Making comparisons
Sometimes, when I think back on my own experiences, I turn up a severe lack of stories to tell other people. This becomes especially bad in public scenarios when I’m meeting strangers or trying to enliven a friendly discussion. In fairness, I’ve always leaned more towards being a listener and have grown comfortable with that quiet reservation over the years. Still, it’s often difficult not to compare myself to others when I hear the vibrant and fascinating stories they share from their own perspectives. Is my life just too… ordinary? Have I not made the most of my time? Questions like these have nagged me for far too long… but the solution isn’t exactly what I might have thought.
How we tell stories
Truthfully, in the course of a single day, I think anyone could spawn at least a dozen stories. We can draw narratives from anything; a good story doesn’t necessarily need to be grounded in a complex anecdote – they could generate from unexpected disruptions to your routine, funny lines quoted by family or friends, or even just your own meandering thoughts. The problem lies in unlocking the confidence to share these tales and dispelling the fear of judgement.
Certainly, one person’s adventure of cleaning the dishes with a brand new sponge may not seem as interesting as another’s odyssey around the world on a cruise. As such, the former story may be discarded – nobody would be interested, especially not after that amazing story of the cruise. The conversation’s moved on. But let’s be honest here – our lives are operating at different velocities. It’s not possible to constantly match the intensity of the stories around you; it’s entirely possible that you will naturally become the most interesting person in the room further down the line. In the meantime, do the best with what you have. It’s important to remember this:
The best stories come from the best storytellers. That’s all there is to it.
Crafting confidence
Dialogue will only leap off a page if there are two competent actors with enough chemistry to discover nuance between the lines. Deadpan humour relies solely on the rhythm and timbre of speech for its own success, utilising pauses for expectation and sardonic dryness for emphasis. If you can deliver a story with confidence and character, then even the most banal situation can be turned into heartfelt wisdom or uproarious comedy.
Understanding all of this, I started to realise the stories I was hearing weren’t so sensational after all – most of them were very ordinary, much like the ideas I wanted to share around. The only difference was confidence.
You really don’t have to look very far for inspiration. There’s a couple of stories from my childhood that I’ll milk until the end of time – especially the horse story.
A very sick horse
Once in a while, there may come a day when you say something so unexpected so perfectly and are thus forced to be the butt of an inside joke for the rest of your years (credit to my mum for her fantastic retelling of this one). When I was much younger, probably around eight or nine, I struggled in mixed company. I found it very difficult to join into adult conversations without clamming up – much like the doubts I’ve experienced recently, driven up to eleven.
Fortunately, I was very conscious of this and approached my mum for help. “I want to chat,” I said one night, yearning to dispel some of this awkwardness.
“That’s great,” she replied. “I’ll tell you what: Auntie Julie’s coming round for a film night later and before that, we’ll be having dinner in the kitchen. Why don’t you try asking her some questions? That’s the best thing you can do – show you’re interested in other people, ask questions, and let them do the talking.”
Great advice, I tried to tell myself. Julie had been one of my parents’ best friends and a familiar face to me for many years. Still, the idea of exercise was giving me the heebie jeebies. “What am I supposed to talk about? I don’t know what to ask her.”
“It could be anything! How about this – Julie’s horse has been really poorly recently. You remember she owns horses? Why don’t you ask about that?”
With my question cemented, dinner rolls around. Julie and Mum are chatting actively and I’ve retreated into my silent cocoon, laser-focused on practicing this question in my mind. There’s no one in the house aside from us three – no escape.
Eventually, the conversation draws to a lull. I know I’ll never get a better chance. I glance over at Mum with a look of pure terror, who gives an encouraging nod.
Something changes within me. A different person takes over my body. I draw my shoulders back, puff out my chest, take a deep breath… Then I lean very slowly over the table, draping my arm next to Julie’s and ask, in the most unknowingly seductive and mock-confident voice possible…
“So… how’s your horse, then?”
Instantly quotable
At only eight years old, I’d given one of the best chat-up lines in history to a woman five times my age. To Julie’s credit, she answered the question very sensibly, walking me through her horse’s sickness and how she’d been taking care of them. And that was that! Mission complete. I’d conquered my fears and Mum decided shortly afterwards that I could be excused from the table. It was only years later that they regaled how much my delivery made them cry with suppressed laughter the instant I left the room.
To this day, we still quote the horse question at various gatherings. It’s a fantastic anecdote to retell as there’s so much room to heighten the punchline – vocal inflection, pauses, the long lean over the table… Intense eye-contact, maybe. It keeps changing. The point is, find those stories from your childhood or recent past that have strong emotional or comedic beats and discover ways to structure your retelling of them. One well-practiced story can take you very far.
Exaggeration can be a powerful tool if utilised in moderation. Not everything has to be weighted in truth – only the essential beats. A small white lie can add a lot of colour to a story, as my mum is painfully aware.
Target practice
An example of such colour can be found in a story from my infancy. As a baby, I would go crazy for eggs. I had this gormless smile on my face whenever I was fed them. Trouble was, I was also allergic to them (this is a very common problem for babies when their bodies can’t process the proteins and treat them as invasive and harmful). Within minutes of eating, there would be projectile vomit. Guaranteed. It was like clockwork.
We saw a doctor a couple of times and he assured my mum this was very natural. He advised trying to feed me bits of egg every now and then until the allergy dissipated – that was all we could do, really. So, as per his advice, Mum occasionally fed me a tiny spot of French toast (or eggy bread, as we always called it) and started her preparations. She’d pick me up, cradling me over her arm so as not to restrict my gut, open the back door, position me over the grass and wait. Eventually, she’d feel my stomach starting to rumble and prepare herself as a typhoon erupted from my throat. Typically, it was over in two short blasts. I was nothing if not efficient.
This is not the version of the story I recount. I’ve… embellished a few details. In my version, Mum is more of a sadistic opportunist. She’d feed me the eggs, then set up a bunch of standing targets in the garden. Following this, she’d grab me by the back of my thighs, equipping me like a Gatling gun, stand on the step of the back door and absolutely go to town. If I started running low, she’d feed me further bits of egg to reload the system and carry on spewing. A nightmarish vision, obscenely exaggerated, but one that still makes me laugh.
To Mum’s chagrin, this is the first story I shared upon meeting her new partner. It’s good that he knows what he’s getting in for.
Put creativity to work
Above all else, never forget to have fun with stories. Each one is unique in size and shape, and all have the potential to be meaningful or memorable. Think about how you’d want a story delivered to you and reflect this in your retelling. If you’re having fun with it, then others will too.
