Journalism—the practice of reporting on events, people and facts—is a powerful method of storytelling. The (unbiased) goal is to tell us what happened, where it happened, who was involved, and what they said. When it’s done well, there’s an opportunity for us to see the world around us through a slightly different lens.
Journalists often develop their stories in a secondhand fashion with information from outside sources. But the most impactful reporting happens on site, inside the action as it’s taking place. Not only is there a story about the events, people, and facts, there’s a second story unfolding at the same time. It’s the journalist’s personal story. A narrative which reveals what’s happening to them, as well as what they’re thinking and feeling.
This is especially true for photojournalists who work in conflict zones. A soldier engaged in battle will have some degree of agency, but anyone with a camera instead of a weapon does not possess that advantage.
As a curator and advisor for TEDxLisboa 2023, I had the honor of working with award-winning photojournalist Paul Conroy on his talk. While most speakers I work with are sitting in a safe place—at their office or home—Paul was on the front lines in Ukraine, in a city that was being bombarded by Russian forces.
Whenever we spoke Paul’s face was lit only by the glow from his laptop screen.
“I can’t turn on any lights or the Russians will target the building I’m in.”
He took a short break from the front lines to give this talk, but he’s now back in Ukraine. His talk is not about the conflict he’s covering today—he’ll need to give that talk one day—but rather about his harrowing adventure while in Syria with Marie Colvin. Her passion for telling stories of warfare ended up costing her life. It was Paul’s honor to tell the world this story.
“So, once again, I’m back to shining lights in dark places, the haunts where despots and dictators like to operate. Once again, camera in hand, I’m back to peeling onions.
To get the full picture of Paul’s experience in Syria with Marie, I recommend reading his book, Under the Wire.
The full story would take many, many hours to tell, but Paul masterfully crafted a narrative that spans less than 20 minutes, yet takes you on a journey to hell and back. He choose to reveal the story in ten steps, and he calls out each one along the way. Unusual for a TEDx Talk, but I found it to be an effective way of pacing the story.
Transcript
One – Assignment
Home for me in 2012 was a 17th century cottage set in the Devon countryside. I’d been in Libya for a year covering the revolution with my dear colleague Marie Colvin of the Sunday Times. I’d met Marie in Syria in 2003 when we were both trying to break into Iraq illegally, and we’ve been best friends ever since then.
The piece of my Sunday afternoon was broken with a call from the Sunday Times picture desk. “Paul, we need you to go into Syria, meet Marie in Beirut,” said Andrew.
Trouble had been brewing in Syria since the start of the Arab Spring, but now Assad was shooting protesters in the streets. By midnight that night I was at Heathrow Airport, shoving 20,000 pounds down my boots, in my jacket. There was a limit of 10,000, and I just hadn’t read the paper.
So the next day I met up in Beirut with Marie and we started planning our trip into Homs. We knew the city was under siege. We’d been watching it streamed on the internet, and the journalists coming out were telling us it’s too much, it’s over for us. And Marie just laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “It’s what we do.”
She’d once given a speech where she said we were there to bear witness, and she used the analogy that getting to the heart of any story was like peeling back the layers of an onion, and when you got to the core of the onion, that was the story, that was where you needed to be.
Two – Beirut, meeting the smugglers
We spent a few weeks in Beirut meeting up with representatives of the Free Syrian Army. They were the armed group opposing Assad, and they finally gave us a location and a time, and we had to meet up with a guy called ‘Beardy Man’, that was his name.
Two o’clock the next day in Starbucks we sat opposite Beardy Man and two other guys, and he has got a big beard, and he’s got his laptop out and he’s assessing us. By assessing, I mean he’s Googling us, reading Marie’s stories and looking at my pictures. And after a while he just leans back, gives a thumbs up, and goes, “You’re in.” We’d passed the Beardy Man test.
Three – The journey to the mountains
On a cold chilly morning in February the Free Syrian Army loaded us in to a rickety old van with other people, fare-paying passengers, and we began the drive north to Syria.
We were going in illegally. We had no visas. We’d both been banned from Syria years ago so it was hopeless. But our fixer, Lena, had been told by Lebanese intelligence in Beirut that any journalists found in the vicinity of Homs were to be executed, and their bodies were to be thrown onto the battlefield.
As we neared the mountains, a sense of doom kind of settled on both of us. We could hear explosions in the distance, and we knew too well that them explosions, the source of them explosions, were where we were headed, Syria.
Four – Crossing the border
We waited for hours in what was little more than a shepherd’s hut while the Free Syrian Army fed us big bowls of meat stew, which we sat there eating. Eventually at midnight they called us outside. “Stay close,” warned a shadowy figure, there are many soldiers.
So we spent the next hour tiptoeing through a deserted village, a minefield, around these army checkpoints, and all the time following the only visible sign of our guide, which was his white training shoes in the night. And as we skirted the army checkpoints, occasional shots rang out, but after an hour we were in Syria, we’d made it in.
Five – The road to Al Bueda
We travelled by car, van, motorbike, avoiding regime and Hezbollah checkpoints. It took about three days to travel 30 kilometers, as all the time the Syrian army hunted the press and the journalists with the same murderous intent. The regime were everywhere in Syria, there were no safe spaces.
Army vehicles patrolled the roads, and the checkpoints were random and often. Progress was painfully slow. We never undressed, we never took off our boots, and every night before we went to sleep we planned an escape route out into the olive groves.
Six – The tunnel from hell
In the middle of a cold wet field at midnight the FSA led us into a tunnel. It was actually a three foot high sewer drain, concrete, with no lights. There was very little air, and the heat build up was intense. The only way we could carry our kit was strapped to our chests, and because of the height of the tunnel we kind of had to walk bent double.
As we progressed down the tunnel we were passing people evacuating the wounded and the dying. This tunnel was a lifeline to Baba Amr, a small sunny neighborhood in Homs that was considered the beating heart of the revolution.
Everything came through this tunnel, some of it on the back of a motorcycle that burnt up precious oxygen for those on foot, and we carried on walking bent double for three miles. At the end of the tunnel they pulled us out into a warscape that was akin to one of Dante’s inner circles of hell.
As I looked around I could see the still smoldering skeletal remains of buildings, and it was all lit by the pale light of a full moon. We were driven at breakneck speed through a barrage of RPGs – that’s rocket propelled grenades – and heavy machine gun fire until we arrived drained and exhausted at the media centre.
The media centre was the source of all information coming out of Syria during the revolution. But the reality was, it was a three-story building. Inside there were twenty young Syrians, wrapped in blankets against the cold, all murmuring into Skype. The only light was the pale blue glow off their laptop screens.
Seven – The widow’s basement
While we were in Homs, we’d heard talk that there was a basement where all the women and the children who’d lost husbands and fathers were sheltered. It was one of the few shelters in Homs and it was known as The Widow’s Basement. The camera always affects people’s reactions when you pull one out, so I got Marie to go down first, and I sat at the top of the stairs with a long lens taking shots.
This picture captures exactly what Marie and I saw. This is the true face of the victims of war. This was our story. This was the core of the onion. Inside the basement one woman had given birth, but due to malnutrition she couldn’t breastfeed, so the baby was being fed on a mixture of sugar and water.
While Marie interviewed the tragic victims, I wandered round taking shots of the elderly, the children, and the dying. Wale our beloved translator, he heard of the death of one of his friends during one of Marie’s interviews, which was absolutely heartbreaking. But Marie shone. This is why we did what we did. These were the people who had the least control over their destiny in any war situation.
Eight – The field clinic
After the widow’s basement we ran to the field clinic. It was the run of death. Explosions ripped up the tarmac behind us as Assad’s gunners fired round after round of rocket and artillery fire. We arrived at the basement, ears ringing, nerves shredded, and they dragged us into the doorway.
We were greeted by Dr. Mohammed and a scene of absolute carnage. The dead and the dying filled up every gurney, every bed. The floor was awash with blood, and the medical staff dragged and stacked bodies anywhere they could find the space. They worked with first aid kits. There were no CT scanners or x-ray machines, just bandages and plasters of Paris. It was actually one of the worst places I’d been in any war zone.
Nine – Death and injury
On the 21st of February, both Marie and I agreed we weren’t going to get out alive, so we should do stories on BBC, CNN and Channel 4. Marie told the heartbreaking story of a young toddler who died of shrapnel wounds to the stomach, and the images went out to the world.
About midnight, not long after the interview, it was about midnight, there was a knock at the door, and I was like, “Who the hell is that?” We opened the door and there was three French journalists, Edith Bouvier, William Daniels and Remi Ochlik, and they’d just come in through the tunnel.
So the next morning, me and Marie woke up at 5am to go back to the field clinic. Before we left the building there were two almighty explosions, one 100 meters either side of the building and we waited 30 seconds, and then there were two more explosions, this time no more than 50 meters away.
I realized at that point in time what they were doing, they were bracketing, they were walking the shells in on the building. Thirty seconds later, the first shell hit the media centre. It destroyed the roof and the ceiling, and everything fell on top of us.
The second shell hit the back of the building where Marie and I had just been sleeping. That was destroyed. The third shell exploded somewhere in the building, and that filled the room with black acrid smoke and concrete dust. Seconds later, the fourth shell hit, killing Remi and Marie instantly.
I was still conscious, and I’d felt a pressure on my leg, so I leaned down to investigate, and as I touched my leg, my hand went through and came out the other side. And for a few moments I stood there wiggling my hand. I grabbed the artery inside to see if that was still intact. It was.
I grabbed the bone, that wasn’t broken, but I knew I had a few minutes to get a tourniquet on, otherwise I would bleed to death. So I grabbed the scarf from around my neck, wrapped it round, pulled it as tight as I could. But after a few minutes, I was still bleeding out.
I saw an ethernet cable in the rubble, so I grabbed that, wrapped that round, grabbed a piece of wood from the building, and pulled that as tight as I could. After about 20 minutes, the Free Syrian Army came, dragged me out of the rubble, and took me to the field clinic where Dr. Mohamed was stood there and he’s like, “Hello Paul, what’s wrong with you?”
And I’m going, “I’ve got a hole in my leg.” And he’s going, “Oh so you have.” So, Dr. Mohamed grabs a toothbrush and a bottle of iodine, and my leg is about that big, the hole, and he just pours iodine in with a toothbrush and spends 10 minutes scrubbing my leg.
And every time it nearly got clean, another shell had hit the building and concrete dust would fall in, so he’d have another go. And I was going, “Is that a toothbrush?” He’s going, “No, no, no, it’s a medical brush.” So eventually, he says, “We’ve run out of stitches.” And I was like, “Uh oh.” I said, “What are you going to use?”
He goes, “We’ve got this.” And he had an office staple gun. And I mean, he put about 40 staples into my leg, and there were no painkillers, so that was fun.
Ten – Born again
Myself, Edith, William, and Wale spent the next five days under heavy bombardment in an FSA safe house. It was the most intense artillery I’d ever known. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, they just bombed and hit that building. After six days, the FSA came in and said, “Paul, everything is gone.”
The water tanks on the roof had been hit, the food supplies had run out. And they said, “Whatever happens, we will take you out tonight.” They piled us into five different pickups, and throwing all caution to the wind, we just drove straight at the front line.
The Assad’s forces responded with mortars, rockets, sniper fire, and machine gun fire. And believe me, that was the trip from hell, we managed to get through. Miraculously, we made it to the tunnel, and they tied a rope around my waist and dropped me into this hole, and then they put me on the motorbike that we’d used to ferry supplies. So I thought, great, getting a lift out.
So we’re on the motorbike, going down the tunnel, and we get about three-quarters of the way down, and the motorbike stops, and I look up, and the tunnel is blocked. I thought, oh dear God, no. We got a torch, and you could just see at the very top of the blockage, they’d carved a mini tunnel about the size of someone’s head and shoulders through the blockage, and I was like, uh-oh.
So they picked me off the motorbike, and they pushed me up towards this hole. And there’s no lights. This is all in the dark. The only way I could do it was to put my hands in like that, and pull myself through this blockage.
I got about two meters in and stopped dead. What had happened is a piece of the steel reinforcing bar had gone in my leg and out the other side. And so now I was pinned inside a tunnel, in a tunnel. And they’re going, “Hurry up.”, and I’m going, “Okay.”
So I’m like that, and I know what I’ve got to do in my head. I know I have to rip that wound wide open and actually make it bigger in order to get it off this metal bar. So I gritted my teeth, bit my tongue, and spent five minutes making the hole in my leg a lot bigger.
Eventually, I did that, and I crawled another meter or so through this tunnel, in a tunnel, and I fell out the other side into a pool of mud, and I could feel the water swilling through my leg. “Whatever I say guys, put me on a piece of plastic.” And together, they carried me out. And finally, I escaped the tunnel.
For the next five days, I traveled across Syria on the back of a motorbike. They put some plasters on my leg. I don’t know what it was, but my leg was essentially hanging off. Drove across the tunnel on the back of a motorbike across Syria.
Occasionally, we stopped at farms that were friendly to the cause, but, you know, we never actually got to sleep. And against all odds, I made it to Beirut, where the British ambassador, Tom Fletcher, and his family welcomed me into their home.
Two days later, the Sunday Times arranged a medical evacuation. And I remember really clearly, I was at Beirut airport, we’d sneaked in with the SAS, and I’m on my wheelchair like that, and the British military attache walks over, and he’s like, he leans in, salutes, and in the poshest British voice, he goes, “I believe things got a little fruity out there, sir.” He was the master of British understatements.
So, I wrote this speech and rehearsed this speech in Kherson on the Ukrainian front line as the Russians were pulverizing the city. In fact, this is the first time, or second time, I’ve read it through without an explosion, so well done, Portugal. But Kherson exists in a state of terror. Where once there were 300,000 people, there are now 10,000 people, and the Russians are dismantling the city.
Every day, people crushed by the horror of war leave on the buses going out. But this is how we gather a story. It’s a long shot from grabbing a shot on a cell phone and posting it on Instagram.
We live in dangerous times where misinformation can directly affect events on the ground, and the need for objective, impartial journalism has never been greater. I think photojournalism still has the power to affect outcomes in war.
Why else would I be there?
But for a story to have true impact, you have to report from the scene, and not from a safe distance. So, once again, I’m back to shining lights in dark places, the haunts where despots and dictators like to operate. Once again, camera in hand, I’m back to peeling onions.
Welcome to 2023! The past few years have been quite an adventure. And what a story, or for most of us, a series of stories. But that tends to be the nature of life. Stories unfold. Sometimes with our direction, but often without our permission. Which would explain why so many people have recently told me that 2023 is the year they want to tell a personal story, one that can impact others, but they just don’t know where to start.
The first question that many of them ask me is: “What makes a talk memorable?” It’s not the easiest question to answer, as there are so many factors to consider when crafting and delivering a personal story. And while speaking skills are an important element, they are not the most important factors when it comes to impacting audiences. Begin your exploration here: Resonance and Relevance. Address these two words up front, in the Ideation phase.
Will the audience be interested in my topic, and will they find my message useful?
People will listen to stories that capture their attention, when it’s a subject they want to hear about. First step is to ask yourself, “Why will the audience care?”
Don’t just think about the answer. Write it down. Make a list. That means you’ll need to know your audience. And if you’re telling your story to more than one group: general audience vs. scientists vs. academics vs. students, the answers will vary. And that’s okay. It’s a great way to discover new audiences.
Once you’re satisfied that your story will resonate with your audience, and you have shifted from the Ideation to the Narration phase, the body of your story needs to be relevant. Ask yourself, “What will the audience think, feel and do after they hear your story?” Each of your Story Blocks should be selected and written to accomplish your intended goals.
Will they feel inspired, have you added to their knowledge, shifted perceptions, challenged a preconceived notion, given them a new way to see themselves or the world around them? In short, is your narrative relevant to their life? What can they take away from your story that will help them going forward?
I do hope that all of you who have an impactful story to share do exactly that in 2023. Maybe it’s a keynote speech, or a talk on a TEDx stage, or maybe it’s for a local community group or at a breakfast meeting. Don’t worry about the size of the audience, as touching a single person is valuable. You never know how the impact will ripple out and touch others.
So if you have a personal story to tell, and need a bit of guidance along the way, send me a message and we’ll set up a complementary call to discuss your needs. I’ve coached hundreds of storytellers, from scientists to engineers, students and academics, creatives and business leaders, special forces and prison inmates.
Know that your story is important, and that it can change the world!
When telling true stories, people often assume it’s simply a matter of repeating the truth. That’s the best place to begin, as facts are the foundation of personal storytelling, but maximizing the impact of your story comes down to the words, sentences, and paragraphs that comprise all narratives. It’s the writing process which turns truth into story.
Professional writers know this, spending the majority of their time editing what they’ve written. Word choice. Sentence structure. Narrative arc. Writers devote their career to mastering the art of telling stories that matter. For most of us it tends to be a different story.
We learned to write at a very early age, but once we entered the school system the focus was on grammar, which is a necessary component of the writing task, but unfortunately, there was scant guidance when it came to using that proper grammar to tell personal stories. We leave school and begin our career lacking the storytelling skills that can positively effect every aspect of our future.
I was blessed early on in my career when a colleague handed me a new copy of On Writing Well by William Zinsser. That was decades ago, and I’ve since owned a number of copies along the way. I’ve read it many times, refer to it often, and I’m still learning. If telling personal stories is something you aspire to, and want to maximize the impact of your stories, I recommend you pick up a copy.
The book covers a lot of territory, and in the previous post I covered Part One. With this second installment I highlight key points from Part Two of the book.
From Part II on Unity
As for what point you want to make, every successful piece of nonfiction should leave the reader with one provocative thought
that he or she didn’t have before.
Storytelling with Impact is often about shifting perspectives – altering the way in which a listener or reader views a particular subject, how they view themselves, how they view others, or how they view the world – sometimes all four. Most of us are on a journey of self discovery, as well as self improvement, which entails growth, which results in altering our viewpoints. We seek new information from many sources, one of which involves hearing stories from / about other people.
To achieve the goal of making an impact I ask storytellers to describe how their audience thinks and feels about that idea or experience that forms the basis of their story. I then ask them to describe how that audience might think and feel about the subject after they’ve heard their story. It’s not just a verbal exercise. To truly understand the provocative thought that William Zinsser mentions it’s important to write down your before and after thoughts. Give the exercise it’s due. Understanding the power of your story is key to writing a powerful story.
The Narrative Journey
Trust your material if it’s taking you into terrain you didn’t intend to enter but where the vibrations are good.
Your story’s narrative will, hopefully, take an audience on a journey from your opening line to your closing line in a seamless fashion. And with a clear intent (see previous section) you map out your route by way of identifying the most relevant story blocks and order them properly. But stories can have a way of shapeshifting; pulling you in directions that were not on your planned route. Sometimes you’ll need to pull hard on the reins to get back on track. But to William’s point, you also need to pay attention to how the diversion feels.
Writing is simultaneously a process of crafting a narrative, while at the same time, rediscovering that narrative. As you write, new ideas, experiences, and pathways arise. Distractions should be discarded, but discoveries should be examined. And yes, you may find yourself on a fun diversion, only to realize you’re not going in the right direction, so you’ll have to backtrack an refocus. Stay true to your destination, and yet embrace the chaos that often arises.
From Part II on The Lead and the Ending
You should give as much thought to choosing your last sentence as you did to your first. Well, almost as much.
Every story opens with a (few) sentence(s), and will close with a (few) sentence(s). In my view, “few” equates to 3 or less. In both cases the message must be clear, at first to provide an initial hook for the story, and to conclude, something memorable. Both are vital bookends to your narrative, but I’ll agree with William’s viewpoint that the opening carries a bit more literary weight as you need to capture the interest of the audience in order for them to still be paying attention when it’s time the closing.
That said, focus on crafting a compelling narrative first. Remember the mention about shapeshifting? Initial drafts of your opening and closing may stay intact, but more often than not, you will discover better versions during the writing / editing / rehearsing process. Polish the ends once the story’s narrative is solid.
From Part II on Bits & Pieces
The longer I work at the craft of writing, the more I realize that there’s nothing more interesting than the truth.
I am often asked whether a story can ‘stretch the truth’, or if the storyteller can ’embellish’ their narrative. My answer is always the same. If your intent is to tell a true story, then stick to the truth. My reasoning is that if you’re caught in a lie, or the audience can tell that you’re adding fiction to your story, then everything you say is in doubt. These tactics can work well when you’re telling tall tales at the dinner table, but not when you’re on stage trying to reach an audience with a real story.
What I like about William’s quote is that the truth is actually more interesting. It requires additional work to find a storyline that is more interesting, which is to say, it’s often easier to lie than it is to tell the truth. In many cases, storytellers incorporate a lie (or embellishment) in order to avoid dealing with the truth. While it’s tempting, don’t do it. Find the most impactful truth, and write your story accordingly.
Reflection
These are four pearls from On Writing Well that I’m still (after many years) trying to master. Every time I write something (I think is) wonderful, I wake up the next day, reread my prose and become convinced that someone broke into my home in the middle of the night and changed what I wrote the previous day. I couldn’t have written something so bad, but I did. In those moments of despair I’m glad that the wisdom of William Zinsser is close at hand.
When telling true stories, people often assume it’s simply a matter of repeating the truth. That’s the best place to begin, as facts are the foundation of personal storytelling, but maximizing the impact of your story comes down to the words, sentences, and paragraphs that comprise all narratives. It’s the writing process which turns truth into story.
Professional writers know this, spending the majority of their time editing what they’ve written. Word choice. Sentence structure. Narrative arc. Writers devote their career to mastering the art of telling stories that matter. For most of us it tends to be a different story.
We learned to write at a very early age, but once we entered the school system the focus was on grammar, which is a necessary component of the writing task, but unfortunately, there was scant guidance when it came to using that proper grammar to tell personal stories. We leave school and begin our career lacking the storytelling skills that can positively effect every aspect of our future.
I was blessed early on in my career when a colleague handed me a new copy of On Writing Well by William Zinsser. That was decades ago, and I’ve since owned a number of copies along the way. I’ve read it many times, refer to it often, and I’m still learning. If telling personal stories is something you aspire to, and want to maximize the impact of your stories, I recommend you pick up a copy.
The book covers a lot of territory, more than can be covered one post, so in this first installment I will highlight some key points revealed in Part One of the book.
From Part I on Principles
Writing is hard work. A clear sentence is no accident. Very few sentences come out right the first time, or even the third time. Remember this in moments of despair. If you find that writing
is hard, it’s because it is hard.
Some storytellers that I work with know this day one, most don’t, but they soon discover this reality as we get to revision 4, 5, 6, 7. It’s easy to write. Just pick up a pen, or let your fingers dance across a keyboard. Words do come out, but the first words we write rarely convey the true meaning of our story. The words we need have a way of hiding off the page. Sneaky bastards.
Our first drafts sit on the surface. A basic outline is there. The bones, if you will. And that’s fine, as every structure needs a frame. But it takes focused effort to dig deeper into a story while at the same time polishing a narrative that shifts. Writing and editing. Listening and editing. Rehearsing and editing. Hard work.
The Power of (any) Language
It’s a question of using the English language in a way that will
achieve the greatest clarity and strength.
I always stress the importance of maximizing impact when I help someone craft their narrative, but I like William’s word choice here: achieve the greatest clarity and strength. When a point is not clear the reader or listener may get confused and disconnect from the narrative. Strength comes from not hedging your bets. Say what you mean and be direct. That doesn’t mean overdoing it for dramatic effect. Strength comes from authenticity, not theatrics.
Narratives Under the Microscope
Reexamine each sentence you put on paper. Is every word doing new work? Can any thought be expressed with more economy? Is anything pompous or pretentious or faddish? Are you hanging on to something useless just because you think it’s beautiful?
This is the tedious part, and the step that many writers and speakers cut short. The process involves writing, then reading what you wrote and fixing the most obvious problems. Repeat the cycle until the issues found move from major to minor. Don’t shoot for perfection; that won’t happen at this stage. It’s time for adding audio to the sequence.
Recite the story out loud using your natural voice, as though you were telling it to someone. You will find a whole new basket of problems to correct. Listen for sentences that are too long, words with too many syllables or too complex, and clichés that should be axed. Edit, edit & edit. Then use a smartphone to record your story and play it back. Now your brain isn’t spending any energy trying to speak and you can concentrate on what you’re hearing.
Are the sentences concise? Does it sound like you? We tend to write in a more formal fashion than we speak, using words more difficult than those we would naturally say. If you stumble over words or phrases, see if you can find easier, simpler replacements. The easier it is to say, the easier it is to hear.
What to Include
Never say anything in writing that you wouldn’t comfortably say in conversation.
It’s common for storytellers to ask how much they should reveal, how far they should go in exposing the essence of their personal story, and knowing where the line is can be difficult to determine. I often advise, “Don’t say anything you wouldn’t say at the dinner table.” I like both views, but there are exceptions.
In any case, you must consider your audience as you edit. In our digital world written articles, podcasts and videos get global distribution, or at a minimum, global access. You want your message to be heard, and be as meaningful as possible, but it’s also possible to alienate your audience with details that are considered too shocking or graphic.
In the end you must make that call. One way to approach the topic is to write your story out in full, saying as much as you feel comfortable sharing publicly. Then rehearse your story in front of trusted friends or family – if your story is written, have them read it. Ask whether it felt as if you were holding back and playing it safe, or if it’s a case of TMI (too much information).
Reflection
These are four pearls from On Writing Well that I’m still (after many years) trying to master. Every time I write something (I think is) wonderful, I wake up the next day, reread my prose and become convinced that someone broke into my home in the middle of the night and changed what I wrote the previous day. I couldn’t have written something so bad, but I did. In those moments of despair I’m glad that the wisdom of William Zinsser is close at hand.
Most of my time is spent working with clients, helping them craft and deliver impactful talks, but once in a while I have the opportunity to hang out with a master storyteller and have an in-depth conversation on the art of storytelling. Such was the case when I was a guest on the Speak Like a Leader podcast, hosted by John Bates, the founder of Executive Speaking Success.
I met John back in my TEDx days, when I was organizing TEDxSanDiego and he was at the helm of TEDxSantaMonica, and our first conversation centered on what makes a good story. We’ve stayed connected over the years and still share a common passion for helping others uncover and tell their personal stories.
[listen to the entire podcast here or listen to an excerpt below]
Behind the scenes at a TEDx event
We started out talking about the TEDx world from the viewpoint of a TEDx organizer, and I shared the advice that I give to everyone who wants to be on a TED or TEDx stage – that your story should be based on your passion, on a topic that you’re speaking about or writing about on other platforms. The more you’re doing that, the more likely that an organizer will come across your work and think of you as a thought leader on the topic. John’s brilliant insight was that everyone should be living a TED-worthy life. Which is to say, you should be making a difference in the world regardless of whether you get on a TEDx stage.
What’s unique about you?
We also got into the nuts and bolts of storytelling, and the importance of your unique voice, your view of the world, and the way that can shift perspectives of people in the audience, teach them something, or expand their horizons. With the best TED and TEDx talks, I always think and feel a bit different after the talk concludes. What do listeners think and feel about your topic beforehand, and then after your talk? If there was no difference, then your talk had no impact.
We also addressed the issue of preparation, as this is one of the most frequently asked questions from potential speakers. How to get ready for the stage. You’ll hear many different opinions on the topic of memorizing, from those who believe in it, to those who avoid it. In working with hundreds of clients over the years, John and I have come to realize that each speaker is unique, and they need to figure out what works best for them.
Regardless of method, the key thing is to rehearse, and rehearse, and rehearse. You need to become very familiar with the points that you want to make during your talk. And a great way to do that is by rehearsing in front of friends or family who will give you honest feedback. Then go back and edit, and rehearse again.
There’s so much more that we covered during our hour together, and it was such an honor to spend time talking to John Bates about the magic of storytelling. So give this episode a listen, and then subscribe to the podcast to hear John interview a wide range of subject matter experts.
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Paul Conroy: The Faces of War: A Glimpse Through Photojournalism @ TEDxLisboa
/in Humanity, Journalism, Politics, TEDx, Warfare/by Mark LovettJournalism—the practice of reporting on events, people and facts—is a powerful method of storytelling. The (unbiased) goal is to tell us what happened, where it happened, who was involved, and what they said. When it’s done well, there’s an opportunity for us to see the world around us through a slightly different lens.
Journalists often develop their stories in a secondhand fashion with information from outside sources. But the most impactful reporting happens on site, inside the action as it’s taking place. Not only is there a story about the events, people, and facts, there’s a second story unfolding at the same time. It’s the journalist’s personal story. A narrative which reveals what’s happening to them, as well as what they’re thinking and feeling.
This is especially true for photojournalists who work in conflict zones. A soldier engaged in battle will have some degree of agency, but anyone with a camera instead of a weapon does not possess that advantage.
As a curator and advisor for TEDxLisboa 2023, I had the honor of working with award-winning photojournalist Paul Conroy on his talk. While most speakers I work with are sitting in a safe place—at their office or home—Paul was on the front lines in Ukraine, in a city that was being bombarded by Russian forces.
Whenever we spoke Paul’s face was lit only by the glow from his laptop screen.
He took a short break from the front lines to give this talk, but he’s now back in Ukraine. His talk is not about the conflict he’s covering today—he’ll need to give that talk one day—but rather about his harrowing adventure while in Syria with Marie Colvin. Her passion for telling stories of warfare ended up costing her life. It was Paul’s honor to tell the world this story.
To get the full picture of Paul’s experience in Syria with Marie, I recommend reading his book, Under the Wire.
The full story would take many, many hours to tell, but Paul masterfully crafted a narrative that spans less than 20 minutes, yet takes you on a journey to hell and back. He choose to reveal the story in ten steps, and he calls out each one along the way. Unusual for a TEDx Talk, but I found it to be an effective way of pacing the story.
Transcript
One – Assignment
Home for me in 2012 was a 17th century cottage set in the Devon countryside. I’d been in Libya for a year covering the revolution with my dear colleague Marie Colvin of the Sunday Times. I’d met Marie in Syria in 2003 when we were both trying to break into Iraq illegally, and we’ve been best friends ever since then.
The piece of my Sunday afternoon was broken with a call from the Sunday Times picture desk. “Paul, we need you to go into Syria, meet Marie in Beirut,” said Andrew.
Trouble had been brewing in Syria since the start of the Arab Spring, but now Assad was shooting protesters in the streets. By midnight that night I was at Heathrow Airport, shoving 20,000 pounds down my boots, in my jacket. There was a limit of 10,000, and I just hadn’t read the paper.
So the next day I met up in Beirut with Marie and we started planning our trip into Homs. We knew the city was under siege. We’d been watching it streamed on the internet, and the journalists coming out were telling us it’s too much, it’s over for us. And Marie just laughed, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “It’s what we do.”
She’d once given a speech where she said we were there to bear witness, and she used the analogy that getting to the heart of any story was like peeling back the layers of an onion, and when you got to the core of the onion, that was the story, that was where you needed to be.
Two – Beirut, meeting the smugglers
We spent a few weeks in Beirut meeting up with representatives of the Free Syrian Army. They were the armed group opposing Assad, and they finally gave us a location and a time, and we had to meet up with a guy called ‘Beardy Man’, that was his name.
Two o’clock the next day in Starbucks we sat opposite Beardy Man and two other guys, and he has got a big beard, and he’s got his laptop out and he’s assessing us. By assessing, I mean he’s Googling us, reading Marie’s stories and looking at my pictures. And after a while he just leans back, gives a thumbs up, and goes, “You’re in.” We’d passed the Beardy Man test.
Three – The journey to the mountains
On a cold chilly morning in February the Free Syrian Army loaded us in to a rickety old van with other people, fare-paying passengers, and we began the drive north to Syria.
We were going in illegally. We had no visas. We’d both been banned from Syria years ago so it was hopeless. But our fixer, Lena, had been told by Lebanese intelligence in Beirut that any journalists found in the vicinity of Homs were to be executed, and their bodies were to be thrown onto the battlefield.
As we neared the mountains, a sense of doom kind of settled on both of us. We could hear explosions in the distance, and we knew too well that them explosions, the source of them explosions, were where we were headed, Syria.
Four – Crossing the border
We waited for hours in what was little more than a shepherd’s hut while the Free Syrian Army fed us big bowls of meat stew, which we sat there eating. Eventually at midnight they called us outside. “Stay close,” warned a shadowy figure, there are many soldiers.
So we spent the next hour tiptoeing through a deserted village, a minefield, around these army checkpoints, and all the time following the only visible sign of our guide, which was his white training shoes in the night. And as we skirted the army checkpoints, occasional shots rang out, but after an hour we were in Syria, we’d made it in.
Five – The road to Al Bueda
We travelled by car, van, motorbike, avoiding regime and Hezbollah checkpoints. It took about three days to travel 30 kilometers, as all the time the Syrian army hunted the press and the journalists with the same murderous intent. The regime were everywhere in Syria, there were no safe spaces.
Army vehicles patrolled the roads, and the checkpoints were random and often. Progress was painfully slow. We never undressed, we never took off our boots, and every night before we went to sleep we planned an escape route out into the olive groves.
Six – The tunnel from hell
In the middle of a cold wet field at midnight the FSA led us into a tunnel. It was actually a three foot high sewer drain, concrete, with no lights. There was very little air, and the heat build up was intense. The only way we could carry our kit was strapped to our chests, and because of the height of the tunnel we kind of had to walk bent double.
As we progressed down the tunnel we were passing people evacuating the wounded and the dying. This tunnel was a lifeline to Baba Amr, a small sunny neighborhood in Homs that was considered the beating heart of the revolution.
Everything came through this tunnel, some of it on the back of a motorcycle that burnt up precious oxygen for those on foot, and we carried on walking bent double for three miles. At the end of the tunnel they pulled us out into a warscape that was akin to one of Dante’s inner circles of hell.
As I looked around I could see the still smoldering skeletal remains of buildings, and it was all lit by the pale light of a full moon. We were driven at breakneck speed through a barrage of RPGs – that’s rocket propelled grenades – and heavy machine gun fire until we arrived drained and exhausted at the media centre.
The media centre was the source of all information coming out of Syria during the revolution. But the reality was, it was a three-story building. Inside there were twenty young Syrians, wrapped in blankets against the cold, all murmuring into Skype. The only light was the pale blue glow off their laptop screens.
Seven – The widow’s basement
While we were in Homs, we’d heard talk that there was a basement where all the women and the children who’d lost husbands and fathers were sheltered. It was one of the few shelters in Homs and it was known as The Widow’s Basement. The camera always affects people’s reactions when you pull one out, so I got Marie to go down first, and I sat at the top of the stairs with a long lens taking shots.
This picture captures exactly what Marie and I saw. This is the true face of the victims of war. This was our story. This was the core of the onion. Inside the basement one woman had given birth, but due to malnutrition she couldn’t breastfeed, so the baby was being fed on a mixture of sugar and water.
While Marie interviewed the tragic victims, I wandered round taking shots of the elderly, the children, and the dying. Wale our beloved translator, he heard of the death of one of his friends during one of Marie’s interviews, which was absolutely heartbreaking. But Marie shone. This is why we did what we did. These were the people who had the least control over their destiny in any war situation.
Eight – The field clinic
After the widow’s basement we ran to the field clinic. It was the run of death. Explosions ripped up the tarmac behind us as Assad’s gunners fired round after round of rocket and artillery fire. We arrived at the basement, ears ringing, nerves shredded, and they dragged us into the doorway.
We were greeted by Dr. Mohammed and a scene of absolute carnage. The dead and the dying filled up every gurney, every bed. The floor was awash with blood, and the medical staff dragged and stacked bodies anywhere they could find the space. They worked with first aid kits. There were no CT scanners or x-ray machines, just bandages and plasters of Paris. It was actually one of the worst places I’d been in any war zone.
Nine – Death and injury
On the 21st of February, both Marie and I agreed we weren’t going to get out alive, so we should do stories on BBC, CNN and Channel 4. Marie told the heartbreaking story of a young toddler who died of shrapnel wounds to the stomach, and the images went out to the world.
About midnight, not long after the interview, it was about midnight, there was a knock at the door, and I was like, “Who the hell is that?” We opened the door and there was three French journalists, Edith Bouvier, William Daniels and Remi Ochlik, and they’d just come in through the tunnel.
So the next morning, me and Marie woke up at 5am to go back to the field clinic. Before we left the building there were two almighty explosions, one 100 meters either side of the building and we waited 30 seconds, and then there were two more explosions, this time no more than 50 meters away.
I realized at that point in time what they were doing, they were bracketing, they were walking the shells in on the building. Thirty seconds later, the first shell hit the media centre. It destroyed the roof and the ceiling, and everything fell on top of us.
The second shell hit the back of the building where Marie and I had just been sleeping. That was destroyed. The third shell exploded somewhere in the building, and that filled the room with black acrid smoke and concrete dust. Seconds later, the fourth shell hit, killing Remi and Marie instantly.
I was still conscious, and I’d felt a pressure on my leg, so I leaned down to investigate, and as I touched my leg, my hand went through and came out the other side. And for a few moments I stood there wiggling my hand. I grabbed the artery inside to see if that was still intact. It was.
I grabbed the bone, that wasn’t broken, but I knew I had a few minutes to get a tourniquet on, otherwise I would bleed to death. So I grabbed the scarf from around my neck, wrapped it round, pulled it as tight as I could. But after a few minutes, I was still bleeding out.
I saw an ethernet cable in the rubble, so I grabbed that, wrapped that round, grabbed a piece of wood from the building, and pulled that as tight as I could. After about 20 minutes, the Free Syrian Army came, dragged me out of the rubble, and took me to the field clinic where Dr. Mohamed was stood there and he’s like, “Hello Paul, what’s wrong with you?”
And I’m going, “I’ve got a hole in my leg.” And he’s going, “Oh so you have.” So, Dr. Mohamed grabs a toothbrush and a bottle of iodine, and my leg is about that big, the hole, and he just pours iodine in with a toothbrush and spends 10 minutes scrubbing my leg.
And every time it nearly got clean, another shell had hit the building and concrete dust would fall in, so he’d have another go. And I was going, “Is that a toothbrush?” He’s going, “No, no, no, it’s a medical brush.” So eventually, he says, “We’ve run out of stitches.” And I was like, “Uh oh.” I said, “What are you going to use?”
He goes, “We’ve got this.” And he had an office staple gun. And I mean, he put about 40 staples into my leg, and there were no painkillers, so that was fun.
Ten – Born again
Myself, Edith, William, and Wale spent the next five days under heavy bombardment in an FSA safe house. It was the most intense artillery I’d ever known. Minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, they just bombed and hit that building. After six days, the FSA came in and said, “Paul, everything is gone.”
The water tanks on the roof had been hit, the food supplies had run out. And they said, “Whatever happens, we will take you out tonight.” They piled us into five different pickups, and throwing all caution to the wind, we just drove straight at the front line.
The Assad’s forces responded with mortars, rockets, sniper fire, and machine gun fire. And believe me, that was the trip from hell, we managed to get through. Miraculously, we made it to the tunnel, and they tied a rope around my waist and dropped me into this hole, and then they put me on the motorbike that we’d used to ferry supplies. So I thought, great, getting a lift out.
So we’re on the motorbike, going down the tunnel, and we get about three-quarters of the way down, and the motorbike stops, and I look up, and the tunnel is blocked. I thought, oh dear God, no. We got a torch, and you could just see at the very top of the blockage, they’d carved a mini tunnel about the size of someone’s head and shoulders through the blockage, and I was like, uh-oh.
So they picked me off the motorbike, and they pushed me up towards this hole. And there’s no lights. This is all in the dark. The only way I could do it was to put my hands in like that, and pull myself through this blockage.
I got about two meters in and stopped dead. What had happened is a piece of the steel reinforcing bar had gone in my leg and out the other side. And so now I was pinned inside a tunnel, in a tunnel. And they’re going, “Hurry up.”, and I’m going, “Okay.”
So I’m like that, and I know what I’ve got to do in my head. I know I have to rip that wound wide open and actually make it bigger in order to get it off this metal bar. So I gritted my teeth, bit my tongue, and spent five minutes making the hole in my leg a lot bigger.
Eventually, I did that, and I crawled another meter or so through this tunnel, in a tunnel, and I fell out the other side into a pool of mud, and I could feel the water swilling through my leg. “Whatever I say guys, put me on a piece of plastic.” And together, they carried me out. And finally, I escaped the tunnel.
For the next five days, I traveled across Syria on the back of a motorbike. They put some plasters on my leg. I don’t know what it was, but my leg was essentially hanging off. Drove across the tunnel on the back of a motorbike across Syria.
Occasionally, we stopped at farms that were friendly to the cause, but, you know, we never actually got to sleep. And against all odds, I made it to Beirut, where the British ambassador, Tom Fletcher, and his family welcomed me into their home.
Two days later, the Sunday Times arranged a medical evacuation. And I remember really clearly, I was at Beirut airport, we’d sneaked in with the SAS, and I’m on my wheelchair like that, and the British military attache walks over, and he’s like, he leans in, salutes, and in the poshest British voice, he goes, “I believe things got a little fruity out there, sir.” He was the master of British understatements.
So, I wrote this speech and rehearsed this speech in Kherson on the Ukrainian front line as the Russians were pulverizing the city. In fact, this is the first time, or second time, I’ve read it through without an explosion, so well done, Portugal. But Kherson exists in a state of terror. Where once there were 300,000 people, there are now 10,000 people, and the Russians are dismantling the city.
Every day, people crushed by the horror of war leave on the buses going out. But this is how we gather a story. It’s a long shot from grabbing a shot on a cell phone and posting it on Instagram.
We live in dangerous times where misinformation can directly affect events on the ground, and the need for objective, impartial journalism has never been greater. I think photojournalism still has the power to affect outcomes in war.
Why else would I be there?
But for a story to have true impact, you have to report from the scene, and not from a safe distance. So, once again, I’m back to shining lights in dark places, the haunts where despots and dictators like to operate. Once again, camera in hand, I’m back to peeling onions.
Thank you.
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The Importance of Resonance and Relevance in Storytelling
/in Audience, Narrative, Personal Stories, Society, Storytelling/by Mark LovettWelcome to 2023! The past few years have been quite an adventure. And what a story, or for most of us, a series of stories. But that tends to be the nature of life. Stories unfold. Sometimes with our direction, but often without our permission. Which would explain why so many people have recently told me that 2023 is the year they want to tell a personal story, one that can impact others, but they just don’t know where to start.
The first question that many of them ask me is: “What makes a talk memorable?” It’s not the easiest question to answer, as there are so many factors to consider when crafting and delivering a personal story. And while speaking skills are an important element, they are not the most important factors when it comes to impacting audiences. Begin your exploration here: Resonance and Relevance. Address these two words up front, in the Ideation phase.
People will listen to stories that capture their attention, when it’s a subject they want to hear about. First step is to ask yourself, “Why will the audience care?”
Don’t just think about the answer. Write it down. Make a list. That means you’ll need to know your audience. And if you’re telling your story to more than one group: general audience vs. scientists vs. academics vs. students, the answers will vary. And that’s okay. It’s a great way to discover new audiences.
Once you’re satisfied that your story will resonate with your audience, and you have shifted from the Ideation to the Narration phase, the body of your story needs to be relevant. Ask yourself, “What will the audience think, feel and do after they hear your story?” Each of your Story Blocks should be selected and written to accomplish your intended goals.
Will they feel inspired, have you added to their knowledge, shifted perceptions, challenged a preconceived notion, given them a new way to see themselves or the world around them? In short, is your narrative relevant to their life? What can they take away from your story that will help them going forward?
I do hope that all of you who have an impactful story to share do exactly that in 2023. Maybe it’s a keynote speech, or a talk on a TEDx stage, or maybe it’s for a local community group or at a breakfast meeting. Don’t worry about the size of the audience, as touching a single person is valuable. You never know how the impact will ripple out and touch others.
So if you have a personal story to tell, and need a bit of guidance along the way, send me a message and we’ll set up a complementary call to discuss your needs. I’ve coached hundreds of storytellers, from scientists to engineers, students and academics, creatives and business leaders, special forces and prison inmates.
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On Writing (Your Story) Well – Part Two
/in Audience, Narrative, Public Speaking, Storytelling, Writing/by Mark LovettWhen telling true stories, people often assume it’s simply a matter of repeating the truth. That’s the best place to begin, as facts are the foundation of personal storytelling, but maximizing the impact of your story comes down to the words, sentences, and paragraphs that comprise all narratives. It’s the writing process which turns truth into story.
Professional writers know this, spending the majority of their time editing what they’ve written. Word choice. Sentence structure. Narrative arc. Writers devote their career to mastering the art of telling stories that matter. For most of us it tends to be a different story.
We learned to write at a very early age, but once we entered the school system the focus was on grammar, which is a necessary component of the writing task, but unfortunately, there was scant guidance when it came to using that proper grammar to tell personal stories. We leave school and begin our career lacking the storytelling skills that can positively effect every aspect of our future.
I was blessed early on in my career when a colleague handed me a new copy of On Writing Well by William Zinsser. That was decades ago, and I’ve since owned a number of copies along the way. I’ve read it many times, refer to it often, and I’m still learning. If telling personal stories is something you aspire to, and want to maximize the impact of your stories, I recommend you pick up a copy.
The book covers a lot of territory, and in the previous post I covered Part One. With this second installment I highlight key points from Part Two of the book.
From Part II on Unity
Storytelling with Impact is often about shifting perspectives – altering the way in which a listener or reader views a particular subject, how they view themselves, how they view others, or how they view the world – sometimes all four. Most of us are on a journey of self discovery, as well as self improvement, which entails growth, which results in altering our viewpoints. We seek new information from many sources, one of which involves hearing stories from / about other people.
To achieve the goal of making an impact I ask storytellers to describe how their audience thinks and feels about that idea or experience that forms the basis of their story. I then ask them to describe how that audience might think and feel about the subject after they’ve heard their story. It’s not just a verbal exercise. To truly understand the provocative thought that William Zinsser mentions it’s important to write down your before and after thoughts. Give the exercise it’s due. Understanding the power of your story is key to writing a powerful story.
The Narrative Journey
Your story’s narrative will, hopefully, take an audience on a journey from your opening line to your closing line in a seamless fashion. And with a clear intent (see previous section) you map out your route by way of identifying the most relevant story blocks and order them properly. But stories can have a way of shapeshifting; pulling you in directions that were not on your planned route. Sometimes you’ll need to pull hard on the reins to get back on track. But to William’s point, you also need to pay attention to how the diversion feels.
Writing is simultaneously a process of crafting a narrative, while at the same time, rediscovering that narrative. As you write, new ideas, experiences, and pathways arise. Distractions should be discarded, but discoveries should be examined. And yes, you may find yourself on a fun diversion, only to realize you’re not going in the right direction, so you’ll have to backtrack an refocus. Stay true to your destination, and yet embrace the chaos that often arises.
From Part II on The Lead and the Ending
Every story opens with a (few) sentence(s), and will close with a (few) sentence(s). In my view, “few” equates to 3 or less. In both cases the message must be clear, at first to provide an initial hook for the story, and to conclude, something memorable. Both are vital bookends to your narrative, but I’ll agree with William’s viewpoint that the opening carries a bit more literary weight as you need to capture the interest of the audience in order for them to still be paying attention when it’s time the closing.
That said, focus on crafting a compelling narrative first. Remember the mention about shapeshifting? Initial drafts of your opening and closing may stay intact, but more often than not, you will discover better versions during the writing / editing / rehearsing process. Polish the ends once the story’s narrative is solid.
From Part II on Bits & Pieces
I am often asked whether a story can ‘stretch the truth’, or if the storyteller can ’embellish’ their narrative. My answer is always the same. If your intent is to tell a true story, then stick to the truth. My reasoning is that if you’re caught in a lie, or the audience can tell that you’re adding fiction to your story, then everything you say is in doubt. These tactics can work well when you’re telling tall tales at the dinner table, but not when you’re on stage trying to reach an audience with a real story.
What I like about William’s quote is that the truth is actually more interesting. It requires additional work to find a storyline that is more interesting, which is to say, it’s often easier to lie than it is to tell the truth. In many cases, storytellers incorporate a lie (or embellishment) in order to avoid dealing with the truth. While it’s tempting, don’t do it. Find the most impactful truth, and write your story accordingly.
Reflection
These are four pearls from On Writing Well that I’m still (after many years) trying to master. Every time I write something (I think is) wonderful, I wake up the next day, reread my prose and become convinced that someone broke into my home in the middle of the night and changed what I wrote the previous day. I couldn’t have written something so bad, but I did. In those moments of despair I’m glad that the wisdom of William Zinsser is close at hand.
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On Writing (Your Story) Well – Part One
/in Audience, Narrative, Public Speaking, Storytelling, Writing/by Mark LovettWhen telling true stories, people often assume it’s simply a matter of repeating the truth. That’s the best place to begin, as facts are the foundation of personal storytelling, but maximizing the impact of your story comes down to the words, sentences, and paragraphs that comprise all narratives. It’s the writing process which turns truth into story.
Professional writers know this, spending the majority of their time editing what they’ve written. Word choice. Sentence structure. Narrative arc. Writers devote their career to mastering the art of telling stories that matter. For most of us it tends to be a different story.
We learned to write at a very early age, but once we entered the school system the focus was on grammar, which is a necessary component of the writing task, but unfortunately, there was scant guidance when it came to using that proper grammar to tell personal stories. We leave school and begin our career lacking the storytelling skills that can positively effect every aspect of our future.
I was blessed early on in my career when a colleague handed me a new copy of On Writing Well by William Zinsser. That was decades ago, and I’ve since owned a number of copies along the way. I’ve read it many times, refer to it often, and I’m still learning. If telling personal stories is something you aspire to, and want to maximize the impact of your stories, I recommend you pick up a copy.
The book covers a lot of territory, more than can be covered one post, so in this first installment I will highlight some key points revealed in Part One of the book.
From Part I on Principles
Some storytellers that I work with know this day one, most don’t, but they soon discover this reality as we get to revision 4, 5, 6, 7. It’s easy to write. Just pick up a pen, or let your fingers dance across a keyboard. Words do come out, but the first words we write rarely convey the true meaning of our story. The words we need have a way of hiding off the page. Sneaky bastards.
Our first drafts sit on the surface. A basic outline is there. The bones, if you will. And that’s fine, as every structure needs a frame. But it takes focused effort to dig deeper into a story while at the same time polishing a narrative that shifts. Writing and editing. Listening and editing. Rehearsing and editing. Hard work.
The Power of (any) Language
I always stress the importance of maximizing impact when I help someone craft their narrative, but I like William’s word choice here: achieve the greatest clarity and strength. When a point is not clear the reader or listener may get confused and disconnect from the narrative. Strength comes from not hedging your bets. Say what you mean and be direct. That doesn’t mean overdoing it for dramatic effect. Strength comes from authenticity, not theatrics.
Narratives Under the Microscope
This is the tedious part, and the step that many writers and speakers cut short. The process involves writing, then reading what you wrote and fixing the most obvious problems. Repeat the cycle until the issues found move from major to minor. Don’t shoot for perfection; that won’t happen at this stage. It’s time for adding audio to the sequence.
Recite the story out loud using your natural voice, as though you were telling it to someone. You will find a whole new basket of problems to correct. Listen for sentences that are too long, words with too many syllables or too complex, and clichés that should be axed. Edit, edit & edit. Then use a smartphone to record your story and play it back. Now your brain isn’t spending any energy trying to speak and you can concentrate on what you’re hearing.
Are the sentences concise? Does it sound like you? We tend to write in a more formal fashion than we speak, using words more difficult than those we would naturally say. If you stumble over words or phrases, see if you can find easier, simpler replacements. The easier it is to say, the easier it is to hear.
What to Include
It’s common for storytellers to ask how much they should reveal, how far they should go in exposing the essence of their personal story, and knowing where the line is can be difficult to determine. I often advise, “Don’t say anything you wouldn’t say at the dinner table.” I like both views, but there are exceptions.
In any case, you must consider your audience as you edit. In our digital world written articles, podcasts and videos get global distribution, or at a minimum, global access. You want your message to be heard, and be as meaningful as possible, but it’s also possible to alienate your audience with details that are considered too shocking or graphic.
In the end you must make that call. One way to approach the topic is to write your story out in full, saying as much as you feel comfortable sharing publicly. Then rehearse your story in front of trusted friends or family – if your story is written, have them read it. Ask whether it felt as if you were holding back and playing it safe, or if it’s a case of TMI (too much information).
Reflection
These are four pearls from On Writing Well that I’m still (after many years) trying to master. Every time I write something (I think is) wonderful, I wake up the next day, reread my prose and become convinced that someone broke into my home in the middle of the night and changed what I wrote the previous day. I couldn’t have written something so bad, but I did. In those moments of despair I’m glad that the wisdom of William Zinsser is close at hand.
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Telling Stories About Storytelling
/in Interview, Narrative, Podcast, Public Speaking, Storytelling, TEDx/by Mark LovettMost of my time is spent working with clients, helping them craft and deliver impactful talks, but once in a while I have the opportunity to hang out with a master storyteller and have an in-depth conversation on the art of storytelling. Such was the case when I was a guest on the Speak Like a Leader podcast, hosted by John Bates, the founder of Executive Speaking Success.
I met John back in my TEDx days, when I was organizing TEDxSanDiego and he was at the helm of TEDxSantaMonica, and our first conversation centered on what makes a good story. We’ve stayed connected over the years and still share a common passion for helping others uncover and tell their personal stories.
[listen to the entire podcast here or listen to an excerpt below]
Behind the scenes at a TEDx event
We started out talking about the TEDx world from the viewpoint of a TEDx organizer, and I shared the advice that I give to everyone who wants to be on a TED or TEDx stage – that your story should be based on your passion, on a topic that you’re speaking about or writing about on other platforms. The more you’re doing that, the more likely that an organizer will come across your work and think of you as a thought leader on the topic. John’s brilliant insight was that everyone should be living a TED-worthy life. Which is to say, you should be making a difference in the world regardless of whether you get on a TEDx stage.
What’s unique about you?
We also got into the nuts and bolts of storytelling, and the importance of your unique voice, your view of the world, and the way that can shift perspectives of people in the audience, teach them something, or expand their horizons. With the best TED and TEDx talks, I always think and feel a bit different after the talk concludes. What do listeners think and feel about your topic beforehand, and then after your talk? If there was no difference, then your talk had no impact.
We also addressed the issue of preparation, as this is one of the most frequently asked questions from potential speakers. How to get ready for the stage. You’ll hear many different opinions on the topic of memorizing, from those who believe in it, to those who avoid it. In working with hundreds of clients over the years, John and I have come to realize that each speaker is unique, and they need to figure out what works best for them.
Regardless of method, the key thing is to rehearse, and rehearse, and rehearse. You need to become very familiar with the points that you want to make during your talk. And a great way to do that is by rehearsing in front of friends or family who will give you honest feedback. Then go back and edit, and rehearse again.
There’s so much more that we covered during our hour together, and it was such an honor to spend time talking to John Bates about the magic of storytelling. So give this episode a listen, and then subscribe to the podcast to hear John interview a wide range of subject matter experts.
contact me to discuss your storytelling goals!
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