TaleCatcher - Tracy Kenny's blog

End, then begin

Two words into a book is a bit early to be doing a book review. I know it is.

But I have to say, to my enormous delight, Peter Guber's Tell To Win has gripped me in its first two words.

He starts with, 'THE END.' Seriously.

He says he wants to give away the ending of the book - that he will argue that within each of us we have the power to convince, persuade, and grip others, by tapping into our inherent and inherited storytelling abilities.

This is of course right up my street. But the more exciting thing is that someone else gets the idea that in writing, you have to work your way through to the end to have real command of the beginning.

The first draft of anything is shit - Ernest Hemingway

Writing is creating, not regurgitating or reporting. It's taking the elements and their cumulative impact on you, and holding them up - hopefully considerately and caringly - to what you want your readers to gain from it. And as you learn and are moved by your own words and the places they  take you to, and what you discover as they unfold, if you have done any true writing with any effort or gift at all, you will be changed by the process, and you will have a work that is far different than what you set out to do.

This is what is often wrong with books that feel like the author struggles to get started. I've read two books by a well-respected London copywriter who prides himself on his ability to relate to the common people. I filled nearly every inch of white space and margin in these books, arguing with him - and then in the final chapters of each book, it felt like he finally got to what he was trying to say.  If he had moved that chapter to the start, he would have gone on to re-edit, and I would have understood where he was going with it - instead of my reading experience being more like a debate. (I would love the opportunity to meet him and talk about it!) (Unfortunately his relating to the common people doesn't include a suggestion that he wants to learn together with them.)

So what does this mean for us? Upon completing  the journey and growth that your writing takes you through, why in the word would you stick with the original start? The work you set out to introduce is almost certainly going to be different - in any case, you should be changed, for having removed it from your head and heart and getting it out into the articulated world.

Never get hung up on opening lines in writing. What you're writing at the start might get scrapped anyway. Tell yourself you're starting 1/3 of the way through - try starting by articulating any idea you've got a firm grasp on, even if it's just an incomplete phrase.

Once you really know what your work's about, and  what your reader is really likely to experience, only then can you write an opening that will prepare them considerately and respectfully. If people are going to spend their precious time on our words, and especially if we intend to have any sort of impact on them at all, then surely we should respect them enough to really have our own heads around our writing - this is what transforms it from a piece of text to a real gift.

 

Elemental

Have you seen this? Guy Kawasaki, whose 'Enchantment' I'm enjoying reading at the moment, called attention to it:

Periodic Table of Storytelling

 

 

Know your enemies, and love them

Okay to start, I don't have any enemies. 

But let's think in story terms. At school, the thing that is out to get our hero was called the 'antagonist.' Whatever our hero wanted, this guy/force/instinct was going to try to stop him getting it.

Think about a tv detective programme. There's a serial killer on the loose. Even if the police don't know who it is, they get a sense of their character, based on the pattern of things they do. And they start to project more things about this villain, building a fuller picture, from the snippets of story they've got a handle on.

See when people have only got a little information, and even less understanding, they can lay blame and build a whole series of accusations into someone they see as an enemy, where they don't belong. I ran a focus group a few weeks back, in which a young lady was almost violent in her rage against a particularly senior leader in the company. She was banging her fist and everything: 'How DARE he talk to me about peace of mind, when he's cut my pension?!' she demanded to know.

A few minute later, she spoke with affection about some other equally fat cats.

I asked her what the difference was. She wasn't set up or framed or anything. In her own words: 'Oh I know them. I understand them. I know their stories.'

See she's got just enough information about this one guy, who's actually not all that bad, that she's blaming him for everything. We may as well accuse him of causing poverty and cancer and pollution while we're at it.

If she understood him just a little bit better, if she knew some of his stories, like what he did last weekend and why it's important to him, then she'd gain some perspective and insight into what he's actually responsible for, where his values lie, and why he makes the decisions he does.

In his brilliant book Story Robert McKee explains that in any film, you never completely hate the bad guy. There's always something there, just a little bit to like. And you know him just enough to understand him a little bit, to keep you going. Perfect contempt won't work. You need to understand him as a character, even if you choose to dislike him, to keep the story going.

So two things:

1 - Tell enough stories that people know you and what they're getting with you, so you're not some blank unknown quantity that they can shape their fears around

2 - And if you've got somebody that you genuinely think is Out To Get You, then twist it around. They're your baddie. Your story and your vision are strong enough that you've got your own personal antagonist. Get to know them, and appreciate them, and grow stronger from responding well and being true to your values and the challenges they present you. And get on with creating the happier ending, for both of you. Because your story is not in what happens, but in how you respond to it.

-Fin-

No closed doors - either way

I had a chat with Debbie yesterday. She was laughing about the storytelling workshop she came to, before we'd got to know each other so well.

She said she couldn't forget how we started, that I said 'Just before we begin, you need to know that nothing you say in here is confidential. Everything is likely to be repeated.'

She said that it made the point straight away, that stories are powerful only when they spread.

I'm exploring a lot at the moment about what sort of person becomes a storyteller. It has to do with willingness to give - and the gift is more than the story. It's also very much giving people the opportunity to tell their story, to be generous in their own turn by giving the gift of their story, and to hear their own story validated, as a gift coming back to them.

Not everyone is willing to listen like this. I'm talking to a lot of people who are willing to come round to opening up, themselves, but they will grow and receive the most benefit from it when they they receive the gift back which their listeners would respond with. This takes being still and accepting others' experiences, and validating them. Not everyone wants to do this. The question I ask is, how do we inspire them to slow down and listen as well as tell?

Asking nicely

Ray and I wandered up to Chapelfield Gardens to sit during lunch today. They've been having the Norfolk and Norwich Festival up there. I snapped this photo as we left.

(It says 'Thanks for coming. Shhhh. Please leave quietly... we want to do this again!)

It does everything that good communications do: there's all the normal stuff we talk about - ordinary language, lack of jargon, active voice, but it is also confident of what it needs to say, and it says it happily, because it is at peace with itself. It is clear, because the message they want to convey is clear in their own heads, in the first place. It has a clear conscience, and can be a tiny bit cheeky. And there's the quiet reference to the neighbours who might complain, so tying in to a story that the revellers and the organisers have in common, that they could all get in trouble. And the recognition of the individual, and what they're going through, well it's that spirit that makes you know the author and their organisation are ALIVE and want a relationship with you.

Consider the alternative:

PLEASE RESPECT OUR NEIGHBOURS AND LEAVE QUIETLY

It's this sort of notice in all caps that we usually see. Why can't more of our messages be positive? Is it because they are reverting to the voice of authority, instead of trying to appeal to peoples' understandings and better natures?

How about this one. Instead of NO FOOD IN THE PLAY AREA, you could have

Please keep the food on the tables - sticky slides and swings aren't much fun

Give people a reason to do what you want them to do, and they will be much more willing to cooperate.

Exciting

I'm off to Stretford (Manchester) tomorrow for a new workshop. It's the first time I've had a whole day just for applied storytelling, sharing experiences of using them in influencing and change, and shaping the stories we tell, rather than persuading about stories or gathering information. I intend to run it again in Norwich after our well-earned holiday. It's hugely exciting to see how much appetite there is for being more open and engaging in our professional relationships. I'm a very lucky, and a very busy, girl.

(Tomorrow also sees the beginning of a series of roadshows about a knowdge managment tool developed by one if the driest areas in the company. We've come up with taking Legos in to demonstrate the mess things can be, how they can be grouped together, and offer different possibilities for order. I can't wait to hear what try quite literally build out if it! Good luck guys!)

Spotlight

See, when I attended my very first storytelling workshop, it was in a London theatre's rehearsal studio, and led by theatre-types-turned-business-consultants. It was very, very good, and I learned some important lessons - and probably more than they intended for any of us to get out of it.

For a start, there was an amazing professional storyteller there. She told the long and complicated folk tale of the Ash Lad, which basically boils down to using strengths and being stronger when we work together. All good stuff. But Jan was impressive before she even started talking. She was Jamaican (I believe), so her accent and rich colour instantly gave her character. She had dreadlocks, rings on her toes, and generous bosoms, and all together she looked like an earth mother, like anything she said would ring with the wisdom of the ages, of nature itself. But I and my travelling companions missed her talk. And I maintain it was one of the best things that could have happened for me.

Stick with me. By the time we got there, thirty people in the room were completely sold and overwhelmed by the idea of storytelling for persuasion and impact. We walked in just in time to see their jaw-dropped responses, and even the sceptics were committed to the idea. But in the breaks, I picked up that they didn't think they would be able to do it themselves. There was an intimidating air of 'mere me': She can do that because she's a professional. I could never do that. Seeing a model so impressive put them off the idea of even trying it themselves. 

I hadn't seen it, so I didn't have that barrier. I absorbed everything they had to say. 

When it was all over, I made excuses to travel from a different station back to Norfolk, so I could reflect on my own. I considered everything we'd done in the workshop, and I responded to it all about how it would work in real life, for real people using their own stories, and making them useful in real day-to-day business. Not for entertainment, and not for professional storytelling, but in me building a relationship with you. What I know, what I have done, and what it means to me, as a gift to you.

This is all on my mind because the other lesson has to do with job titles. I'd recently changed jobs, and  I'd been given a real mouthful of a title, and I wasn't used to it. My boss wasn't happy with his either. (This is another point of annoyance: why do we rely on bosses to give us titles? Why don't we build them together, given what we bring to the job?) As we were guests of the theatre, our hosts tried an esteem-building exercise where each of us had to stand on stage in front of the spotlight and introduce ourselves, including what we do. 

I was lost deep inside myself, listening and thinking. My turn in front of the light came, and I botched it, stammering and fumbling all over myself. When all thirty of us had had a go, three of us were picked out in front of everyone for lack of confidence and made to do it again.

It was a formative moment for me, because my annoyance firmly embedded all their points about being present and stepping up to the moment. I used them in the changes that happened right across my life in the following months, and I still draw on them from time to time. But I also knew that it wasn't my time to steal the show. I went to Jan, the beautiful and intimidating storyteller, and told her that I can take the lead, but not this time, because I wanted the space to learn, to watch, to understand and reflect, and to enjoy her leadership.

Was that the right thing to do or not? I probably wouldn't do it now, but I was responding from a very deep place. The 'I' whom I was introducing was changing, and it needed space.

As another thought: never underestimate the power of a story you tell, or a story you create. Jan and the others probably don't remember me, probably don't even remember the day. But I am taking it forward, and those I touch take it forward, and many are moved, and move others.

Verbalise this job, quick!

Over the weekend I had one of those awkward situations where I needed a job title. I prefer to avoid commiting on this; it's not that I don't know what I'm doing, but it gives me a chance to look for a conversation straight away. (This also works well with my philosophy that the real connections and engagement - the reaching people - happens when we don't try to pin things down to a few words. More on that later.)

Now I can't really put that kooky idea on my email signature or on the title page of the article I'm submitting. And I probably do look a little bit silly when I stammer over the question of what it is I do. To the great delight of my children, I am a storyteller. To people in the schoolyard, I work in communications. (I find it fascinating how much of a conversation-killer that is - it's almost like saying I work in a call centre). And when I'm actually asked at work, well I take people for a coffee to buy myself time to explain, and to win them over, to the whole story.

But again, I can't get a coffee on a PDF.

Now I've finally come up with something I'm pretty happy with: Operational Story Strategist. But I wonder, why do I only have nouns to choose from? Why can't titles have verbs in them - or better yet, why do we stumble over these monuments to inactivity, instead of using mini-stories instead?

Look at what nouns do to us: cast your mind back. Nouns are persons, places, things or ideas. They're fixed point, doing nothing. My friend announced after passing her medical exams, 'At last I'm a doctor!' Our friends said she'd 'arrived,' as if it were a fixed place. She's here now. Nothing can touch her, they seemed to say.

Life and learning are just not like that.

A better way: using verbs in - instead of - titles would instantly put more energy into the expectations we rise to. The mandate would be built in. No more 'I'm an accountant,' but rather 'I keep my clients' books straight and legal and help keep them in profit.'

It gets interesting straight away, because by stripping away the vaguaries of 'specific' nouns, we expose the gaps between the dream and the reality.

Lawyer: 'I fight to get prisoners off death row,' or 'I file a bunch of papers.'

Teacher: 'I inspire eight year-olds to find out what they love to do, and then we practise doing it,' or 'I spend every day dealing with behavioural problems and neglecting the children who really want to learn.'

Policeman: 'I catch the bad guys who would spoil our communities for everybody else,' or 'I go on training, meet targets, and file papers.'

If we could get used t obeing honest enough to use tiny stories to describe how we spend our days, we'd be much more honest about the difference we and our organisations are making - or not making.

13 things to take us closer

What I would do to transform this company:

I would create high visibility for everyone - when we ring IT or HR the name, phone number and photograph of the person helping us should display, so they have nothing to hide behind, give great service, and build our understanding of accountabilty and our individual responsibility to the customer.

I would arrange everything around strengths, from recruitment to seasonal choices in the cafe, and have everyone understand why.

I would create a 'free to a good home' service for staff who don't fit in their teams. Why did MH have to leave, when he exhibited insatiable curiosity, exceptional critical thinking, and formidable intelligence? Okay so floor 0 found those strengths disruptive, but we would have happily taken him - and hey while we're at it, could they use PW, who also had to leave? We needed someone to stir things up on floor 2, and floor 0 needed stability, but now we're without any of the experience and personality both of them brought.

I would create manadatory cross-company work placements: make Marketing work in Product, Product in Underwriting, Underwriting in Claims, and Claims in Marketing, and build methodologies to guide and build on their learning.

I would require everyone in Head Office to spend time with customers once a year.

Senior managers would create stories - and tell them widely - of the consequences of not living according to the company ethos. And before that, they would hold people accountable so that they build these stories to tell.

Everyone would be expected to articulate how they personally impact the customer experience, and how they personally build the brand.

There would be a personality to share out the stories of how remarkable we are, to be a consistent and positive voice in the midst of hard days and grumbling. Wonderful things happen in hard times. Those stories need telling.

Everyone would receive a book allowance, and would read, as part of their job and develoment. Everyone would have time to think and reflect.

Everyone would have to listen to their calls or watch a film of themselves to understand their impact on customers and other people. The stories I have heard of individuals saying 'my life changed when...' always depend on someone pinning them down and making them listen to themselves and work through how they want to be.

I would build communications as part of a strategy, rather than as a function, hiring do-ers who communicate and inspire, and no one who bring only an ability to restate other people's ideas and moderate their passions.

I would have a kill them with kindness culture. Everyone would commit so fully to doing the right thing and being kind to each other that the pressure to be and do the same would squeeze out anyone who isn't contributing to it.

If we can't squeeze love into difficult staff, if we can't squeeze them out with love, we would speak their language, work with what appeals to them, and pay them to leave, to remove the corruptive and corrosive disruption from those who want to do right and do well, and leave this as a fertile place to grow staff who will show our collective kindness to customers.

Christmas 1978

Most of the stories I write about are to make a point, to connect with the listener and move them in a way that is meaningful and important to them. Not all stories have such noble purpose. Sometimes, like in the instance of a crime, we tell stories to try to make sense of them, to try to understand why - and often there is no 'why' which will make things better. In some other cases we tell ourselves stories which keep us where we are, such as 'I am (or my company is) useless anyway, here are stories that prove it, so I may as well carry on with the destructive behaviour.' And then there's just the stories we like to recall, the experiences that happened as we were becoming who we are. How we respond to those stories reveals our natures, and shows who we have become. 

I always encourage anyone I'm coaching for a presentation to use stories from their childhood, because it is a time we all have in common, and all is forgivable there. You can admit weakness, fear, even misbehaviour, without repercussions, because it becomes part of a journey story, and people recognise themselves in your past, they appreciate your honesty, and they recognise how you've grown.

I recall all this, tucked up beside the Christmas tree in our cosy pre-new-year's home, because of an email conversation my sister and I have run over the last few days. Jennifer gets name dropped here occasionally, but I don't think I've told anything since I mentioned her in a very early blog entry about strong women. She is a good example of how responses to experience - that is, the story she tells - make or break us.

But getting here, in the experiences we sisters share, there is another Christmas story or two.

When I was about seven years old the five of us crammed into the back of the big rust-coloured station wagon (this is before Rachel's time!) to go visit our Granny and Aunt Doris. We had to behave there, and had loads of cooped-up energy, sitting there in our best Christmas clothes, fidgeting and wondering what we could get away with doing that was more interesting than sitting on their sofa. We finally got our presents, and at first I was appalled: a rag doll wearing a patchwork dress, with red wool hair. Then I realised, somehow, that she was beautiful. My initial replusion was because she wasn't the must-have toy that all the children were clamouring for, but soon I spotted that she was different, that someone had put a lot of care into her, and she was mine. I loved her.

Going home, though, my sister Jennifer and I had a big row in the car, and she pulled my doll's hair out. I still remember the physical pain, and the stinging tears of anger, that she would deliberately destroy something so special. And, even though I knew better, I did the natural thing for a seven year-old to do, and grabbed her yellow-haired doll and pulled its wool hair out, too.

I guess things went ballistic from that point, because pretty soon our parents stopped the car at a Long John Silvers fast-food so we could all settle down. Piling out of the car, I remember looking at that doll and wondering what to do with her. I took her in with me anyway. I loved her, and I wasn't going to let her bald patch stop that.

Now I'll never know what happened to that doll, or what the row was about. I enjoy the story because for me it's about discovering that beauty lies outside of what's popular, and that the beauty we give something comes partly from ourselves and the affection we choose to give it. Even with the unhappy ending, it was a formative event, for which, eventually, I was thankful.

But it turns out there's another story. A few years ago, before Doris died, she gave me a stack of photographs that she'd put away, and amongst them was a snapshot of all of us piled on that sofa, with me grinning from ear to ear, showing the gaps in my teeth and holding that doll up to the camera.

Our polo-necked parents are smiling, but Jennifer and Jeremy aren't looking anywhere near the camera. Even at the ages of 4 and 2, their faces said it all. They were looking at me, and they both had looks that said that I should watch myself, especially when they got me on my own. And they did.

That photograph is the only one I have displayed of our family, together, from when we were children. It holds so many stories, and the original story is so important, that I am proud of it - and of my early disregard to what the others were thinking.

Merry Christmas, Jennifer and Jeremy. And well done becoming what you are.