The Posture of a Storyteller

I hit play, but what I saw wasn't what I wanted. Even worse, the first thought that popped to my mind was "Damn you, Erik!"

It had been a long week-slash-three years working at Google in ad sales, but that evening, I left work excited. Someone had sent me one of those early, viral YouTube videos. Maybe you know the type. They weren't created by big corporations or famous influencers. Nobody was gaming algorithms and trying to go viral. It all felt like a bunch of excited, creative humans tinkering, self-expressing, trying to make something interesting to them -- and maybe others would like it too. There was no hashtag-spam or @-mention spam to grow reach, no thinkpieces from countless bloggers about the videos, and certainly no public backlash (to say nothing of the backlash TO the backlash).

Nope. These were just ... fun.

And this particular video was extra-fun. It had it all. Great music. A compelling character. A warm message. I can't remember the actual video, but let's say it was Kid President's Pep Talk. That absolutely fits the mold of the type of video I'm trying to describe. (Your homework: Watch that video on repeat for 5 to 25 hours, then return to the task at hand. I dare you to NOT feel inspired.)

Anyway, I'd watched the video three or four times during the day, and I couldn't wait to show it to my roommates when I got home.

I walked in the door.

I shouted to my friends.

We gathered around the kitchen table.

I took out my laptop.

I navigated to the URL.

I clicked play on the video, and...

A pre-roll ad slapped me in the face.

I hit play, but what I saw wasn't what I wanted. Even worse, the first thought that popped to my mind was "Damn you, Erik!"

* * *

When you opened this newsletter today, maybe you expected me to launch into a story, maybe you didn't. Regardless, nobody asked me to start with a story. I just ... did. But I'll be honest, that took years of working up the courage to do so.

If I'd written this same piece a decade ago, I probably would have buried the story. I would have opened with something more plain and therefore less gripping, maybe like a straightforward description of the main lesson or insight of the piece. Only later, after I'd made clear what I was talking about in my writing, would I feel confident enough to offer a story. ("For example...")

This is a mistake. Making clear WHAT you're writing about isn't as powerful as making clear WHY others should care.

These are not the same thing.

Sometimes, to ensure others care, you can start a piece by telling them why they should. ("Today, we address the biggest conundrum facing creators like you.") But of course, the old adage applies. "Show, don't tell." In other words, don't give them a single second to debate whether or not they should care about what you're saying. Just make them care.

A lot of podcasters do this too. They'll open with a lengthy summary of the value to come. I get it. They're trying to answer an implied question the listener arrives asking: "Why should I listen to this?" The podcaster replies: "Here's why: because you'll hear X and Y and Z." But there's a better way. Make them forget the question entirely. Don't give them a single second to pause and wonder, "Is this for me?" Just start in such a way that they can't help but go, "WOW, this is SO for me!"

Don't tell them you're good. Just be good. Resonate from the very beginning. Arguably, the most powerful way to do so is this:

Start with a story.

Years ago, I wouldn't have done that. It would have felt awkward, like I was trying to be some kind of philosopher king. (In my head was probably the image of an overly somber TED speaker, opening with a dramatic line. "We'd been exploring the Arctic for a week, and we were almost out of food...")

I understand that perception. I also understand that starting with a story can feel a bit scary. You aren't able to hide behind lengthy justifications for the value you're about to provide. You just have to deliver value. Immediately.

For years, I held back from that. I rarely opened with a story. In fact, only around HERE in this piece would I have felt okay sharing my experiences with an inspiring, adorable YouTube video. And an unwanted pre-roll ad. And a mysterious character named Erik.

Oh, and I definitely wouldn't have left this Erik person a mystery. I would have closed that loop immediately after opening it. Letting it linger would have been out of the question. What if it didn't work?

Fine.

But what if it did?

* * *

In our work, the people who communicate with us or ask us questions don't then say to us, "Please respond with a story."

In a board room, over a coffee, during an interview for a job or a podcast or a blog, in the halls, on a Zoom call, or on a stage, nobody is going to make it clear to us: It's time to tell a story now.

The thing is, we can just ... do it. We can choose to respond with a story, and in doing so, resonate more deeply, earn trust more quickly, and spark the actions we need to grow our businesses and leave our legacies.

At first, I'll admit, it can feel a little weird, a little scary, like you're stepping out over a ledge, standing on a wire. Of course, we hear our favorite communicators and creators do this all the time, replying with stories that astound us, and they seem so confident all the while. When we take that initial step, the wire might wobble under our feet.

But then we do it again. And again. And again. Step after step, story after story, we stop shuffling down that wire and start to dance. We deliver our messages with more emotion, more entertainment value, more impact. We resonate deeper.

Because we made a choice to do so.

The story doesn't need to be grand. Most of us won't experience any society-shifting moments -- let alone trigger those moments personally, so that they become our stories. Instead, a healthy first reaction is, "That reminds me of..."

A simple memory, but with some stakes (even if the stakes are accentuated after the fact, for effect).

I walked in the door.

I shouted to my friends.

We gathered around the kitchen table.

I took out my laptop.

I navigated to the URL.

I clicked play on the video, and...

Not much happens in that story, but sequences of events and a dash of extra drama make for a useful communication tool.

What will happen next? What was the ad? And, later, who is Erik?

It all unfolds in the rather mundane moments of my life. This story won't receive any press, but it's a worthy story nonetheless. And I can use it to help you arrive at an insight with greater clarity and emotion, causing what I teach to stick and stay.

In your written or spoken communication, the choice is yours. You can start with a story. But don't wait around for someone to give you permission. Nobody is going to tell you it's time. Nobody is going to ask you for a story. So it's up to each of us to assume the posture of a storyteller. We see ideas for stories everywhere, sure, but more so, we see opportunities to tell those stories everywhere too. Everywhere we show up. Even though we're never overtly prompted.

Nobody asks our favorite communicators to respond with stories. They just do.

We can too.

And speaking of stories, I have to finish the one about that pre-roll YouTube ad and the person I blamed for it. His name ... was Bob.

Just kidding.

His name was Erik.

Damn you, Erik.

* * *

I'd arrived home over-hyping that YouTube video to my friends, but what they saw instead was a frustrating experience: a car commercial. (This was before the skip button, too.)

Immediately, I thought, "Damn you, Erik."

See, Erik was my colleague at Google who had convinced this car brand to start running YouTube ads. I knew the brand was his client. I also knew our corporate overlords had been pushing us to sell more YouTube campaigns. So there I stood, feeling foolish and frustrated in front of my friends, all thanks to the fruits of Erik's labor.

Damn him.

But then, I felt a far worse feeling. I'll never forget it. A knot quickly formed in my gut as I realized, "Wait a second. I have the same job at Google that Erik has. Which means someone, somewhere was having a frustrating experience in their day, and they didn't know it, but the person to blame ... was me. I was responsible for that person having a worse moment. But with Google and YouTube's scale, it wasn't actually one person. It was thousands of people. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Hell, if I was really successful in my job, millions of people would experience slightly worse moments in their days ... because of what I did for a living."

That was simply NOT the work I wanted to be doing. It was NOT how I aspired to spend my time here on earth. I wanted to create the video, not the interruption to it. My goal has always been to make things people want NOT make people want things.

The ad finally stopped. My roommates eventually watched that video I'd excitedly hyped to them.

They loved it.

My excuses finally stopped too. I eventually quit that job to pursue the work I do now.

I've loved it.

No one is going to tell you when the time is right to tell a story. No one is going to ask for it. If you feel there are stories inside of you that deserve to be told, you simply need to do it. But if you'd benefit from a little extra push, then here it is:

The next time you create or communicate, don't justify why they should care. Just make them care. Take down the safety nets, take a deep breath, and step out over the wire.

Start with a story.