How to not tell a story

We all know that person.

Photo by Tim Bish on Unsplash

So both my wife (who I call the Lovely) and I have experienced something. Maybe we went on a hike, or had an interaction with someone, or I dunno, did something that requires… a story. Now, no surprise, I’m the chatty one in the relationship. We joke about how many words we each say in a day. (Somewhere I read that the average person says 5000 words in a day). The Lovely probably clocks in at a few thousand, and I’m just short of the six-figure mark.

But yes, there is a story to tell. I want to be generous, as the speaker of way too many words (read: Chatty AF), so I let the Lovely tell the story. And she fucks it up. She won’t mind me saying this, because she knows she does this to stories. It’s not like she gets confused or forgets how the story goes. It’s just that, well, she destroys everything that makes something a story.

For starters she begins with the ending. Or gets there as quick as possible. “Yeah, we saw a bear, and then we ran away.” Beginning, and end of story. There’s nothing about the drive up there, the anticipation of the hike, the getting a bit lost, laughing when we heard the noise in the bush. “We saw a bear. We ran away.” The. Fucking. End.

I read somewhere, I think it was George Saunders (natch) talking about a writing workshop with Tobias Wolff. Where students were asked not to read their short fiction out loud, but instead to tell a story of interest. I think this is a brilliant exercise. It asks an important question: would someone want to listen to this story? Writers can get lost in the labyrinth of craft and language, and lose sight of this vital concept. It doesn’t matter how strong the sentence structure is, or how beautiful the language is. Is this story boring? Does it merit telling?

Now the Lovely says I can make a story out of anything. Have I told you the one about me going to the grocery store for milk? It’s a ripper. But she’s only partly right. Language, rhythm or cadence can only take you so far. I’ve been at the end of one of my stories, and realized that there was really nothing to it. A lot of air. I can pad it with humour and some pretend suspense. But if it isn’t there, it isn’t there.

Please… let something actually happen in this story. (Photo: Tim De Pauw)

Think about the storytellers you know.

The back to Adam storyteller.

I’ve got a few friends like this. They start out telling you a story, but first they gotta go back… like waaaay back. The Lovely has said about the book, The Joy of Cooking, that if they had a recipe for lasagna, they first had to tell you how to plant the tomatoes. Somebody, maybe Stephen King, said, “Everyone has a back story. And no one gives a single damn about it.”

The added bonus to these storytellers, especially when they get a bit older, is that they lose their way. Uh-oh. Why was I telling this story? The reason I know this is that it has started to happen to me.

The candle burner storyteller

I just made up this term, as I don’t know what else to call a person who tells…a…story…so… slow… that you start to imagine ways to kill them while they are talking. Or at least get them to finish the damn thing. The Lovely can be guilty of this one. It’s not like the verbosity of the Back to Adam-teller, it’s more like they keep getting interrupted by things. Like a noise, the sun on a flower, a squirrel. Air.

If you’ve seen the Monty Python sketch about the woman who has a theory about dinosaurs, then you have experienced this kind of storytelling

The help me I’m talking and can’t shut up storyteller

The Lovely has called me this, but in my defence, I’m way better than I used to be. No, really. Shut up. I am.
I know a couple of these types. They launch into a “story”, but it’s really just a barrage of words. There’s no backstory, interruptions, or even intent. You’re never sure if this is in fact a story, you are just invited (forced) to follow along the serpentine trail of their mind. What are we talking about? Why are you still talking? Am I in hell? This is the Hotel California of stories… just try to leave motherfucker. You are mine.

Okay, that got dark. But I’ve been at the receiving end of few of those.

I’m sure there are more examples of types of storytellers. But the point I’m making is to take a step back and look at your writing. No, actually, look at your story. Sure there’s all that pretty stuff about the clouds and stars, and the looming horizon. But is anything happening? And, really do we need to know about that tricycle accident when the main character was three-years old? Also, quit looking at the damn squirrel!! They have nothing to do with the story!

You get the idea.

Someone said, I think it was me, there are two important questions to ask about a story.

1. Why this story?

2. Is is true?

The why falls into the categories of what I’ve been talking about in this post. I look back at some of my early stories and do wonder why they were being told. I don’t think better language or structure could have helped them. They just were not that interesting.

The second one, on truth, is a bit harder to get at. It has to do with creating authenticity in a story, or that fancy-ass word: verisimilitude. And if you think I spelled that without looking it up, then you think way too highly of me.

This storytelling lens can be applied to short fiction, but also novels. It’s harder with longer narratives, but the questions can be applied to individual chapters, or even scenes. Why is this scene there? Can the book survive without it?

I’ll leave it there for now. Shoot me a comment here on the stack, or on twitter. What other kinds of storytellers do you know? Good, bad, and ugly.

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Thanks as always for reading. I’ve got an upcoming article in Write Magazine on the wonders of Substack (or why I really like it, anyway.)

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Until next time…