. They are dull because the series of events happens too slowly to hold our attention. The missing element, of such a story is what we call movement: the free, rapid progression of the actions of the plot, from the initial problem to the final solution.

Movement is often hindered by unnecessarily detailed description of the characters and setting, by minor events that do not contribute to the story, or by side events that completely side-track the direction of the story.

To insure movement in storytelling, we should attempt to open the story quickly, reveal the principal character (or characters) and his problem as soon as possible, and present the sequence of events as fast as the listeners can absorb them. We should include only the materials that contribute to the effectiveness of the story, present the solution briefly, and end the story as soon as possible after the solution is given.

Notice how quickly James Thurber opens his story, without a lot of needless preliminaries. The problem is revealed quickly- how can he explain to the policeman what he was doing down on his hands and knees on the side of the road? The following events come quickly, and there is little that could be cut out. Once the policeman drives off, the story is quickly concluded.

James Thurber, "The Topaz Cufflinks Mystery"

When the motorcycle cop came roaring up, unexpectedly, the man was on his hands and knees in the long grass beside the road, barking like a dog. The woman was driving slowly along in a car that stopped about eighty feet away; its headlights shone on the man: middle-aged, bewildered, sedentary. He got to his feet.

"What's goin' on here?" asked the cop. The woman giggled.
"I guess it's gone," said the man. "I-ah-could not find it."
"What was it?"
"What I lost?" The man squinted, unhappily. "Some-some cufflinks; topazes set in gold." He hesitated: the cop didn't seem to believe him. "They were the color of a fine Moselle," said the man. He put on a pair of spectacles which he had been holding in his hand. The woman giggled.
"Hunt things better with ya glasses off?" asked the cop.
"I'm nearsighted," said the man.
"He was barking," ventured the lady in the car, "so that I could see where he was."
"What I don't get," said the officer, "is how you lose ya cufflinks a hundred feet in front of where ya car is; a person usually stops his car past the place he loses somethin', not a hundred feet before he gets to the place."
The lady laughed again; her husband got slowly into the car, as if he were afraid the officer would stop him any moment. The officer studied them.
"You people didn't lose no topazes," he said. He made no move to get on his motorcycle, however, and go on about his business. There was just the quiet chugging of the cycle engine and the auto engine, for a time.
"I'll tell you how it was, Officer," said the man, in a crisp new tone. "We were settling a bet. O.K.?"
"O.K.," said the cop. "Who won?"
"The lady bet," said her husband, with dignity, as though he were explaining some important phase of industry to a newly hired clerk, "the lady bet that my eyes would shine like a cat's do at night, if she came upon me suddenly close to the ground alongside the road. We had passed a cat, whose eyes gleamed. We had passed several persons, whose eyes did not gleam-"
"Simply because they were above the light and not under it," said the lady. "A man's eyes would gleam like a cat's if people were ordinarily caught by headlights at the same angle as cats are." The cop walked over to where he had left his motorcycle, picked it up, kicked the standard out, and wheeled it back.
"A cat's eyes," he said, "are different than yours and mine. Dogs, cats, skunks, it's all the same. They can see in a dark room."
"Not in a totally dark room," said the lady.
"Yes, they can," said the cop.
"No, they can't; not if there is no light at all in the room, not if it's absolutely black" said the lady. "The question came up the other night; there was a professor there and he said there must be at least a ray of light, no matter how faint."
"That may be," said the cop, after a solemn pause, pulling at his gloves. "But people's eyes don't shine-I go along these roads every night an' pass hundreds of cats and hundreds of people."
"The people are never close to the ground," said the lady.
"7 were close to the ground," said her husband.
"Look at it this way," said the cop. "I've seen wildcats in trees at night and their eyes shine."
"There you are!" said the lady's husband. "That proves it."
"I don't see how," said the lady. There was another silence.
"Because a wildcat in a tree's eyes are higher than the level of a man's," said her husband. The cop may possibly have followed this, the lady obviously did not.
"Took ya glasses off so the headlights wouldn't make ya glasses shine, huh?" said the cop.
"That's right," said the man. The cop waved his hand triumphantly, and roared away. "Smart guy," said the man to his wife, irritably.
"I still don't see where the wildcat proves anything," said his wife. He drove off slowly.
"Look," he said. "You claim that the whole thing depends on how low a cat's eyes are: I-"
"I didn't say that; I said it all depends on how high a man's eyes . . ." *

All of us have such funny things happen to us. We need to learn to tell them as well as Mr. Thurber does.

The Climax

A good narrative creates tension in the listeners that should steadily increase until the final solution of the plot is presented. The release of this tension occurs at the climax.

Tension or suspense is created in the listener by stimulating his concern for the characters in the story as they face the problem. This can be enhanced by withholding the solution and allowing the listeners time "to worry" about the characters or to explore possible solutions with them.

Too little suspense will damage a story because the audience will not feel the need for a satisfactory solution. Too much delay will cause tension to decline, and no climax will be possible. The storyteller should observe the first signs of restlessness to determine when the suspense has reached its highest peak. He should then present the solution to the story in a satisfying climax.

Note how the suspense builds in this story.

Frank R. Stockton, "The Lady or the Tiger?"

In the very olden time there lived a semi barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built as an agent of poetic justice, in which the crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena.

When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high on his throne on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased. He was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him, and tore him to pieces, as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided doleful iron bells were clanged, and the audience wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.

But if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable that His Majesty could select among his fair subjects; and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection. The king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers and dancing maidens advanced to where the pair stood, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth, and the innocent man led his bride to his home.

This was the king's semi barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady. He opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other.

This semi barbaric king had a daughter with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave, and she loved him with an ardor exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved on happily for many months, until, one day, the king happened to discover its existence. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. Never before had such a case occurred- never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of a king.

The tiger cages of the kingdom were searched for the fiercest monster for the arena, and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges, in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.

The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered and thronged the great galleries of the arena. The king and his court were in their places opposite the twin doors-those fatal portals, so terrible in their similarity!

All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the youth advanced into the arena, he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king. But he did not think at all of the royal personage; his eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it is probable that lady would not have been there. But her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done-she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms behind those doors stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.

Not only did she know in which room stood the lady, ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest damsels of the court . . . and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them walking together. It was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space. The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess, and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman.

When her lover turned and looked at the princess, and his eye met hers, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king.

Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question, "Which?"

The princess's right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the arena. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it.

Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady?

The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, not as if the decision of the questioned depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded semi barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him? *

2. How to Tell the Story

Now that consideration has been given to the five essentials of a good story, we are ready to consider some specific suggestions on how to deliver the story.

Tell the Story Briskly

The tempo of storytelling should usually be faster than the normal speed of conversational delivery. Listeners like to feel the story is progressing. Action must take place. You can emphasize this feeling of progress by telling the story briskly. To use a rule of thumb, if it takes you four minutes to tell the story the first time you try, work until you can tell the same story in only three minutes.

Practice the Story

Stories improve as they are told and retold. Needless details drop out. Interesting additions are included. The fables, the folk stories, and the fairy tales that compose so much of our good literature, are very old and have been passed along by word of mouth from generation to generation. Do not think that it is possible to tell a story just the way you want it told on the first attempt. Not until about the tenth telling will you reach proper efficiency.

Avoid Unimportant Details

Do not clutter up a story with side issues, unimportant characters, and general confusion. Keep the story to its lowest common denominator. One woman would begin a story by saying, "I want to tell you about my visit to my sister in Chicago. She's my youngest sister (not needed for the story)-has a brother-in-law who works in Salt Lake City (way off the point). He's rich, believe you me. We want to go see him next year, if he's home (you are lost completely by now), but he may be taking his vacation in Alaska (as if you care). Oh, yes, I started to tell you about Bertha (by this time, you are looking for a way out) . . . She's my youngest sister, did I tell you that? (You cannot remember and do not care.)

If one says he is a poor storyteller, what he is saying is that he does not know how to tell stories. Practice here makes perfect.

Be Enthusiastic About Your Own Story

We all know the storyteller who begins, "I guess you've already heard this one, haven't you?" Or the storyteller who appears so uninterested in his own story that we can't work up much enthusiasm ourselves. You do not wish to go too far and laugh too loudly at your own jokes or take yourself too seriously, but, as the stimulus, you cannot expect a response from your group unless you radiate enough energy to cause a reaction.

Half of the success in storytelling lies in the power of suggestion. If you suggest to your audience that this particular story is a good one, then you have won half the battle.

Summary

Remember that you will have to "borrow" most of your stories from someone else. Shakespeare borrowed nearly all of his plots and yet was very successful. If you hear someone else tell a particularly interesting story, jot down the essentials and then practice telling it yourself until you have put it into your story repertoire. The communicator who has a story to illustrate his point will never be at a loss to explain himself.

Exercises

1. Pick any one of the 5 stories used as illustrations in the preceding chapter on "How Can We Improve Our Storytelling Ability?" and retell the story to the class. Remember that the class will have read the story, so you must try particularly hard to be correct on details.

2. Watch a motion picture or a television program. Take notes on the story. Retell the story to the class. Avoid saying, "now this boy had this dog, and they went to see this uncle . . ."

3. Read a good short story and retell the story to the class. Here are some suggested ones:

The Cask of Amontillado.................Edgar Allan Poe
Marjorie Daw.....................................Thomas Bailey Aldrich
The Lady or the Tiger?......................Frank R. Stockton
The Necklace....................................Guy de Maupassant
A Jury of Her Peers..........................Suzan Glaspell
The Open Window.............................H. H. Munro
Children's Page................................John P. Marquand
In Affection and Esteem....................Mary Webb
The Purloined Letter.........................Edgar Allan Poe
The Devil and Daniel Webster.........Stephen Vincent Bent
The Gift of the Magi...........................O. Henry
Father Teaches Me To Be Prompt...Clarence Day

4. Tell an interesting event in your life. Consider what characters you will involve, the setting that you must make the audience see, the plot, the movement, and the climax.

5. Make up a story about something that you wish had happened to you, but did not. Use your imagination. Tell this imaginary event to the class. Here are some "if" situations to start you imagining:

a. if you were really rich
b. if you were a major league baseball player
c. if you found buried treasure
d. if you were very good-looking
e. if you lived in an old, haunted house
f. if you lived on a South Sea island
g. if you were captain of a ship
h. if you were involved in a contest
i. if you got lost in the woods

Student Check List 3: ARE YOU A GOOD STORYTELLER?
How would you rate yourself?	Point Value	Your Score
1. Before you tell a story, do you think carefully about what you are going to say and practice it?	20
2. Do you present the characters in a definite, clear-cut manner so that they can be identified easily?	10
3. Do you always describe the setting for each story, mentioning the time and place?	10
4. Does each story always have a plot, so that it does not just ramble along without offering a problem and its solution?	15
5. Does each story always have movement so that it is presented briskly without confusing and unnecessary details?	15
6. Does each story always have a climax to which the preceding events lead?	10
7. Do you end each story promptly after the climax or solution has been reached?	10
8. Do you always tell each story in an interesting and enthusiastic manner, and avoid laughing too loudly at your own jokes?	10
TOTAL	100

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