Stories Written To Be Told

When we were kids, we always wanted Mammy to read us the stories.   Daddy read too, he was clear and distinct but, she did the voices, the creak of the door, the whine of the wind and the galloping hooves.    That was my first lesson in the art of telling a story, do the sound effects.  

I was fortunate; I grew up surrounded aunts and uncles who could all tell a good story.   Without realising it, I learned that, with a little re-arrangement here, a little embroidery there and always keeping the punch-line till last, you could turn an everyday event into an amusing story.  It was one of reasons I wanted to write.  

Writing stories, novels, and TV drama taught me that you have to wriggle down into the skin of a character, that stories need an arc, that loose ends need to be tied up and endings need to be satisfying.   And while I love the process of writing I’ve always hankered after the idea of the seanachaí.   But, I thought, that time has gone.   Television is our seanachaí now.    Then I stumbled across Narrative Arts, Coilín,The Oh-Aissieux, and his Story-telling workshops.

After a couple of Coilín’s workshops and playschools, I began to identify the similarities and the differences between the writing a story and telling it.    Both need a good story so, the process of creating the plot is the same.   But we writers know that this is when the real writing starts.    Our work ends up as black marks on a white page and we know that, to make those marks come alive, we must choose our words, sentences, idioms, similes and metaphors carefully.    We pay attention to rhythm and sequence, grammar and punctuation, for they must all serve the needs of our story.   Words are the only tools we have to portray the beautiful, thrilling, heart wrenching gut twisting scenes in our heads and project them into the heads of our readers.  We draft and re-draft, edit and re-edit until finally our story is ready to face the world.    And there it remains unchanged and unchanging no matter how often it’s read, like a butterfly in a Victorian cabinet.

But a tale, a story that’s told, makes different demands.   At the end of my first workshop with Coilín, he had each of us tell a tale to the group.   As I stood there telling it, spontaneous turns of phrase came to me and they worked really well.  Other bits weren’t so great but, even as I stood there, I could see ways to improve the telling.   So telling and re-telling is the editing process for a tale.   Before I get up in front of an audience I tell and re-tell my story to the wall, to the garden, to anyone who’ll listen.           

The tale has no script.   It’s just you and your story.   So there’s always the fear of forgetting.   Coilín got us to read an unfamiliar tale, note the important features and illustrate them with stick-figure pictures.    Then write a few key words beside each drawing.   This, it turns out, is pure magic.   It helps you remember the tale with no pain at all.  I’ve learned to use it, not just for stories but, every time I have to speak in public.

The first time I told a tale in front of an audience I was quite apprehensive.   It was a story about going to confession.   The audience was very young and full of students and I feared that they wouldn’t know what I was talking about.    But, just as I was called to the microphone, I remembered someone saying that you had to have faith in your tale.   That when you have faith, the tale, no matter how fanciful, comes across with conviction.   And I realised that I did have faith in my story.   So I took a deep breath, went to the microphone and… it went down like a dinner. 

Then there’s standing up in front of an audience… Eeeeeek!   And all you have is your own body.   Eighty percent off all communication comes through intonation, body language, and facial expression.   Only 20% comes from the actual words.   So, whether you’re telling a story or doing a reading, you have to perform, otherwise your story will die of neglect.    You need your voice and your body-language to be consistent with your story, to illustrate and expand it, to create a whole world in the mind of the audience.   So, you better make sure that your body is on side and not hunched and trembling and working against you.   And how do you do that?   You relax.  

Which is all well and fine but… how?   Relaxing is easier said than done.  In the workshops Coilín gets people to do a laughing meditation, to play silly games, do breathing exercises, to stretch and to move.    You can see people relax in front of your eyes; you can feel yourself calming down.   In Tai Chi they talk about alert relaxation, a state where the body is relaxed but ready to respond and the mind is quiet but ready for action.    You can achieve this state in many different ways, physical exercise helps, meditation helps, remembering to breathe really, really helps.   However, each of us has to discover what works best for us and, if you practice it every day, the advantages spread to all parts of your life.    After a while, even though the adrenaline is pumping and the butterflies in your tummy are dancing a gay tarantella, you still can stay focused and calm.  Then you can walk on the stage and know that this is your ground, this is your space, and this is your place on this earth at this moment.

But what about the audience?   The audience is willing you to be fabulous.   They want to have a good time and they’re sending all that good will straight to you.    That’s when the alchemy happens.    As you tell your tale you spontaneously add details, expand sections, make jokes, make gestures, dance,   and sing a song.   And every time it’s different because different audiences bring out different things in you.   And you know that it’s working because their eyes are all shining.    And then there’s the applause.   Oh the applause.

But sometimes you’ll get a difficult audience and it’s like trying to stir concrete while talking to statues.   That’s when you have to fall back on your good preparation, your relaxing techniques and your total faith in your tale.

(c) Catherine Brophy, September 2011.