Verbal Communication Through Telling Stories
“…learn how to bring your own stories to life on the page, on the stage, around a campfire, or a dinner table.” —Mary Jo McConahay, award-winning journalist
Winner 2020 Indie Book Award for Non-Fiction Writing/Publishing
CIBA I&I (Instructional & Insightful) Non-Fiction Awards Finalist
#1 New Release in Writing Researching & Publishing Guides
The art of telling stories has been around as long as humans. And in today’s noisy, techy, automated world, storytelling is not only prevalent―it’s vital. Whether you're interested in enlivening verbal communication, building your business brand, making presentations, sharing family wisdom, or performing on stage, Story Power shows you how to make use of a good story.
Tell your story. Telling stories is the most effective verbal communication―if you know how to use it. Story Power provides techniques for creating and framing personal stories alongside effective tips for telling them in any setting. Plus, this book models stories with unique storytelling examples, exercises, and prompts, as well as storytelling techniques for delivery in a spontaneous, authentic style.
Learn from the verbal communication experts. Story Power is an engaging, lively guide to the art of telling stories from author and librarian Kate Farrell, a seasoned storyteller and founder of the Word Weaving Storytelling Project. In Story Power, more than twenty skillful contributors with a range of diverse voices share their secrets to creating, crafting, and telling tales.
In this book discover:
- How to share your own coming-of-age stories and family folklore
- The importance of a personal branding story and storytelling marketing
- Seven Steps to Storytelling, along with helpful tools, organizers, and media options
Booklovers who have read Storyworthy, The Storyteller's Secret, Long Story Short, or the classic How to Win Friends & Influence People, will find Story Power to be a great read.
Excerpt from Story Power
Chapter Five
The Heritage of Folklore
"Stories lean on stories, cultures on cultures ..."
-Jane Yolen
Introduction
"Once upon a time"—that magical phrase conjures up fantastical realms that take place outside of time, in the forever after. Such is the nature of the ancient craft of traditional storytelling, of timeless, wondrous narratives with symbolic patterns and supernatural events, stories told by no one and everyone. It is the fabulous world of folklore, a spontaneous, oral body of literature that has no author, no boundaries, or era, passed down by word of mouth for millennia. Within these captivating tales are talking animals, magical waters, fairy godmothers, enchanted castles deep in a forest, and flying carpets.
But as our global community shrinks to the size of a village, our stories not only lean on one another, they merge and change. The ever-evolving art of storytelling is adapting to our post-modern era of rapid progress. What was once considered the ultimate in transmitting the values of a culture—its traditional tales—is now called into question.
With today's current emphasis on the individual and on truths that are directly experienced, there is a creative shift in the art: away from traditional storytelling and its folklore, to spontaneous, personal tales.
There are several reasons for this shift. All of them contribute to a new oral tradition, or as Chris Anderson states in the prologue, A New Age of Fire, in his book, Ted Talks: The Official TED Guide to Public Speaking, "... there is a new superpower that anyone, young or old, can benefit from. It’s called presentation literacy." Anderson imagines a new campfire and personal ways to convey truth, available to everyone, based on direct experience. It is a tremendously exciting time to practice the art of storytelling.
And so, in current society, the relevance of traditional tales is becoming problematic. Though some ancient tales continue to meet our storytelling needs, many of them do not. These stories are often told in a cultural context that is alien, that no longer connects to our common experience. In fact, in order for some folk and fairy tales to have any meaning at all, they require an extensive introduction to their listeners. For example, even "Jack and the Beanstalk" assumes some prior knowledge: dairy farming, cows, beans, and gardening. It can also be terrifying when children hear the giant's deep throated, sing-song rhyme:
Fee-fi-fo-fum
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
Be he alive or be he dead
I'll grind his bones to make my bread.
Jack's thievery and malice can give rise to ethical questions: Should Jack have stolen the golden harp? Did he have to kill the giant? Somehow Jack's courage and initiative is lost in our modern quandaries. We might attempt an updated version, but sanitizing folktales is a tricky proposition, while fractured fairy tales do not make sense without knowing the original, sometimes brutal version. There are countless examples of a folktale's setting that is so extremely unfamiliar that the story itself, without copious, contextual clues, can be meaningless or offensive.
Further, it is impossible to ignore male dominance in most centuries-old, traditional tales. Sexism abounds in the stories of princesses who need saving, whose protagonists are exclusively male. Most women in folktales play a passive role, while women with any power tend to be secondary characters: wicked stepmothers, fairy godmothers. Feminist collections of fairy tales that feature girls and women as independent-minded maids or princesses, nevertheless exist within a patriarchal authority.
Recent studies show that, though women make up nearly fifty percent of the world’s population, there are not as many folktales about women. In a quantitative study led by Jonathan Gottschall in his book, Literature, Science, and a New Humanities, "... it was found that this phenomenon is prevalent worldwide; that male main characters … outnumbered female main characters by more than two to one."
Gottschall's count is misleading: Even in folktales in which the main character is female, the woman is often powerless and must be rescued, discovered, awoken, or kissed by a heroic male character. Obviously, it is impossible to retell the ancient, traditional tales: That bell has already rung. Female storytellers can begin a new tradition for our time—speaking their own truth as heroines of their own, personal stories.
Kate Farrell?
My grandfather owned racehorses—not for the big time, and not even with a jockey. His sport was harness racing: Horses pulled a two-wheeled cart called a sulky with a driver. Grandfather raced in county fairs around the Midwest—starting in the 20s. Grandmother said he would not give up his horses in the Great Depression, and sacrificed all else to keep them.
One summer in the late 40s, my family visited our grandparents in Kewanee, Illinois, when I was eight years old, and my older brother ten. We found treasures in the attic, trophies of all the many wins, silver and gold plated loving cups, mounted horses, and platters. By that time, Grandfather had named a horse for each grandchild. But the one horse who was the runaway champion was named for me, Katie F. We were eager to see her race—and win.
At last, the day came, my brother and I rode with our grandparents to the county fair in Princeton, Illinois, to see the horse races and watch Katie F. We climbed up the stairs of the white, wooden grandstand and watched her race on the dusty, oval racing track, rounding the bend, one time, two times, and finally coming around the bend on the home stretch. We were jumping up and down in the bleacher seats, banging loudly, yelling over and over, "Come on, Katie F!" She came nearer to the stands and the finish line—in the lead. And she won! We shrieked.
After the race, I wandered away from the family to the stables. I searched for my horse by her stable sign, painted in gold letters on bright green, Katie F. She leaned out of the half door and I came closer, awestruck. I admired her shining, chestnut-brown coat, the powerful muscles of a standardbred. She towered over me. I dared not touch her outstretched nose, but came closer. She seemed to look right at me, and I heard her say without a sound, "You do that." I knew she meant for me to be like her, to win my race. She was my totem, my namesake.
After all these years, the only object that survived my grandfather's horseracing was that wooden, stable sign: Katie F. It has traveled from place to place; kept by different family members. Katie F. is our legend, the great-hearted spirit of a winner.
