Storytelling As a Craft

Storytelling As A Craft By Bill Harley

After a show a kid comes up to me and says, "Have you ever been on American Idol?" I laughed out loud, gave him a hug, shook him by the shoulders and said, "Look at me! Have you ever seen anyone on American Idol who looks anything at all like me? Have you ever seen anyone on American Idol do anything close to what I do?" The kid was a little embarrassed. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I guess not," he said I guess not either. I took it for a compliment, of course – I knew he was trying to find something to compare me to. He thought I was good and wanted to say so. It's a great compliment. There are other things people say to me. Kids ask, "Are you a comedian?" Adults whose kids grew up on me and are out of their house with their own children ask, "Are you still doing this?" One kid looked at me and said, "Are you a beggar?" Well, look, we don't quite fit, do we? Believe me, I have tried to fit. I have tried to make storytelling fit. I've had a concept in my head about why storytelling should be famous, along with me and a bunch of other storytellers. But alas, it has not happened. Last year I won a Grammy. I didn't think I'd win. The spoken word Grammies include people reading books. Famous people reading books. Like Tony Shaloub and Gwyneth Paltrow. Most folks figured Gwyneth Paltrow would win. So did I. My friend Bil Lepp said, "Bill, if they call your name, don't jump around and scream, 'Omigod, omigod!' It's so fake." Guess what you do when you win? Scream "Omigod, omigod." You get the award and then they lead you back stage. Jazzy Jeff is back there. Gwyneth was back there, too, a little confused. Then they lead you from one podium to another, giving you a Grammy to hold and taking it away, so you don't have one at the end of this. They put you on each podium and announce to the various assembled media types, "This is Bill Harley, winner of the Grammy of Spoken Word for children." Any questions? Any questions? No questions. The sound of paint peeling and fingers texting to friends, waiting for someone interesting to come along. That's what I did for the first half hour after I won the Grammy, just to put things in their proper perspective. Finally one guy asks me, "How did it feel to beat Gwyneth Paltrow?" "Well," I said. "I guess it's not a beauty contest." I get a call from a friend the next morning. "Bill, you're in the New York Post!" "Really?" I say. "Yeah. It says, 'Gwyneth Paltrow lost in her first Grammy Nomination in the Spoken Word for Children's category to veteran children's performer Bill Harley. "I guess it's not a beauty contest," said the bald, middle-aged storyteller."'" So there's fame for you - at least on our level.

Part of this lack of recognition is part and parcel of the nature of storytelling. From the very beginning of my work in storytelling, I had the notion that the storytelling I did, as done by many others I know, was an intimate response to an impersonal culture. As such, intimacy seems to indicate that it is not a medium that will fill Foxboro stadium and enthrall. I don't think this is beyond the realm of possibility, but it's highly unlikely, and it wasn't why I started doing it, and although I may have had dreams of grandeur, they have not been long-lasting or serious. So storytelling wasn't going to attract millions because by its nature it shouldn't. But there's another type of disinterest, or lack of recognition, that bothers me, and it's one that we, as storytellers, should be able to do something about. And that is the recognition by other artists and a broader population, if not mass culture, that storytelling is an art form. I am, at times, concerned that we have missed our cultural moment to have storytelling recognized in this way. (And I mean, in this specific context, to define storytelling as performing artists who use spoken narrative.) I don't think it's too late to do something about it, but I think in our expansion of what we are calling storytelling we are ignoring the knowledge, wisdom, and, well, art, of those who spend a great amount of their time working on the performance of story. In fact, this type of storytelling has been fighting a rearguard action ever since Gutenberg. The need for this particular kind of storytelling – a teller speaking to a group in front of him or her, presenting events in a narrative form, real or imagined – has diminished with every advance of technology. It is not as necessary for many of the functions it formerly served. Now, we receive the information that storytelling has presented for eons in many different ways – more efficiently, and perhaps in many instances more effectively. We are more in touch with each other than ever before, but something is missing. Unless the whole point is just to be connected (something none of us can see from our own vantage point), what is missing in this rapid advance of technology is a depth. I'm no complete Luddite – we can't go back and reclaim storytelling as the major method of communication right now. It's my feeling that it is not our job to fight against these new forms of communication, and offer storytelling as the solution. It is, I think, our job to make room for these other things and still insist upon the importance of storytelling. We can act as good improvisers on stage, accepting what is handed to them and say, "Yes, and…" "Yes, and we still need storytelling." But storytelling is now a craft – it offers a depth I think, that is genetically encoded in us – the proximity of the speaker, the feel of the air in the room, the interaction between the teller and the listener – each influencing other. I don't see that happening yet in digital media - at least not yet. So, with storytelling's function replaced in many aspects of our culture, we are left with the importance of what it is at the heart of it – a connection between people in a room, listening to one person speaking. Goethe said there are three questions artists should ask themselves: What are you trying to do? How well are you doing it?

Is it worth doing it? These are the questions we should be asking ourselves as a group, and I would like to focus for a while on the second question. How well are you doing it? We who call ourselves storytellers are constantly having to squeeze our work into some category that doesn't quite capture what we do, because our category isn't recognized as legitimate. There are many reasons for this, and many of those reasons are beyond our ability to change. But some we can change. In some areas we have failed to do our work as artists. We have not, I think, taken ourselves seriously enough as artists, and have not produced enough storytellers of deep and resonant excellence. There are many reasons for this, and again, many beyond our control. But one of the reasons is that we have not developed the language to talk intelligently about what excellence in storytelling consists of. While there are all kinds of dancers, and all kinds of musicians, and painters, expressing themselves in myriad ways, each of those disciplines has a language used to discuss what the artist is doing. I think we have been fuzzy in doing this, and I think it's been holding us back. There are any number of reasons why we have not had this discussion. From my viewpoint, the storytelling movement as I've known it, has always been pretty schizoid – caught between its insistence on it being an art form, a fine art at its best, and its existence as a folk art – one that anyone can do. We are caught between wanting to honor excellence and insisting that everyone has a story to tell. Both of these things are true, but in my experience, the motion towards storytelling as an accomplished art has been hindered by it constantly being placed in the context of its folk roots. Many of the most accomplished storytellers are regularly put on stage with young people telling their first stories, or local folks telling for the first time. There is truly something wonderful about this – the leveling influence makes a statement about the nature of our humanity, and about everyone's story having value – but there is a price paid when we do this – we do not demand enough of our performers working towards excellence, and we change the nature of expectation of the audience. A price is paid, too, in our movement's tendency to conflate working on a story for performance, and working on a story for personal growth. These are two different endeavors, with some common ground, but not enough to warrant their continued conflation. They involve two different sets of premises, and they should involve two different languages, and two different approaches to critiquing and comment. I hasten to say right here that our problem is not that we are just too kind to each other, or not brutal enough in our critiques. What I am saying is that we are not specific about what we are trying to accomplish, not intelligent enough in our comments, not specific enough in our language not relentless enough in our own striving towards excellence. Taking a good long look in the mirror is the hardest thing to do, but it's the mark of an artist. I go to people I trust for comment and critique, and make sure I'm in a place where I can hear what they are saying, not feeling the need to be defensive. But in this, I know that even I am often not honest enough in my search for how to make my work better.

So, we need a language to intelligently discuss what good storytelling is. And we can find those things that point towards good storytelling. I am not saying we have to all agree on what the best storytelling is, but I am saying we can find a way to have an intelligent discussion – NOT TO RANK STORYTELLERS, BUT TO CHALLENGE OURSELVES TO MAKE OUR WORK BETTER. In thinking about this, I've found it useful to look upon storytelling as a craft. For the time being, I put aside the notion of storytelling as an art – The word "art", in the end, is something I think that other people call your work – something you don't have any control over. What the artist should be concerned with is how they do their craft, and how they can do it better. It is really the only thing we have control over – how we spend our time. Picasso said, "When critics get together, they talk about art, when artists get together, they talk about turpentine." So this is turpentine. I'd like to talk about a chairmaker. My friend Curtis lives up the hill in Jonesborough – if you go straight when the road turns left out of Jonesborough, in a hundred yards you will come to a sign that says "Curtis Buchanan – Windsor Chairmaker". Behind the house is a one-room workshop where Curtis makes some of the finest Windsor chairs made in the country, using only hand tools. His waiting list is five years long for people who want his chairs. He makes one a week, and is in no hurry. "I could make two a week and make more money, but I'd stop liking it as much. I could make more money, and then I'd get used to having that much money. And if I used power tools I could get it done faster, but like a friend says, "Why would I want to speed up anything I like doing?" Curtis and I have talked long and deep about both storytelling and chair making, and the nature of craft. And through him I've come to see my storytelling as a craft – something that involves a wide variety of skills that need to be developed, something that requires a continuing refinement and exploration – something requiring persistence and dedication and a commitment to experimentation and failure as a natural part of the process. In seeing the connection between storytelling and other crafts – the craft of woodworking, the craft of writing, or composing, or learning an instrument, or even software design – I'm affirming storytelling as a phenomenon that aspires towards art, that has a language we can use to further our work. Curtis gave me a book to read by master woodworker David Pye called The Nature and Art of Workmanship. A couple of Pye's definitions and observations are helpful in us identifying elements of the storytelling craft. Pye differentiates between a workmanship of certainty and a workmanship of risk. In something like chair making, that would be the difference between a chair being assembled in factory from parts made from forms and machines and a chair being made by hand by Curtis. In the first instance, the workmanship of certainty– the design of the piece and the tools that are used in making the piece insure that there will be no accident in its construction – nothing will go wrong. In the workmanship of certainty, the outcome is not in doubt. In the workmanship of risk - Curtis's chair - there is the possibility that at any moment the work may be ruined by the workman. Curtis can destroy everything he's done by not watching what he's doing with a file, or a plane or a lathe – the outcome is always in doubt. Consider the difference between a printing press and writing with a pen. If the press

©2010 All Rights Reserved www.billharley.com 4 Storytelling As A Craft By Bill Harley is working properly, we know that the job will be perfect and always the same. Writing with a pen, mistake is always a possibility, at any moment. Now, you can begin to see how this might apply to storytelling, and how it is a craft. Obviously, the act of telling a story is a workmanship of risk. Let us count the ways that storytelling can go wrong in performance. But as I've pointed out, storytelling today (as others might define it) is not just done by storytellers – now we have storytelling games, or software programs for screenwriters that always come up with adequate stories, because they fit in a template designed by people who understand story and create the software. When you go see a movie, the performance of the movie is no longer in doubt – if the design was successful, the movie will be good every time it's shown. Or anybody can write a song with a good beat, since exquisite drum samples can be found on any computer. Pye says what is missing in the craftsmanship of certainty is diversity – all those chairs coming out of the factory, all those letters being printed by the printing press, all the power point presentations – they all look the same. They are functional, but they are missing something, some element that is found in something involving the workmanship of risk. And, Pye says, that what is required in the workmanship of risk are three things – judgment, dexterity, and care. Judgment, dexterity, and care – judgment coming from having seen the process enough to be able to make good choices – choosing this rather than that, deleting, editing things that don't belong, and the restraint and fortitude to do that. Dexterity – an ability – a quickness or suppleness of mind and body so that the design an be accomplished; And care – taking time with each part of the process, having the patience to hang in there in the process of making art because we want it to be as good as it can be. Of these three things, Pye says, care is the most important. Interestingly enough, care is the one thing that is immediately available to all of us, in the form of giving something time – patience. I believe the other two – judgment and dexterity – will grow, with the use of care. When I think of storytelling, I see how all these elements of good craft apply. Now, given that we can approach the telling of stories as a craft, what skills are a part of accomplished, craftsman like storytelling? Can we identify different areas that most, or all storytellers have to deal with? What intelligent questions can we ask about a storyteller and his or her work, which will begin to make clear why the storytelling succeeds or fails? Well, yes, we can do those things. And here I'm going to take a couple minutes to outline what I think are the elements in the craft of storytelling, and pose some questions that highlight those elements. This is my fumbling attempt to bring some order and understanding to this thing we do. It does not mean that all storytellers must be successful in all things to be a good storyteller, and these things do not "standardize" what storytelling should look and feel like. I'm becoming clear that there is a difference between standards – guideposts by which we evaluate work - and standardizing, which tries to make everything the same. I don't have a problem with standards. They are where we start – and craftsmanship and art go on from there.

So – I would propose that storytelling as performance involves the development of skill in seven areas: narrative form, language, voice and physical instrument, performance skills, relationship with the audience, show structure, and aesthetics. What I'm going to do, here, briefly, is pose some questions, or queries in each of those areas, so you can see the kind of things I think are important to think about. Any one of these questions opens up a large discussion – a place to start.

Narrative form Is the structure of the piece strong – does it show an understanding of narrative structure, even if only to make it possible to experiment with that structure? Is the structure flabby – are there parts that do not belong? Is there an awareness of narrative tension? Does the piece show an understanding of character's place in the narrative? Is there resonance in the piece, with elements introduced early bearing fruit later on? Is there an understanding of an underlying subtext in the story? Is it clear that the storyteller knows what the story is about? Has s/he made choices about what material to present to best serve the heart of the story? Is there a dramatic build that reaches some form of climax when a truth is revealed? Is this revelation presented in a way that delights or enlightens or moves the audience?

Language Does the storyteller have command of the language used? Does the storyteller have an adequate vocabulary, and use the right word? Is the style of language consistent throughout the piece? Is it authentic – especially if it represents some culture other than the performer's own? If it is a caricature of a culture, is there an understanding of what that means? In the context of the choice of language used, is the grammar and vocabulary consistent and authentic? Is there a consciousness of it being an oral language, rather than oral presentation of written language? Is there breath in the words, or do they sound as if they are coming from the page?

Voice and physical instrument Does the storyteller have command of his/her vocal instrument? Is s/he understandable? Does the vocal instrument serve the story, or does it attract attention to itself? Is the voice flexible in its presentation of different aspects of the piece, varying in timbre, pace, and dynamics? Does the physical movement of the storyteller serve the story? Is the storyteller conscious of how the use of his/her body is serving the story? Is the performer in control of his/her physical instrument, using his/her body to serve the presentation, or does the movement distract from the story?

Performance skills Are all skills integrated into the story? (e.g. – music, movement, juggling) Are the skills used developed enough so that they are not hindrances? Are skills and technique transparent so that the story is served, rather than the demonstration of technique? Does the storyteller use different modes of presentation in the performance? Is there a spectrum, or vocabulary, of content and presentation? If the storyteller has committed to characterization in a piece, are the characterizations consistent throughout?

Relationship with the audience What is the storyteller's relationship with the audience – is s/he telling to the audience present before him/her, or to the one in his/her head? Is the performer open to the audience – is there an awareness of the nature of the fourth, permeable wall between the audience and the performer? Is there a consistent understanding of where the storyteller is at any moment in the delivery of the narrative? Is there some understanding of the isolation of characters from each other and the narrator? Has the storyteller made conscious choices about those relationships?

Show structure Does the performer have a sense of how an entire performance builds? Over the course of the performance, is there a flow from one piece to another, and some sort of arc? What is the performer's relationship with the audience between set pieces?

Aesthetic Does the storyteller have a sense of his/her aesthetic – her reason for performing and how s/he presents her material? Are they consciously making choices about what they are showing and how they are showing it? Does the storyteller have a unique voice? Does s/he have something to say?

That's my fumbling start at how we handle looking at ourselves. I hasten to add – these are questions, not hard and fast rules – they are a way of seeing. And let me add quickly – I don't know anyone who handles all of these areas equally well. If there was someone like that, I would be happy to join you in murdering them, because we could not stand them. It reminds me of trying to deal with Stephen Covey's The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People – it gives me diarrhea just thinking about those things – I'm more interested in three or four habits of people who do what they can. It is people's different approaches and talents with these areas that make them unique. When someone's narrative sense is very strong, we may overlook their nasty habit of scratching their ear lobe, or falling into a bad Scottish accent. I don't go to hear Bob Dylan because of his dulcet voice. When I look at these questions, these areas, I am immediately struck by how very large a skill set is required to be a good storyteller. You have to be a writer and a wordsmith who understands plotting and character, you have to be an actor, that commands a presence on stage by yourself, a director you have to be able to read an audience, you have to be very emotionally intelligent (at least on stage), you have to know what reaches an audience – making intelligent choices about material - and you have to have something to say And that's not even dealing with the business of it. Maybe it's just impossible. It's not impossible of course, because many of these skills are grounded in day-today living – in our interactions with others and our awareness of the world. People who pay attention and are sensitive, and comfortable speaking to other people, and are inquisitive about the world have a big head start in being a good storyteller. And, as some

©2010 All Rights Reserved www.billharley.com 7 Storytelling As A Craft By Bill Harley of the questions indicate, you don't have to be a complete virtuoso in any of them, you have to do them well enough to do one thing – serve the story. If a skill is invisible, or transparent, or not noticeable, it is good enough for the purpose of a storyteller. But the more honed the skill is, the more it may serve the story and delight the audience. There is a calculus here – one can get better, continuously and forever, in any one of these areas, and never reach the limit of what is possible. But it is in this striving that we earn our wings as craftsman and approach art. Now – what does that mean for where we are in the storytelling world. It takes years of work to be accomplished at these aspects of our work. What looks like apparent artlessness is a long road traveled to come back to some sense of immediacy – an immediacy informed with knowledge, experience and wisdom. To reinforce – it involves employing Pye's notions of judgment, dexterity, and care. It's here that we can look at the current storytelling scene with a little head scratching – the hottest thing called storytelling today appears to be programs like the Moth. Ten-minute stories of personal experiences in which there is an encouragement for people off the streets to tell their stories. The Moth is an important and interesting cultural event but to my mind, while the Moth is an entrée into the world of storytelling, it cannot contain the depth and breadth of what storytelling can do. It is and should be a beginning. The fact that it seems our salvation in some eyes brings me back to my original point – we need a language to talk about what storytelling does – if we don't have it, we may mistake things like the Moth as what storytelling aspires towards. Interestingly, David Pye poses this same question about woodworking and other crafts:

"The danger is not that the workmanship of risk will die out altogether but rather than, from want of theory, and thence lack of standards, its possibilities will be neglected and inferior forms of it will be taken for granted and accepted."

Now don't get me wrong – I think the Moth and other similar programs are great things. Even important things. Very important. I think the Moth reflects a truly American culture, in which the specific individual life points to the mythic and universal, whereas traditional narrative starts with myth and points to the specific life. Individual stories have always mattered in America. The Moth is an expression of diversity and democracy. But there's also something a little weird about it, and it reflects other aspects of popular culture. Or not weird about it, but weird about it being presented as what storytelling is. How is it that people will listen to someone undiscovered with adequate talent instead of a world class singer as in American idol? Or that more people are interested in watching untrained Joes off the street run around on a desert island acting out the broad outlines of a story of survival, as in Survivor? There are reasons why people watch these things, and they are also some of the same reasons the Moth format is appealing. There is real drama as there is in sports – one time only – we're not sure what will happen! – Perhaps this is why seventy thousand people go to a football game.

There is economics – cheaper to produce when you don't have those pesky professional performers. There is also, clearly, a voyeurism here – how much will you show of yourself? There is, finally a sense of "I could do that", which has great value. But, perhaps, most important, there also elements of rawness, vitality, and authenticity. In all of these venues - an uncertainty of what's going to happen. I am reminded of an experience I had several years ago – I worked with a group of storytellers for several days honing their stories, trying to get them to break through towards this authentic performance – the sense of this story happening for the first time. We met with mixed success. A week or two later I worked with a group of teachers who were first time tellers. Their stories of personal experiences were more compelling. They felt important to the teller, and so were important to us. Some of the tellers in the first group had studied their stories to death, and there was no room to breathe. Does this mean that storytelling is unlearnable? Does it mean that someone who has studied the art of performing stories their whole life is bound to be less interesting than a newbie? No – I don't believe that. I believe that when we see a true artist do his or her work, we know that it is deeper and longer and more fulfilling. And I think that storytelling – the ancient craft of spoken narrative in front of a group of people – has a place in our culture. Not to transmit technical information, or pass on the news of the day, but to speak to the human spirit in a way unique and central to our existence. It's a craft that should be preserved. Quite honestly, in the days ahead, as the oil dwindles, and we can no longer make our lives of plastic, it may become more important than we ever imagined. Why aren't we more accepted? What should we do? Some suggest better marketing, or branding but I don't think that's it. I think, my friends, that the answer is that we have to work harder on our craft. Those of us who want to profess this art must strive even more towards excellence. If there were a critical mass of storytellers who had mastered their work – People, who could, on a given night, blow an audience away. Say several hundred, we might begin to have the critical mass that forms a language and a discipline of this art. Even then, we would not perform before hundreds of thousands. It's not that kind of thing, I think. But the passing on of the art, even in this inhospitable environment, would be more assured. It is up to us, those who find ourselves in love with the ancient craft of storytelling, to carry this flame, and refine our language so we can better our work. And really, if there's any group of people that ought to be able to find a word and way to show what we are trying to do, shouldn't it be a bunch of storytellers?