4 Ways to Say It: How to Use Stories to Amp the Power of Your Advice
It's a big moment for those of us who love to tell stories pulled from our own memories and daily moments.
Generative AI ensures generalized advice void of personal perspective is both cheap and ubiquitous (and not worth anyone's time).
Shows like Succession, Barry, and Ted Lasso all reached their emotional conclusions in the last week. Their collective success was always more about their ability to develop personal intrigue and relationships than their more apparent focus areas of business, crime, and football. (I suspect this is why Amazon's Lord of the Rings prequel wasn't as well-received as HBO's Game of Thrones prequel, despite a larger budget. The Rings of Power deemphasized smaller, personal moments with characters to ensure we care, in favor of sweeping legends and lore. By contrast, House of the Dragon invested more in those stories of interpersonal strife, love, struggle, and striving.)
In a less fantastical (but still pretty fantastic) place, members inside our Creator Kitchen program are currently sharing the same focus in their respective projects: telling personal stories. (I delivered a masterclass, and we benefit from shared prompts, examples, resources, my behind-the-scenes process videos, and 1:1 and 1:few discussions about our work.)
Oh ... and Ann Freaking Handley stopped by for a private chat about writing and storytelling with members this week. (Read her book Everybody Writes. Then read it again.)
Throughout all of this, one question continues to stick in my mind, because I think it gets stuck in yours:
What if I use my content to teach, not tell stories?
This makes sense. Most of us aren't publishing narratives or memoirs or documentary-style work. But we don't need to transform the entirety of a piece or overhaul our style in order to use stories. In fact, we can use stories pulled from our lives to teach better.
I think there are four different ways we might teach something, each with ascending levels of impact. Today, I want to talk through each and encourage you to try #3 and #4 more consistently.
But first, a quick reminder:
👋 As a reader of mine (thank you, btw), you have access to a larger discount for Creator Kitchen membership than anyone else in the world: JAY200 gets you $200 off membership annually for life.
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Let's imagine you and I share a creative platform dedicated to one topic: risk-taking. We want to inspire others to take more risks in work and in life.
It's competitive. It's such a saturated space.
Googling "how to take risks at work" yields 1.2 billion results.
Amazon lists more than 10,000 books on risk-taking.
Organizations ranging from Masterclass to LinkedIn to TED offer resources on the topic.
...and this is all without considering equally saturated synonyms we'd probably end up discussing through our work, like innovation or following your passion.
It kinda feels hopeless. Is it even possible to stand out? Is it even possible to connect and give the audience something they can't get in millions of others places?
Well, consider the four ways we could teach this topic:
Instruction
Illustration
Metaphor
Allegory
I think the first two are common among all communicators, but the latter two are used more freely and confidently by effective storytellers -- and that's where we want to be.
Communicating through metaphor or its longer-form cousin, allegory, creates that obvious moment of resonance, where the audience feels a kind of lightning bolt to the chest: "WOW! Yes! Incredible!"
How do we get THAT kind of reaction to our teaching?
We usually don't, because we usually start by instructing.
#1: Instruction
Instruction is a flat form of communication. It's direct advice or prescription. "To do THAT, do THIS."
There's no story.
To instruct others how to take risks, we could write a piece like "6 Ways to Be a Successful Risk Taker" -- a real article I found on a really forgettable blog. It opens like this:
"I've stood on the edge of my own personal cliffs many times. Each time I jumped, something different happened. There were risks that started off great, but eventually faded. There were risks that left me falling until I hit the ground. There were risks that started slow, but built into massive successes."
Yes, that's written in the first person, but have we learned anything at all of value about the writer and why we relate to them or care about them?
They've created content, but they've failed to create connection.
We can do better.
#2: Illustration
Here, we move from generalized expertise delivered as flat advice or prescription towards something more specific and personal, though there are several problems we need to work hard to avoid.
Because we're getting more specific, let's use a specific example of a specific person who might also write about risk-taking: Brian Piper.
Brian is a member of the Creator Kitchen, a higher-ed marketing leader, an author, and a speaker. And Brian loooves to skydive.
But Brian doesn't love talking about skydiving in his work -- or at least, he's holding back from doing so.
After all, he told me, he talks about marketing, so why would others want to hear about his skydiving? And worse, what if they don't know much or don't care much about that topic? It's not the same topic that he was hired to write or speak about after all.
Well, Bri-Bri, we're getting there.
First, here's how Brian might (and typically does) teach: illustration. He uses his own career as a source of examples for what others might do.
Unlike instruction, illustration is a form of storytelling. It's not flat. You can deliver the story of your past success in a narrative fashion -- the action rises then concludes, the stakes are evident, and the emotions are clear. It might just be a brief moment you describe, but you can describe it in a way that connects on a more personal level with the audience by saying, essentially, "Here's how I did it. You can do that too."
Again, this can be useful and even powerful, but it also presents a series of problems we want to avoid. In sum, what worked for us probably won’t work for others in quite the same way.
One reason for that is time. That's arguably the variable which most separates situations -- ours and theirs. Ours happened in the past. Theirs will happen after they hear our stories, sometime in their future. Examples from your past simply don't age well as the world evolves, and right now, it seems to evolve more rapidly than ever.
Another reason what worked for us may not work for others is less tactical and more hidden (to some, and often to us as storytellers): assumptions, biases, and unearned advantages.
"I did it this way, and you should too." Should they? Can they?
Are you sure?
I'm white. I'm a dude. I'm told my hair is decent and my face isn't terrible. Being white and being a dude and appearing how I appear have at very least never been disadvantages. But more likely, they've been distinct advantages -- which not everyone else has. Additionally, I was born into a loving and affluent family with two great parents. I had wonderful teachers. All those people told me I was good at writing, so I wrote. I had support and encouragement. And because of that support and encouragement, and because of how my physical, biological traits manifest as advantages in our culture, I am irrationally, undeservedly confident in my writing. That was true from the moment I started writing professionally in 2005.
Can I really say to my audience, "I did it this way in my career, and you can too"? Or am I viewing myself through a myopic lens, full of assumptions, biases, and (unearned) advantages others may not have?
Maybe! But also, maybe not.
A final problem with using our own past successes as illustrations to teach is less about others and more about ourselves: imposter syndrome. I know plenty of very confident, consistent writers who hold back from talking about themselves, sometimes because they're very lightly concerned they'll come across as self-aggrandizing. But others I know (even those who write freely) have a much more potent form of internal self-doubt. When the source of excellence you place on a stage or onto a page is YOU, it's easy to start wondering, "Am I worthy? Did I do anything notable enough? Am I really going to portray myself as the hero of the story?"
It's hard enough to create content to teach and inspire and have it WORK. Do we really want to add more snakes to that jungle? Are we prepared to pull from our backstories as THE models for what others should do?
Using your past successes as illustrations for others of what THEY should do can work, absolutely. You should try it. But please recognize the inherent limitations, and consider the next two approaches to teaching -- approaches which make it easier to resonate with others, because others can contextualize your lessons to their unique situations.
So far we've covered:
#1. Instruction: no story (flat advice or prescription)
#2. Illustration: a story as an example or case study
But we can resonate deeper.
#3: Metaphor
Here's the thing about Brian writing with us about risk-taking: the whole time he's doing so, what he's really thinking is, "Man, I'd rather be skydiving." Or at least, "Man, I want to talk about skydiving in this piece." But he holds back.
I get it. Because he's also thinking, "Why would anyone care? What have I experienced that's all that notable? Why would they want to hear a story about me anyway?"
Well, Bri-Bri, I promised we'd arrive here. Why would they care about you or your interests? Simple.
They wouldn't.
When you're a professional, your personal stories aren't about you. They're about the thing you're there to say. They're about the audience -- their goals, needs, pain, and success.
Why would they care about skydiving or you? They wouldn't. Your audience cares about themselves. And that's fine! That's how we all operate. As storytellers, Brian, you, and I can talk about ANY topic and ensure it's relatable and resonant for our audiences, because we make our stories about THEM.
"Why would they care about skydiving?" They don't. Stop worrying about what is being presented at face value in your story. The topic isn't what they're after. The meaning is. The emotions are. The LESSON is why it resonates, because the lesson is what they can USE. You aren't communicating through literal illustrations -- your life matching theirs exactly (or so you assume). No, when we show up as effective storytellers, we are saying to the world, "I experienced something, which made something else abundantly clear -- something YOU want to know." Does the thing you experienced matter, so long as the lesson and emotions are clear? No.
Your audience cares about themselves. (Don't judge them. You ARE them. Or do you prefer I switch to writing 3,000-word essays about basketball instead of storytelling?)
When you tell stories, you can talk about any topic at all if you deliver it as metaphorical instead of literal, arriving at insights others need.
Talk about skydiving. Talk about owning chickens when you speak to marketers (that's Britney Gardner, another Kitchen member). Talk about being a parent or a cook when speaking to creators (Amanda Natividad), or living with an invisible disability when you speak to corporate leaders (Jill Griffin), or talk about loving the Knicks (hi, that's me) or the drums (Arpit Choudhury), or immigration (Dozie Anyaegbunam).
Talk about anything you care about ... and translate that into meaning ... about something the AUDIENCE cares about.
To get started, try this template to turn a lived moment into a metaphor to teach:
1. "This happened..." (Describe a true moment, in brief.)
2. "Which made me realize..." (What did you realize about the thing you usually talk about, which the audience wants to learn?)
3. "Which means..." (So what does that change for the audience?)
For example:
1. "The other day, I was at a local pizza place, and I asked about why their dough tastes so good. The waiter explained it's the starter that makes a dough tastes unique, because no two starters make the same dough. Starters are just flour + water, which ferments over time."
2. "This made me realize: we're the starters in our work. No two people would execute the same piece or story the same way."
3. "Which means that if we want to stand out, if we want to do original things, if we want to be memorable in our work, the most important things we can do is draw more fully on our own lived experiences. Don't leave it to chance. START there. Because you are the starter. And no two starters make the same dough."
Here's another:
1. "It took me literal years to stop buying espresso and decide to make one for myself at home. We have a machine. My wife routinely makes it for herself, and I was getting tired of asking her to make me one too. But now, I make it almost every day. What changed? I tried it. Once."
2. "It's funny how we often feel intimidated by things we haven't tried before. In our work, that often leads to endless (and useless) research or buying the gear or seeking out experts. But I think in most cases, we don't really fear the task itself. We fear the unknown."
3. "So what if, in moments we feel afraid or feel like we just need that extra hour of learning or that software subscription, we instead tried to do the thing one time? Because if we truly fear the unknown, not the task itself, then the goal isn't to master the thing just yet. The goal is to make the unknown known."
Here's how Brian might approach it, pulling from skydiving to talk about risk-taking:
1. "I'm an avid skydiver, and yesterday I completed my 400th dive. Even after that many, the moment you leap out of the plane can still feel scary."
2. "But I realized: you have to make the leap for the good stuff to happen next."
3. "So the next time you think about your life or your work, make the leap!"
What do you think? Kinda meh, right? Not that great. But why?
The lesson is too obvious. The metaphor is cliché. I think our metaphors work best when the lesson we extract is nonobvious.
Ask yourself:
"What’s something you'd only know if you lived it, which most don’t realize?"
With that in mind, maybe Brian can teach our audience about risk-taking in a more meaningful way through this second skydiving metaphor:
1. "I'm an avid skydiver, and yesterday I completed my 400th dive. Now, most people think about skydiving's most important moment as the moment you leap out of the plane, and of course that matters. But what I realized in that latest dive is just how much the next moment matters: the moment you open up your arms and legs and begin to fall."
2. "When I reached that moment this past weekend, I realized: we all face moments like this after we make the leap in ANYTHING we do. We jump, we do the risky thing, but then we face a choice. We can remain closed off and tight, or we can embrace that we've made the leap -- and proceed accordingly."
3. "In other words, it's not enough to make the leap. We have to be open to what happens once we do."
Fantastic! Way more resonant.
#1. Instruction: no story (flat advice or prescription)
#2. Illustration: a story as an example or case study
#3. Metaphor: a comparison (or story) to reveal a lesson
#4: Allegory
We're surrounded by allegories in our culture. The six blind men and the elephant ( which I wrote about ). The Lord of the Flies. Dr. Seuss's story The Sneetches. The Matrix, which is an allegory inspired by an allegory: the allegory of the cave from Plato.
Metaphors tell. Allegories show. Both should reveal. They reveal a lesson which ideally is nonobvious and not something others would have immediately concluded. It took your personal experiences and perspective to see it.
If you're our beloved Bri-Bri talking about skydiving, to share an allegory instead of a metaphor is to go beyond a brief telling and take us there, into a key moment. Rather than tell us "yesterday, I completed my 400th dive," Brian would take us there into that morning of his life. What happened during that 400th dive? What does he remember? Who was he with? How was he feeling? What happened, step by step, and can that help Brian arrive at a more profound insight to conclude the story?
Metaphors tell, but allegories show. Metaphors are easier to create than allegories, but you can evolve a metaphor into an allegory by placing the audience in the moment where the metaphor hit you. When was this? Where were you? What were you doing? How? Who were you with? How were you or they feeling?
Describe the setting. Advance the action through a sequence of events. Arrive at the lesson this moment helped you realized -- a lesson the audience wants to hear.
"What animal has the shortest memory?" Ted asks Sam in Ted Lasso. "A goldish. Be a goldfish."
Metaphor.
But a story about a plucky little goldfish named Pip? That could be an allegory. Place us there. Maybe Pip keeps trying to remember his friend Nemo's favorite sport. But he keeps forgetting which sport his clownfish friend loves (because goldfish). And so on Nemo's birthday, Pip gives him a basketball, but his favorite sport is tennis.
Pip feels mortified and swims away, which only worsens Nemo's day. But 9 seconds later, Pip completely forgets his mistake and floats over to Nemo with a smile.
Be like Pip.
Be a goldfish.
You made a mistake. Forget it and move on.
That version is an allegory.
#1. Instruction: no story (flat advice or prescription)
#2. Illustration: a story as an example or case study
#3. Metaphor: a comparison to reveal a lesson (the less obvious, the more profound)
#4. Allegory: a story to reveal a lesson (the less obvious, the more profound)
I'm not asking you to stop teaching in your content. I'm asking you to teach with greater power. To make a lasting impact and ensure your words resonate, don't just instruct others, and be sure to proceed cautiously when using illustrations pulled from your own life. If you really want to resonate, use topics you deeply care about and moments that moved you to convey lessons others need.
Try more metaphors. Pick one and turn that into an allegory. Place the audience there.
Regardless of how you teach, do it in a way that leaves others feeling grateful.
Because they get to learn from YOU.