I had been reading a book that contained a few cultural folktales. They were not my style. I had passed over them more than once since they did not appeal to me. I was not drawn to a story about a girl who morphs into a swan, or an Inuit tale containing strange names and an evil villain, but my grandkids asked me to read to them.
It was bedtime and Alex and Maggie had school the next day. I hatched a plan. Knowing that they would try to keep me reading to ward off the sandman’s arrival, I was sure that they would not enjoy dated folktales from long ago, stories from foreign cultures. Perfect, I thought, they’ll be bored, I knew these folktales would not engage the imaginations of my 5 year old granddaughter and her 7 year old brother.
I like to tell them my favorite stories. Stories that flow. The ones I love and the kids do too, tales that draw a line from my heart to theirs. I know exactly the impact they will have. These are the golden few. I am convinced that I possess ‘superior taste,’ a gift that allows me to recognize a great story. I like to think that a great story is instantly recognizable. Again and again I find how wrong I am..
Great stories, like unknown friends, surround you sitting silently. As a teller I must remain vigilant, open to saying hello. “Hello friend. It’s nice to meet you. Who are you?” It is challenging to search for them, reminding myself that they can hide anywhere. Keeping a sharp edge requires searching for the next tale waiting to be told, reading, writing, and polishing nonstop. I thought I’d give these a try.
As Alex and Maggie sat, I read the old tried and true folktales, waiting for boredom to take hold. Instead, I found them transfixed in awe, totally engaged, commenting without thinking. Their imaginations exploded. I would never choose these stories, yet their minds and hearts were touched. I was gobsmacked. The kids wanted to hear another and another. I realized that these tales were still being told because they contain some hidden magic.
Of course, that’s not the whole truth. As the teller I apply the craft of bringing life to the characters, voices, timing, volume, pacing and pauses punctuating necessary for engaging an audience. The stories worked their magic through me, with me, for them. My grandchildren were glued. They were transfixed. They corrected me when I jokingly misspoke. They listened so hard that they couldn’t sit still. They echoed the repetition. I was shocked.
Choosing a ‘good’ story, I am wrong as often as I am right. I continue to be reminded that it is not my job as a teller to prejudge the ‘success’ of a tale. Sure I offer tales that I prefer, that I love, that make me happy, but my job as a teller is to serve the audience and their taste may differ from mine.
My job is to constantly assemble an ever-changing menu, to offer something for everyone, fresh stories served up steaming hot and appealing to the senses. In bringing my best to the plate I gain satisfaction from serving the audience and taking pleasure in their experience of devouring a well prepared tale. The cook prepares the meal. He doesn't have to eat it. He doesn’t even have to like it. Save the judgment for your effort. And let the meat and potatoes of a well told story stand alone.
Now? I have two or three more stories added to my collection of tellable tales. Perhaps I will be blessed enough, brave enough, smart or lucky enough to continue to place my taste subservient to my audiences’. Perhaps I will also be lucky enough to continue to have audiences who challenge me to listen to them when I take a chance and tell a story, paying forward the magic of tales told long ago. mike@mikeperry.biz