Storytelling, Narration, and the “Who I Am” Story

by Catherine Ramsdell

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Storytelling, Narration, and the

“Who I Am” Story

Catherine Ramsdell

Green Eggs and Ham was the story of my life. I wouldn’t eat a thing when I was a kid, but Dr. Seuss inspired me to try cauli-flower!

—Jim Carrey

It’s all storytelling, you know. That’s what journalism is all about. —Tom Brokaw

People have forgotten how to tell a story. Stories don’t have a middle or an end any more. They usually have a beginning that never stops beginning.

—Steven Spielberg

Introduction

Are stories just a form of entertainment—like movies, television shows, books, and video games?* Or are they something more? This chapter takes the stance that stories are a fundamental and primary form of communication, and without them, we would lose an important way to teach our children, to train our employees, to sell our products, and to make information memorable to those of any age.

* This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License and is subject to the Writing Spaces’ Terms of Use. To view a copy of this license, visit http:// creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc- sa/3.0/us/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA. To view the Writing Spaces’ Terms of Use, visit http://writingspaces. org/terms-of-use.

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Consider a Jewish story Annette Simmons references in her book

The Story Factor: Inspiration, Influence, and Persuasion Through the Art of Storytelling:

Truth, naked and cold, had been turned away from every door in the village. Her nakedness frightened the people. When Parable found her she was huddled in a corner, shivering and hungry. Taking pity on her, Parable gathered her up and took her home. There, she dressed Truth in story, warmed her and sent her out again. Clothed in story, Truth knocked again at the doors and was readily welcomed into the villagers’ houses. They invited her to eat at their tables and warm herself by their fires. (27)

Certainly stories can be a form of entertainment—a book to curl up with on a cold rainy afternoon, a movie to share with a best friend, a video game to conquer—but stories can also be much more and, as will be discussed at the end of the chapter, today stories can be found just about anywhere. Furthermore, because stories can be found anywhere from a movie theatre to a corporate boardroom, everyone should know how to tell a good story.

In her book, The Story Factor: Inspiration, Influence, and Persuasion Through the Art of Storytelling, Simmons talks about seven different kinds of stories everyone should learn how to tell. One of them is the “Who I Am” story. Simply put, a Who I Am story shows something about its author, and this type of story fits into the genre of memoir or creative nonfiction. Here is an example from Simmons’ book:

Skip looked into the sea of suspicious stockholders and won-dered what might convince them to follow his leadership. He was 35, looked 13 and was third generation rich. He could tell they assumed he would be an unholy disaster as a leader. He decided to tell them a story. “My first job was drawing the electrical engineering plans for a boat building company. The drawings had to be perfect because if the wires were not accu-rately placed before the fiberglass form was poured, a mistake might cost a million dollars, easy. At 25, I already had two masters’ degrees. I had been on boats all my life and frankly, I found drawing these plans a bit . . . mindless. One morning I got a call at home from a $6/hour worker asking me ‘are you sure this is right?’ I was incensed. Of course I was sure—‘just

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pour the damn thing.’ When his supervisor called me an hour later and woke me up again and asked ‘are you sure this is right?’ I had even less patience. ‘I said I was sure an hour ago and I’m still sure.’

It was the phone call from the president of the company that finally got me out of bed and down to the site. If I had to hold these guys by the hand, so be it. I sought out the worker who had called me first. He sat looking at my plans with his head cocked to one side. With exaggerated patience I began to explain the drawing. But after a few words my voice got weak-er and my head started to cock to the side as well. It seems that I had (being left-handed) transposed starboard and port so that the drawing was an exact mirror image of what it should have been. Thank God this $ 6/hour worker had caught my mistake before it was too late. The next day I found this box on my desk. The crew bought me a remedial pair of tennis shoes for future reference. Just in case I got mixed up again— a red left shoe for port, and a green right one for starboard. These shoes don’t just help me remember port and starboard. They help me remember to listen even when I think I know what’s going on.” As he held up the shoebox with one red and one green shoe, there were smiles and smirks. The stockhold-ers relaxed a bit. If this young upstart had already learned this lesson about arrogance, then he might have learned a few things about running companies, too. (1–2)

This example shows some of the reasons why people tell Who I Am stories. Chances are that if Skip had gone into this meeting and said “Look, I know I’m young, but I’ve got a lot of experience, I know what I’m doing, I’ve learned a lot from my mistakes. Just trust me,” he would not have won over his audience.

Please keep this example and the basic definition of the Who I Am story in mind while reading through the next section, which provides a lit-tle background and theory about the fine art of narration and storytelling.

Narrative Theory

Roland Barthes was arguably one of the most important literary theo-rists of the twentieth century. To begin, we’ll look at his thoughts on narrative:

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The narratives of the world are numberless. Narrative is first and foremost a prodigious variety of genres, themselves distributed amongst different substances—as though any material were fit to receive man’s stories. Able to be carried by articulated lan-guage, spoken or written, fixed or moving images, gestures, and the ordered mixture of all these substances; narrative is pres-ent in myth, legend, fable, tale, novella, epic, history, tragedy, drama, comedy, mime, painting (think Carpaccio’s Saint Ursu-la), stained-glass windows, cinema, comics, news items, conver-sation. Moreover, under this almost infinite discovery of forms, narrative is present in every age, in every place, in every society; it begins with the very history of mankind and there nowhere is nor has been a people without narrative. All classes, all human groups, have their narratives, enjoyment of which is very often shared by men with different even opposing, cultural back-grounds. Caring nothing for the division between good and bad literature, narrative is international, transhistorical, transcultur-al: it is simply there, like life itself. (qtd. in Abbott 1–2)

In the forty-five years since Barthes penned this passage, nearly ev-ery book on storytelling or narrative theory has referenced this quote. Even if this quote is not referenced directly, often authors simply make a similar statement in their own words. For example, twenty- one years after Barthes voiced his thoughts on narrative, Luc Herman and Bart Vervaceck, authors of The Handbook of Narrative Analysis, stated:

No single period or society can do without narratives. And, a good number of contemporary thinkers hasten to add, what-ever you say and think about a certain time or place becomes a narrative in its own right. From the oldest myths and legends to postmodern fabulation, narration has always been central. Postmodern philosophers . . . also contend that everything amounts to a narrative, including the world and the self. If that is correct, then the study of narrative . . . unveils fun-damental culture-specific opinions about reality and human-kind, which are narrativized in stories and novels. (1)

Whether authors quote Barthes directly or voice the same senti-ment in their own words, one of the few things almost all authors, scholars, and critics can agree on is that narrative is part of human-kind, it always has been, and it always will be.

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Of course, what Barthes and Herman call narration, many, myself included, call story. H. Porter Abbott notes in The Cambridge Intro-duction to Narrative, “Many speakers of English grow up using story to mean what we [Abbott and Barthes among others] are referring to here as a narrative” (16). Technically, however, there are some differences between the words “story” and “narrative.” In his book The Classical Plot and Invention of Western Narrative, N. J. Lowe talks about these differences using the terms fabula and sjuzhet:

This distinction is a cornerstone of modern narrative theory, even though there has been huge disagreement over the precise definition of the two terms and the boundary between them, and scarcely less over how to present them in English. Fabula (in English, usually ‘story’) is the series of events the work re-counts, but imagined stripped of all the artifices of storytelling: a series of actual events in their natural order, in what merely happens to be a fictional world. In contrast, sjuzhet is the ac-count of those same events that we actually get, reordered and reshaped in the process of telling to reach and affect the audi-ence or reader in a particular and deliberate way. (5)

As Lowe mentions, scholars and writers have disagreed over the exact meaning of words like story and narrative. Abbot, for example, talks about “three distinctions: narrative is the representation of events consisting of story and narrative discourse; story is the event or se-quence of events (the action), and narrative discourse is those events as represented” (16). In this chapter, we’ll use these definitions: a story (or fabula) encompasses the events or action in the story, and narra-tive discourse (or sjuzhet) is the way these events or actions are related. For example, all stylistic choices or organizational strategies, such as flashback, are part of the narrative discourse. Narrative discourse can encompass numerous things, but story almost always includes two pri-mary parts: events and characters. After all, what story does not have these two characteristics? A story by its very nature includes events, and as Abbott contends, “what are events but the actions or reactions of [characters]?” (17).

Characters and events (or actions) may seem inextricably linked, but which is more important has been debated since Aristotle’s time. Aristotle took the stance that action was most important. In Poetics, he states: “Now character determines men’s qualities, but it is by their

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actions that they are happy or reverse. Dramatic action, therefore, is not with a view to the representation of Character: character comes in as a subsidiary to the actions” (62–63). Still, character was important to Aristotle; he believed it was the second most important element in a drama and that character brought morality to a text (64). In the twentieth century, however, many authors started to think character was more important. For example, as author Andrew Horton notes, “Flannery O’Conner says ‘it is the character’s personality that creates the action of the story’ and not the other way around.” Horton goes on to state that usually the characters connect an audience emotion-ally to a story (2).

Because the purpose of a Who I Am story is to illustrate something about oneself, some might assume that character is the most important aspect of the Who I Am story, but in truth, as novelist Henry James asserts, both character and action are important in this type of story. James believes: “What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustration of character? . . . It is an incident for a woman to stand up with her hand resting on the table and look out at you in a certain way; or if it be not an incident I think it will be hard to say what it is. At the same time it is the expression of character” (qtd. in Abbott 124).

Granted, thinking of the people in a Who I Am story as characters may seem odd because most likely they will be real people. However, consider Theodore A. Rees Cheney’s thoughts:

Traditional nonfiction, particularly journalistic nonfiction, never concerned itself with developing characters. Fiction writers worked at characterization; nonfiction writers concen-trated on events. Creative nonfiction writers say that because so many events occur as the result of human interactions, the event cannot be fully understood without also understanding something of the people (characters) surrounding it. (134)

So while thinking of yourself, friends, or family as characters may not feel completely natural, remember some similarities do exist be-tween characters and real people in that the people/characters in a Who I Am story need to be developed, interesting, and understand-able, just like characters in a fiction work. Of course, some differences exist as well. Since the characters in a Who I Am story are real people,

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you will not be creating characters, as a fiction writer does; instead, as Cheney notes, you will be revealing them:

When I write about character development, I’m talking about how the writer goes about revealing a person’s character . .

. The creative nonfiction writer does not ‘create’ characters; rather, he or she reveals them to the reader as honestly and ac-curately as possible. Like most contemporary fiction writers, creative nonfiction writers reveal character much as it happens in real life—bit by bit. (134)

Generally speaking, authors reveal their characters in two ways: direct and indirect characterization. With direct characterization, the author simply tells the audience something about a character. The line “He was 35, looked 13 and was third generation rich” from the Who I Am story at the beginning of this chapter is an example of direct char-acterization. With indirect characterization, the audience learns about characters by watching or listening to them. Indirect characterization can also include descriptions of characters. The Who I Am story at the start of this chapter primarily utilizes indirect characterization. The entire story Skip tells about his first job, the mindless drawing, being upset about an hourly worker calling him at home—all indirect characterization. Since indirect characterization shows what a charac-ter does, indirect characterization often directly relates to the sequence of actions, again showing how character and action can intertwine.

Another important piece of a story and narrative discourse is the difference between real time and narrative time. Consider the follow-ing passage:

Amy dropped a mug of coffee. It shattered on the kitchen floor. Coffee and shattered glass were everywhere. Amy got a towel and began cleaning up the mess.

This is real time, but if a few details are added, we get narrative time:

Amy dropped a mug of coffee. It shattered with a loud crash onto the kitchen floor. She felt the hot liquid burn through her socks into her feet. Coffee and shattered glass were ev-erywhere. Amy sighed; there was no more coffee in the pot, and she had really needed a caffeine burst. Moving carefully through the mess, Amy grabbed an old towel out of the draw-er and began cleaning up the remains of her breakfast.

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Abbott explains the difference between real (or clock) time and nar-rative time:

Clock time . . . always relates back to itself, so that one speaks in terms of numbers or seconds or their multiples (minutes, hours) and fractions (nanoseconds). Narrative time, in con-trast, relates to events or incidents. And while clock time is necessarily marked off by regular intervals of a certain length, narrative time is not necessarily any length at all. (4–5)

Abbott adds that writers can slow the “whole sequence down by simply adding details” and “conversely, we can make narrative time go like the wind” by using phrases like “in the following months” or “a few weeks later” (5).

The universality of narrative, fabula and sjuzhet, character and ac-tion, indirect and direct representation, real time and narrative time are just a few aspects of narrative theory, but these terms and this in-formation will provide a solid foundation as we begin thinking more specifically about the Who I Am story.

Starting the “Who I Am” Story

Your Who I Am story should start to answer the question “who are you?” However, this story should only focus on one characteristic or aspect of your personality. Think back to Skip and the Who I Am story from the beginning of this chapter. His story helped prove he was ready to be a leader and ready to run a corporation.

As with most other types of writing, brainstorming can be a use-ful tool. To begin, you might just think about all the ways to finish the sentence “I am . . .” The word you choose to finish this sentence then becomes the subject of your Who I Am story. If a subject is not jumping out at you, think about the way your mother, best friend, sig-nificant other, or pet might describe you. Think about a characteristic that only the people closest to you see—for example, has anyone ever told you “when I first met you, I never would have guessed that you were so funny (or competitive or happy)”?

Once you have a characteristic in mind, keep brainstorming and think of one specific example or event that illustrates this character-istic. This example will become your story. Again, much like a topic, sometimes an example, or story, will just jump to mind. However, if

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you cannot think of an example right away, look through some old pictures, scrapbooks, or yearbooks. Reread journals or listen to favor-ite songs. All of these things can spark memories, and one of these memories can become the example or event on which your Who I Am story will focus. This event does not have to be exciting or flamboyant. Simple but heartfelt stories often are the most effective. Many things can be faked in life, but sincerity is generally not one of them.

Writing the “Who I Am” Story

Once you have the topic, just start writing. Writing a story is not like baking a cake—there is no formula or recipe that guarantees a perfect story. But here are some steps to consider:

1. Ask some questions about the event you are going to write about. When did this event take place? What are the starting and ending points? Where did this event take place? Who was there? Was there a conflict? A resolution?

2. Write down everything you remember. Of course, there are nu-merous ways to write a first draft, but for a Who I Am story, sim-ply writing down everything you remember about the event is a good place to start. Usually, it is better to have more writing than what you need. So start by writing everything down in chronological order. Do not worry about any rhetorical strategies or making it sound good. Think about the concept of fabula and just write down the entire series of events or actions.

3. Go do something else. Once you have the entire story written down, set it aside. Go take a nap or play with your dog, and come back to the story later. Then reread it and see if you left anything out. Time permitting, go through this process of putting the story aside and then rereading it several times.

4. Summarize the main point of the story in one or two sentences.

Go through the story and eliminate everything that does not relate to this main point. Do not worry about length right now. Focus on qual-ity and creating a unified story.

5. Think about creating a dominant impression. Is the story sad, thoughtful, sarcastic, or humorous? If you have trouble deciding on

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a dominant impression, think about setting the story to music. What song would you pick—Mozart’s “Moonlight Sonata,” something by the Violent Femmes, a sultry jazz tune—and what emotion does this song conjure up?

6. Keeping the main point and dominant impression in mind, add details and expand the most important parts of your story. Real time should now become narrative time. Add concrete details and im-agery. Imagine the different senses to which the story could appeal. We are a very visual culture, but go beyond describing what things look like—consider incorporating smells or sounds. Think about the way something feels when touched. Also think about how these details can help draw a reader in. Consider this an example from a student’s Who I Am story:

At the beginning of every school year, I am obligated to intro-duce myself to a new sea of adolescent hormones swimming with impulsiveness, curiosity, and unfiltered tourette -like ver-bal ejaculations. Sure, I could stand before the little urchins, and with trident in hand, I could dictate the rules of my class and cast off a long list of life experiences that made me the im-mortal that stands before them or I could let them place their expectations upon me creating an environment of perceived equality. Being a believer in a democratic classroom, I always opt for the latter.

Look at the way this student builds on the details: the words “sea,” “swimming” and “trident” work beautifully together. And look at the choices the student made: using the words “adolescent hormones” and “urchins” instead of students; “unfiltered tourette-like verbal ejacula-tions” could have simply been opinions or obnoxious comments. The story includes a lot of visual elements, but the phrase “verbal ejacula-tions” also appeals to the ears. These words, phrases, and ideas all work together to, as clichéd as it sounds, paint a picture of the author of this story.

The author of this story is a student, but she is also a middle-school teacher. The main point of the story is to show who she is as a teacher. Everything in this paragraph relates to that main point. We do not know the color of her hair, whether she is wearing a shirt or a sweater, or if she is tall or short. After all, none of these things relate to the

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point of this story. Great detail and description and emotions are very important to the Who I Am story. But they need to be the right de-tails, descriptions, and emotions, and they need to be used at the right time.

8. Make certain the story shows and does not tell. The ultimate success of the Who I Am story depends on how well you show, not tell, who you are (i.e. use more indirect characterization than direct characterization). Have faith in your words and in the story you are telling. Trust that the story works and do not end the story with a statement like “clearly this event shows that I am a trustworthy per-son.” Let the story do its job. Consider two more paragraphs from our middle-school teacher’s story:

On the first day of class last year, I allowed students to take seats at their leisure. I sat on my desk and when everyone was settled, I quietly commanded their attention by placing a large black top hat upon my head. Conversations abruptly stopped as my curious audience took notice. ‘If I were to say that hats are a metaphor for the different roles we play in our lives, what do you think that means?’ I was met with blank stares. ‘What if I said that I play many roles every day? I am a teacher, a mother, a daughter, a coworker, and a friend. Are the expecta-tions for those different roles the same or different?’ A hand raises and a girl with pale skin, lively eyes and thick auburn hair answers, ‘Of course they’re different. I don’t act the same around my friends as I do in front of my parents!’ She has a smug ‘as if’ expression.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ I acknowledge. ‘Now what if I were to ask you to define the expectations of my role as your teach-er?’ Eyebrows rise as the class considers this. ‘I’m going to pass out sticky notes and I want each of you to write down a word or phrase that describes what my job is as your teacher. When you are done, I want you to place your note on the strip of blue pa-per that runs up the wall in the back of the room. Each of you should place your note above the note of the person that went before you so that we create a column of sticky notes. Does everyone understand?’ A thin-faced, black boy with large eyes and bright teeth pipes up, “So we get to tell you how to do your job?’ I thoughtfully pause before answering, ‘Well . . . yah!’

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What do we learn about the author from reading this passage? What kind of teacher is she? We could describe her as creative, brave, caring, and dedicated. We could decide that she is not afraid to take some risks. We know that she loves her job. Does she directly state any of these things? No. But her story shows that she is all of these things.

9. Look at the introduction of your story. Will it grab a reader’s at-tention? Think about sitting in a doctor’s office or waiting for your car to be repaired. You pick up a magazine and start to thumb through it. How long do you give an article to grab your attention before turning the page? Some people flip to the next page if the title of the article does not interest them; other more generous readers will read the first sentence or two before deciding to continue reading or to move on to the next page. Something in the opening paragraph, hopefully in the first sentence or two, should grab the reader and make him or her want to read on. Here is an example from another student’s Who I Am story:

I thought by the time I was thirty I would know what I want-ed to be when I grew up. But here I am on the eve of my thir-ty-first birthday, and I am still searching, searching for where I fit into the world, amidst all the titles I have been given such as Sydney’s Mom, Tripp’s Wife, and Janice’s Daughter. Then there are all the roles I play: maid, chef, bookkeeper, personal shopper, and teacher. Of course that’s just what I do and who I do it for. The real question remains, when you take all of that away, who am I?

This is the first paragraph of the student’s Who I Am essay, and it does several things nicely. The conversational tone draws us in. We al-most feel as if we are getting to peek inside the author’s head. “Tripp’s Wife,” “Janice’s Daughter,” “chef,” “personal shopper” are lovely spe-cifics, and equally important, these are specifics to which most people can relate. Perhaps we are Bob’s son or Suzie’s boyfriend instead of a daughter or a wife, but we can still see the similarities between the author’s life and our own. And because of that, we want to know how she answers the question “who am I?”

10. Treat this story like any other paper. Have a solid organiza-tional scheme (chronological often works well), keep one main idea per paragraph, use transitional phrasing, vary the sentence structure, and make sure the ideas flow into each other. Reflect on word choice and

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particularly verb choices. Just think, for example, of all the different synonyms for the word walk. A character could strut, saunter, stroll, sashay, or skip. She could mosey, meander, or march. Powerful verbs are a great way to add panache and detail to a story without making it wordy or slowing the pace.

11. Proofread, edit, and proofread again. Give the story to a friend and ask them to read it. Do not tell them what the paper is about or what you are trying to accomplish. Instead just ask them what they learned or what three words they would use to describe your story.

12. And the last bit of advice—have fun. The best storytellers enjoy telling stories. When you are telling a story, pick a story that matters to you and a story that you really want to share. Let your love for that story come through, and let others see you through your story.

Looking Forward: Storytelling in the Professional World

As mentioned in the introduction of this chapter, storytelling is not just for entertainment anymore. It’s not just a mindless academic exer-cise either; storytelling is quickly becoming a cornerstone of the non-profit and corporate worlds. Storytelling can be a part of corporate training, public relations, politics, journalism, and of course, the two industries we are going to focus on: grantwriting and advertising.

Cheryl Clarke’s book Storytelling for Grantseekers: A Creative Guide to Nonprofit Fundraising has been highly praised by both grantwriters and grant readers. For decades grants have been notoriously boring— both to write and to read. Clarke’s book is starting to change all that.

Clarke begins by noting the similarities between grantwriting and storytelling:

Storytelling is a powerful art form. Stories entertain, educate, and enlighten. They have the ability to transport an audience to another location and teach them about issues and people they may know nothing about. The same is true of grantwriting. (xv)

Clarke continues by breaking down the different parts of the grant-writing process. She relates that often the grantwriting process starts with a letter of intent, a one to two page letter summarizing the request

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that is sent to the funding organization. If the funding organization thinks your request has merit, they will ask you (or your organization) to submit a full grant proposal. Clarke likens the letter of intent to a short story and the full grant proposal to a novel.

Like short stories and novels, grants should also have heroes, vil-lains (or antagonists) and a conflict. The hero is, of course, the non-profit agency. As Clarke notes,

Nonprofit agencies do heroic work, and they are the heroes of every proposal we write. Throughout the world today, non-profits are working diligently to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, heal the sick, teach children, conserve the environ-ment, save endangered species, and present music performanc-es and art exhibitions, among other important activities. . . .

As grantwriters, we have the opportunity to tell others these amazing stories. (52)

The antagonist is simply the need or problem. Hunger, global warm-ing, abused animals, disease—any one of these could be the villain of the grant proposal. The nonprofit and the need become the characters in the story and supply the conflict and tension. Clarke suggests giving these characters a voice, stating “quotes are especially powerful because through them the proposal reviewer ‘hears’ directly from your agency’s clients in their own words” (81). These quotes become the dialogue in the story. Grant proposals often include other elements traditionally seen in novels, such as setting, back stories, and resolutions.

Clarke clearly shows the advantages of using storytelling tech-niques in grantwriting, and many believe storytelling is an equally important part of advertising as a close examination of the “1984” Macintosh commercial will indicate. In 1984, Apple was in trouble. As Richard Maxwell and Robert Dickman note in their book The Ele-ments of Persuasion: Use Storytelling to Pitch Better, Sell Faster and Win More Business:

at that time the computer industry was in transition . . . Apple had been a major player when computers were seen as expen-sive toys for hobbyists or learning platforms for children. But when corporations began seriously going digital, they natural-ly turned to a name they had come to trust—IBM. IBM PC computers became ‘industry standard,’ with all the purchas-ing and advertising muscle that implied. (11)

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In response, Apple’s CEO Steve Jobs created the Macintosh com-puter, but he needed an advertisement that would bring attention to this computer. The “1984” commercial did just that. The “1984” commercial (available on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=OYecfV3ubP8) shows a dystopia: a dismal gray world where Big Brother is seen (and heard) on every television screen. Row af-ter row of people stare mindlessly at huge television screens, watch-ing propaganda. A woman in red shorts runs through the crowd and hurls a hammer at the largest screen, destroying it and silencing Big Brother. The commercial closes with the tagline “On January 24, Apple Computer will introduce Macintosh. And you’ll see why 1984 won’t be like 1984.”

The commercial ran only once nationally (during the 1984 Super Bowl) and is generally credited with two things. The first is saving Apple. As Maxwell and Dickman note, “The result of this ad was explosive. Seven days later there wasn’t a Macintosh left unsold on any store shelf in America, and back orders were beginning to stretch out for months” (12). Second, many advertising gurus believe that the “1984” commercial was one of the first advertisements to use a story.

Much like the stories Clarke talks about, the “1984” commercial has a hero: the Macintosh computer, which is personified by the at-tractive blonde in the short red shorts. The villain is the status quo and corporate America, both of which are supposed to symbolize IBM. The smashing of the television screen ends the conflict and provides resolution. This story also has something else: passion. As Maxwell and Dickman note: “But at its cohesive core, what made this ad white-hot was Steve Job’s passionate belief that a computer was meant to be a tool to set people free” (12). And Maxwell and Dickman believe pas-sion is another essential element of story.

This is, of course, only one example; today most commercials tell a story, and we can certainly see why. Maxwell and Dickman explain “A good story plays as well on TV as it does whispered to a guy in the back of a union meeting hall. It’s as powerful in the powder room as it is in the boardroom. People love a good story. We can’t get enough of them. And a good story is infectious. It spreads like wildfire” (46).

Again, storytelling now appears in many forms of professional and workplace communication; grantwriting and advertising are only two examples. So have fun telling your stories, enjoy them, learn to make them come alive. At the same time, you’ll be developing a marketable

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skill because, appropriately enough, storytelling has become a valuable commodity in corporate America.

Discussion

1. Maxwell and Dickman believe that “a story is a fact, wrapped in an emotion that compels us to take an action that trans-forms our world.” How would you define the term story? What do you think are the most important elements of a good story? What examples help support your thoughts?

2. How could stories and storytelling fit into your major field of study? What types of stories do you think professionals in your field might find useful?

Works Cited

“1984 Apple’s Macintosh Commercial.” Online Posting. YouTube. 2005. Web. 20 December 2010.

Abbott, H. Porter. The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative. Cambridge UP: Cambridge, 2002. Print.

Aristotle. Poetics. Ed. Francis Fergusson. Hill and Wang: New York, 1997. Print.

Brokaw, Tom. “Tom Brokaw Quotes.” BrainyQuote. BrainyQuote. 2010. Web. 30 Sept. 2010.

Carrey, Jim. “Jim Carrey Quotes.” BrainyQuote. BrainyQuote. 2010. Web. 30 Sept. 2010.

Cheney, Theodore A. Rees. Writing Creative Nonfiction: Fiction Techniques for Crafting Great Nonfiction. Ten Speed Press: Berkeley, 2001. Print.

Clarke, Cheryl. Storytelling for Grantseekers. John Wiley and Songs: San Francisco, 2009. Print.

Horton, Andrew. Writing the Character-Centered Screen Play. U of California P: Los Angeles, 1999. Print.

Lowe, N.J. The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative. Cam-bridge UP: New York, 2000. Print.

Luc, Herman and Bart Vervaeck. The Handbook of Narrative Analysis. U of Nebraska P: Lincoln, 2005. Print.

Maxwell, Richard and Robert Dickman. The Elements of Persuasion: Using Storytelling to Pitch Better, Sell Faster, and Win More Business. Collins: New York, 2007. Print.

Simmons, Annette. The Story Factor: Inspiration, Influence, and Persuasion Through the Art of Storytelling. Basic Books: Cambridge, 2006. Print.

Spielberg, Steven. “Steven Spielberg Quotes.” BrainyQuote. BrainyQuote. 2010. Web. 30 Sept. 2010.