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storytelling-art - 6/13/94

Storytelling techniques by Yaakov.

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From: HAROLD.FELD at hq.doe.GOV

Newsgroups: rec.org.sca

Subject: On Storytelling.....(long)

Date: 2 May 1994 14:58:09 -0400

Unto all who read these words, greetings from Yaakov.

I have, betimes, spoken with the Chancellor of the Atlantian

University, the good Lord Henry Best. I have said that

storytelling, like harping or calligraphy, is a skill that

may be taught. He therefore did make me an offer, including

all the strictures that my religion does impose, to teach

the art at the upcoming Atlantian University. Alas, an

unbreakable conflict prevents me from accepting his fine

offer.

Yet, as I mused upon this turn of fate, it seemed to me that

I might set my thoughts down, writing what I might have said

(and might yet say, if chance presents itself). So,

therefore, do I offer to the readers of these words my own

thoughts upon the art and practice of storytelling.

Those who have heard my tales know my worth. To those who

have not, what assurances could I give? Awards are vain and

foolish. If you will not be satisfied, I shall say that I

have won some few prizes, and have received from some

gracious lords tokens of their regard. Yet no king has

called me before court to award me a scroll for my tales.

Do not think that I should presume to set down the one true

way of the storyteller. If such a thing could exist, I am

not the one to draft it. Better tellers of tales there are,

and of greater fame. Yet I shall put forth here all those

secrets, tricks, and words of advice that I have found

served me well. IF you find, upon trying them, that they

serve you not, abandon them with speed! For surely there

are as many means of telling tales as there are tellers, and

other yet undreamed by any who have gone before.

Nevertheless, these are the tricks, devices, and advice that

I have found useful. I give it to the world, and let the

winds carry it where it may. All I ask is that, if the

matter be told over, that I be given due credit (or blame),

for a storyteller must earn his bread by his words and his

fame.

_________________________________________________________

Despite what many have said, the art of storytelling, like

any art, can be taught. True, there be some (and they are a

curse to the rest of us!) who posses a natural in-born gift,

and no sooner do they learn to speak then they can fascinate

all who come within range of their voice. So too are there

those who, no matter how long they labor at the art, cannot

seem to acquire even the least skill, and do torture all who

come within their reach with long, drawn out stories poorly

told.

From this, some have come to think that storytelling is all

talent, that one is either born with the gift or doomed to

keep silent. Yet in this is storytelling different from

any other art? No sooner do some take up the pen then they

can calligraphy, yet others may not create a passable work

despite years of labor. For the most part, as it is in

storytelling, one can develop the knack in time. There is

some measure of talent, it is true, but above all is the

willingness to practice at the art until it is perfected.

As part of this, one must also be willing to look ridiculous

at first. How many novices at calligraphy produce a

passable letter, let alone a scroll? Yet, if they labor

dilligently, they come to the point where they may hope to

see their work displayed in court to the awe of the crown.

This, therefore, brings us to our first lesson: *practice*.

In no other art do people seem to think that they may leap

into the fray with no more preparation than the briefest

familiarity with their subject. Does the novice fighter,

clad in his first armor, drilled but briefly in sword and

shield, rank himself with the highest peer and enter the

crown lists? Yet, time and again, we do see one who has but

heard a tale once or twice, never even having told it

before, putting forth his first efforts for all the populace

to judge.

When you find a story you wish to tell, first learn it to

such an extent that you know all of the details. Recall

that when you stand before your audience, there will be no

prompts for you. Nor will you read from a text. You must

*know* what comes next. Do not count on intuition, or

passing familiarity with the plot, to save you.

(Later we shall discuss by what measures the storyteller may

recover in the event of a mistake, but the first rule is

plain: make sure such mistakes do not happen.)

Second, practice the actual telling of the story, so that

you have a feel for its rythms. A storyteller should feel

no shame in telling a story to oneself. Indeed, if you

cannot keep yourself interested, it will be difficult indeed

to intrigue another! Further, it may be advisable to time

oneself, so that you may know how long your story will run.

Time, as the philosophers have said, is fluid. I have, of

my own experience, been so wrapped up in a tale I told that

I did not know how long it ran. That the audience endured

such a tale is a tribute to the generosity of the peoples of

the knowne world, but it is not good to rely on such

generosity too often.

By this I do not mean that long stories should never be

told. Rather, that one should only tell them deliberately,

and fully cognizant of what one must now ask of the

audience. Further, it would be well for the novice to avoid

lengthy tales, until such time as one is sure of one's

talents.

____________________________________________________

Techniques of Telling

--The Body

There are those whose voices are so musical that they

captivate the heart. Mine is not such a one. There are

those with voices and personalities so compelling they

demand our attention. Again, mine is not such a one.

Furthermore, I am a most lazy and indolent fellow, so I have

developed all manner of cheats and tricks to assist me where

nature has so ingraciously failed to provide.

First, when telling a story, I stand. This serves two

purposes. First, it allows me to pull air more easily into

my lungs and to use my voice with greater precision (we shal

return to the matter of the voice later). Second, it draws

attention to me. This is especially true when the rest of

the company remains seated. Storytelling is not for the

shy. If you desire to tell a story, something within you is

deaply desirous of having all the attention of the company

fixed upon you. Having given into this urge, you must have

no second thoughts. You must indulge it to the utmost.

Revel in the attention. Seek it as small child does its

mother. When you stand, your movement and sudden prominence

will fix all eyes upon you.

Further, if you sit, others may not see you. I am one of

those who finds it most disconcerting to hear a voice and

know not from whence it comes. Why fight such distractions?

Finally, if the company cannot see you, you cannot use

these other tricks that I shall set forth below.

Now that you are standing, and all eyes of the company are

upon you, you must launch into your tale. You must approach

the company as a man wooing, with fine words and courtly

gestures. When young men go wooing, and make their

protestations, do they speak only with their mouths? Nay!

They use their eyes, to look longingly and meaningfully upon

their mistress. With their hands they sigh and swoon.

Their legs kneel, or stand tall. All of their body is bent

upon this intercourse, and in the achieving of the

satisfaction of their one desire.

So too the storyteller wooes the audience. Yet here the

task is different. The storyteller must guide the listener

to the proper feelings and sensations, working upon their

imaginings the images he seeks to convey. Therefore every

gesture of the storyteller must be bent upon that purpose.

The hands, the eyes, the face, all these speak as poignantly

as the mouth. Failing to use them is like going into battle

with the legs and right hand bound: a worthy warrior may

pull it off, but why endure such handicaps?

Yet, herein lies the danger. Recall that you are a

storyteller, and not an actor in a comedia. Too forward a

motion may afright the audience, as too forward a gesture

afrights a young maiden. Rather, by gentle suggestions that

work their way upon the imagination and the sympathy, should

you win over your audience to your desire. The sharp

gesture of the hand may suggest the sword-stroke of your

hero, and its curtness leave all the more to their

imagination. Rest assured, the imagination of your audience

shall prove more horrifying or wondrous to each one than

anything you could make plain. So too, the slightest

tremble of the lip suggests more than a river of tears, or

the stamp of a foot do more to startle than the troop of a

hundred horses.

(As with all rules, their is exception. If you desire

comedy, some baffonery is not out of place. Particularly,

if your characters are stock, you may make use of such

conventions as are known to all. Yet these things are a

spice, sprinkled by the best cooks in subtle moderation, for

the wit that feeds upon such things quickly becomes surfeit,

and turns delight to revulsion.)

Also, you must recall that the voice and body work as one.

IF you put too much effort into your gestures, you shall

steal the attention from your words. One must support the

other, building each upon the latter, as the different

instruments of a consort. What happens when the lute

outplays the tabor? Leaving Iosef of Locksley and his long

campaign to win respectability for this benighted

instrument aside, all would agree that the piece as a whole

suffers, and the audience is driven to distraction.

Therefore you must seek balance between these points. For,

as the philosophers have said, when all is in balance, then

perfection is achieved.

--The Voice

Thus we turn to the voice. The voice is to the storyteller

as the potters wheel to the sculptor: upon it we must take

rough clay and shape it into figures of fancy. One's voice

need not be dulcet sweet, nor capable of commanding armies.

As with any tool, it lies within the craft of the artisan

to make it work.

Storyteller, recall the magic that you work! With aught but

words you must make your audience see wonders and be amazed,

or frightened, or amused. So therefore chose your words

with care. Does the lover, when he wishes to woo, use the

same words as he does when he hangs about the tavern with

his friends? Nay! Rather, he chooses such soft words as

shall appeal to her sympathies, and as will suggest to her

the images that he desires to share with her. Yet he dare

not puch his suit to strongly, for fear he will afright her.

Even if the maid be willing, rarely indeed can he phrase his

desire so boldly as he might like.

So too with your audience. Like a lady, the fact that they

have admitted to receive you shows some willingness upon

their part to help you with your errand. Yet you must not

presume upon that good will. Rather, you must shape your

words to meet the needs of the moment. Survey your

audience, as a lover does the object of his affections.

Gauge their mood. Sometimes they will seem hardly willing

at all, and will need strong words to call them to you.

Sometimes they will be all eager to hear, and but the

faintest suggestion upon your part shall do.

I shall speak more of words anon, for in this matter only

general admonitions and advice can be given. Rather I shall

turn to the instrument itself, your voice. This, too, is

part of your wooing. It must at first be inviting and

gentle. Then, when you are in full play, you must use it to

suggest the images you desire the audience should concieve.

Does your hero's horse gallop? Let your voice be fast and

clipped. Does a storm rage? Let your voice show its

strength. Does the maiden falter? Then let your voice

carry the hint of hesitation. So too, when you speak the

part of a man, let your voice be a bit deeper. Of a woman,

let it be gentler.

Again, I must warn you that you seek to suggest only. If

you become carried away, you may afright your audience. No

one desires to be shouted at for hours on end, or even

briefly if it be painful. Keep your full strength leashed,

but the strength of the leash will suggest the power of the

passion to the listener. Furthermore, use such tricks as you

can to draw the audience to your tale. As the lover drops

his voice to a whisper when proclaiming his adoration, you

too may lower your voice to build drama before a climax.

Or, to show the shocking nature of a thing, your voice may

describe a commonplace thing with alarm or dismay.

Above all else, do not hesitate. No lover wrote a sonnet

with the word "um." Become so familiar with your tale, or

so confident in your telling, that you eliminate the hateful

word from your speech. Nothing so turns a lady from

affection to disdain as to see a lover hesitate in pressing

his suit. Nor does anything so discomode a lover as, being

in the full press of adoration, to suddenly cry halt. So

too in storytelling willing nothing discomode your audience

more than a verbal stumble and a flagging spirit.

These, then, are the basic tools. As the discourse grows

overlong, I shall put off until some future time discussion

upon specific words and devices, and how stories may be

tailored to the individual.

In service to storytelling,

Yaakov HaMizrachi