All ancient cultures had a strong oral tradition, by default. Those who possessed, as P.H. Pearse put it, "the gift of fiery speech" were the sources of news, wisdom, and entertainment. Is it any wonder that all cultures revered their bards above almost all others, and gave them considerable privileges and even legal immunity? Unfortunately, with the advent of writing, and typing, and now the Internet, there's a tendency to view old practices as outdated.
I can't help but feel we're missing something. Do you remember, as a child, the thrill of being read to? I do. It was a marvelous thing. My mother's voice would build to a crescendo and suddenly fall to a whisper- sometimes just to make sure I was paying attention. I would beg my mother to read to me every night. And I think that is the essence of storytelling.
I would hardly consider myself a master storyteller- I know some master storytellers, and I'm definitely not there yet. But that doesn't mean I don't tell stories. Nor does it mean you shouldn't either. You don't have to be a master; that will come, in time. All you need is the sincere desire to communicate.
So you're going to tell a story . . .
Get a captive audience. Large family gatherings are good, especially if there's a lot of food. Tell your story after dinner, when everyone is wondering what to do. If you're intimidated by a large audience, find a willing child. This is generally any child.
Now that you have an audience, you need a story. Don't you dare tell me you haven't got a story; we all do. It can be your story, plucked from thin air. Or, it can be a legend, as old as the hills. It can even be a favourite book. (But make sure you show your audience the pictures!)
Many storytellers have signature stories, or at least signature themes. Mine tend to take place in Ireland. I take a memory of my trips there, and run with it. Sometimes it takes a title to get me started, like "You're what religion?" (Basically, an account of going to a non-Catholic church in Dublin.) Other times, it's a collection of memories, strung together. For example, my story Isobel, about a volatile friend of mine, tends to begin like this:
It's impossible for an American to replicate the many dialects of Ireland. Isobel O'Brien's accent is particularly hard to imitate, or even remember, because it changed with her mood. When she was angry, which was a lot of the time, she was almost incomprehensible; her accent was thick and Northern. When she was trying to seem blasé, like that evening in study hall, her voice was softer, smoother, like fine Irish whiskey . . .
She staggered in wobbly lines, her eyes were glazed, and she winced at any sudden noise or light. When I sked her if she felt all right, she lowered her sunglasses and giggled madly. The whiskey tone I had so admired in her voice was coupled with whiskey's overpowering odor. The only information I could get out of her was how much she remembered drinking: 12 gin-and-tonics, 3 glasses of red wine, and some vague large quantity of poteen, a backyard liquor which could dissolve floor tiles. "After that," she beamed sheepishly, "anyone's guess!"
Move on
