True Stories, Honest Lies

Quote of the week

2012-01-30T09:39:00.000-05:00

Trust me, I am telling you stories.
—Jeannette Winterston, The Passion

Quote of the week

2012-01-23T09:37:00.000-05:00

Storytelling is not what I do for a living - it is how I do all that I do while I am living.
- Donald Davis

Paying for what you value

2012-01-22T20:19:00.002-05:00

Many of you already know about PostSecret. For those who don't, it's a web art project that saves lives. People write a secret on a postcard and send it to the curator, Frank Warren. He selects a limited number of postcards and shares them on his website each week. Even if your secret isn't selected, you have told somebody. And if you didn't send in a secret, you can still read the secrets others sent. You find yourself in those hastily scribbled notes. I've written about PostSecret before for one good reason: It saves lives. When you realize you're not alone in the night that might be enough to pull you back from the brink.

Not so long ago, PostSecret undertook an ambitious new venture. They launched an iPhone app that made it easy to share, view and comment on secrets. Anyone could participate and it was moderated by the community. The hope, I'm certain, was that users could build community, help each other and realize they were less alone. That was part of what happened. Some other stuff happened, too.

Some people found solace, connection, hope and community. I believe lives were saved.
The internet makes it very easy for us to be bullies because we are anonymous. Some people took advantage of this and posted bullying, hateful things on some secrets. Some members of the community flagged these posts as offensive, others cheered them on.
Some people have bigotries and said hateful things about people who are different from them. Now, if this was a secret, if someone wanted to admit that they carry these feelings, it is a perfectly appropriate use of the app. But some people posted deeply derogatory statements about various ethnicities and races, social classes, genders, sexual identities, religions and more. Some of the accompanying pictures were disturbing. Some members of the community flagged these posts as offensive, others cheered them on.
And some people posted deeply offensive and distressing pictures of sexual behavior or violent acts. The terms of service of the app prohibited this, but it happened anyway. Some members of the community flagged these posts as offensive, others cheered them on.

Because of this last category of post, Frank Warren and his family were threatened, harassed and subject to scrutiny from various government agencies.

The app was pulled. What could have been a boon to thousands was abused by a few and had to be discontinued to keep Frank and his family safe.

Since then, Frank has received complaints from users, asking for their money back. He has refunded every single one, out of pocket, bypassing Apple entirely. He has publicly stated he will refund anyone who asks.

The app cost $1.99.

Now, I don't know what their financial circumstances are, but if you can afford an iPhone, I bet you can afford $1.99.

Frank really put his heart out to the world to try to create something good. It isn't his fault that it was defiled by some sick and hurtful people.

Today I sent Frank Warren $20 to cover the cost of 10 refunds. If he doesn't need the money for refunds then I'm sure he can use the money for something else worthwhile. Frank's work has saved innumerable lives. I'm sure he's heartbroken that the app didn't work; if my $20 makes his path through the world a little easier, then I'm giving it.

Frank Warren is a man who understands the power of listening. I believe in his work.

If you want to read secrets, send Frank a secret or a little cash, you can find them all here. Thanks.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

RIP Etta James

2012-01-20T12:17:00.001-05:00

I was just doing a quick scan of the news and saw that Etta James has died. If you aren't familiar with her, Etta James was a soul singer best known for her song, At Last, among the best torch songs ever recorded. She had a tough life and as she sings you can hear her experience in every note.

I've loved her music since I was a teenager, swooning along with her as I've loved and had my heart broken.

My most cherished memory of her music is this. For many years, my sweetheart, Kevin, and I took our friends and mentors Brother Blue and Ruth Hill out for Valentine's Day. Sometimes we'd go out for dinner, sometimes we'd go hear music, sometimes they'd come over.

One year, maybe 3 or 4 years before Brother Blue died, we went out to a nice restaurant that was having a Valentine's Day jazz dinner. Brother Blue loved jazz. We ate and listened to music together, watched people dance and had a lovely time. I danced with Brother Blue - or more accurately, Brother Blue danced around me, he was an amazing dancer - and Kevin danced with Ruth.

When the singer started the first few lush notes of At Last the dance floor was swarmed, every couple stood up to dance. Kevin and I danced. Ruth and Brother Blue sat at the table, held hands and watched us.

When we sat down, Brother Blue said, "That was it, the most magical moment of the evening, watching you two dance together." From that day on, whenever I heard Etta James sing At Last I would remember dancing with the love of my life while two of the dearest people in my life, and a model for love and endurance, smiled at us.

Over the next several years, until he died, Brother Blue would refer back to that night as the most magical of nights. Now, those of you who know Brother Blue know that he had many most magical nights, but I don't think that any one of them was any less most magical than any other. This one happened to be ours.

Over the next few days, I know I will hear At Last everywhere.And each time I hear it, I will think of my friend, Brother Blue. I will miss him just a little bit more. I will think of my friend, Ruth. I will love her just a little bit more. And I will think of my partner in life and in dance, Kevin. I will be just a little bit more grateful.

Thank you, Etta James, for giving us such soulful, impassioned music. You touched so many lives, including mine. May you rest in peace.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Why I love public transit

2012-01-19T06:00:00.000-05:00

I love the T, for all that people complain about it. I really enjoy watching people, seeing what they’re reading, what beats they’re moving to, watching them watch me. Kids express such wonder over public transit, they know it’s miraculous that we can move this fast from here to there, without even trying. I love how riding the bus or subway lets me see a cross-section of my city that I might otherwise miss. A Saville Row suit sitting next to leather and studs sitting next to a security uniform sitting next to someone just looking for a place to sleep.

We all become dancers when we stand on public transit, finding our own balance throughout the ride, just as we do in life, only here it’s more obvious. And we have the opportunity to be heroes, offering our seats to those who might need them more.

Public transit is an equalizer. We’re all on our way somewhere, not there by accident, sharing the same space for a little while and inevitably connecting. This morning I happened to glance at a woman across the aisle from me as she was talking on the phone. Our eyes met and I smiled at her. She smiled back, so I smiled more and soon we were both laughing. I will probably never see her again, but for that moment, we were united in joy. Connection. Not so long ago, a young man sat next to me on a bus. He was listening to music through headphones, but it was so loud I could hear it. Without noticing, I started bobbing my head in time to his, along with the beat. When I glanced up from my book I saw an older man looking at us both and grinning. Connection.

When I drive in my car I am isolated. I isolate myself further with the radio or music, rarely looking at the drivers around me unless they cut me off and I look only to scowl. I don’t have that option on public transit. All I can do is be present to the world around me and watch the shifting shadows. All I can do is accept the warmth of a stranger pressing against me in the crowd, catch someone’s eye and smile, be in the moment and wait as we hurtle together through the world.

Why I love XXXXX XXXXXXX

2012-01-18T09:12:00.000-05:00

I’m fortunate enough to live in a city with good public transit, locally called “the T.” We have several subway lines augmented by trains and buses. While I drive almost daily (my workplace isn’t easily accessible by public transit) whenever I can, I take the T.

I love the T, for all that people complain about it. I really enjoy watching people, seeing what they’re reading, what beats they’re moving to, watching them watch me. Kids express such wonder over public transit, they know it’s miraculous that we can move this fast from here to there, without even trying. I love how riding the bus or subway lets me see a cross-section of my city that I might otherwise miss. A Saville Row suit sitting next to leather and studs sitting next to a security uniform sitting next to someone just looking for a place to sleep.

We all become dancers when we stand on public transit, finding our own balance throughout the ride, just as we do in life, only here it’s more obvious. And we have the opportunity to be heroes, offering our seats to those who might need them more.

Public transit is an equalizer. We’re all on our way somewhere, not there by accident, sharing the same space for a little while and inevitably connecting. This morning I happened to glance at a woman across the aisle from me as she was talking on the phone. Our eyes met and I smiled at her. She smiled back, so I smiled more and soon we were both laughing. I will probably never see her again, but for that moment, we were united in joy. Connection. Not so long ago, a young man sat next to me on a bus. He was listening to music through headphones, but it was so loud I could hear it. Without noticing, I started bobbing my head in time to his, along with the beat. When I glanced up from my book I saw an older man looking at us both and grinning. Connection.

When I drive in my car I am isolated. I isolate myself further with the radio or music, rarely looking at the drivers around me unless they cut me off and I look only to scowl. I don’t have that option on public transit. All I can do is be present to the world around me and watch the shifting shadows. All I can do is accept the warmth of a stranger pressing against me in the crowd, catch someone’s eye and smile, be in the moment and wait as we hurtle together through the world.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Wondering what this is about? Find out more about SOPA and PIPA here.

Stand up, speak out

2012-01-15T22:56:00.002-05:00

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, the U.S. holiday where we honor the work and legacy of Dr. King. I've noted it before here. It's worth remembering again. Martin Luther King Jr. Day reminds us to take note of the sacrifice required for a free society, of the bravery that it takes to stand up and say, "Enough." It challenges us to remember that this work is not done.

The work of a free society requires more than one day a year or one week of lesson plans, though those are fine starts. It requires the commitment of every individual to decide where their lines in the sand are marked; what is acceptable and what is not; when can their voice make a difference. It requires every individual to be brave enough to stand up and speak out even when they are frightened, even when they don't know if it will make any difference at all. You never know who is watching.

I live in a multicultural neighborhood. Part of why I live here is because I have neighbors who are black and white, asian and latino, Christian, Jewish and Muslim. We don't all speak the same language and have the glorious challenge of learning to live together. My local grocery store has an excellent "ethnic" section because it must, to serve all of its customers. I delight in the variety of goods and faces I find in the market every time I go there.

I was in my local market this weekend picking up the sundries required for every day life. As I walked out I overheard a customer, a white man in his 50s, talking to a store employee, a white man in his early 20s. The older man was talking about how much he disagrees with the policies of our current presidential administration, that he resents his tax money being used to support the poor. I kept walking. He is entitled to his opinions. It was when he said, "I can't get any of that free housing because I'm too white. If I had a baby mamma, maybe then I could cash in," that I turned and walked back.

I asked him, "Do you know how racist that is? Do you know how you sound?" He started sputtering that he wasn't a racist, he just hated the president. I listened until he wound down, then said, "You don't know what you sound like. You don't know whose lives that free housing might save. You don't know who is around you and who might be watching or listening." And I turned and walked away.

I'm certain I could have done more. I could have had a longer argument, but I wasn't going to change his mind. What I hope is that I gave the young man, the man in his early 20s, a chance to think about something different. The opportunity to remember his school friends, his neighbors who may not look like him. What I hope is that I stopped one racist, for one moment, from spewing out his thoughtless invective over my neighborhood.

What I did is nothing compared with the work of Dr. King. But if we all were to stop, listen to ourselves and those around us, and try to consider the need to see people as people, separate from ethnicity or religion, we might be able to make more compassionate choices and engage in more balanced fiscal responsibility. When we do this en mass the possibilities are astonishing. When we speak out for a more equitable society we help build a world of more possibility.

And that's what I'm doing, not only for Martin Luther King Jr. Day; I'm doing it every day. Please join me.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Poem: One for old snaggletooth

2012-01-14T11:33:00.001-05:00

One For Old SnaggletoothBy Charles Bukowski

I know a woman
who keeps buying puzzles
chinese
puzzles
blocks
wires
pieces that finally fit
into some order.
she works it out
mathematically
she solves all her
puzzles
lives down by the sea
puts sugar out for the ants
and believes
ultimately
in a better world.
her hair is white
she seldom combs it
her teeth are snaggled
and she wears loose shapeless
coveralls over a body most
women would wish they had.
for many years she irritated me
with what I consider her
eccentricities -
like soaking eggshells in water
(to feed the plants so that
they'd get calcium).
but finally when I think of her
life
and compare it to other lives
more dazzling, original
and beautiful
I realize that she has hurt fewer
people than anybody I know
(and by hurt I simply mean hurt).
she has had some terrible times,
times when maybe I should have
helped her more
for she is the mother of my only
child
and we were once great lovers,
but she has come through
like I said
she has hurt fewer people than
anybody I know,
and if you look at it like that,
well,
she has created a better world.
she has won.

Frances, this poem is for
you.

On failing to blog daily in December

2012-01-12T17:49:00.000-05:00

This was not an easy post to write. It feels very vulnerable and very honest and very whiny. Feel free to skip it. Let me add that I was inspired by the Bloggess' honesty to write this. She is one brave lady.

Some of you may recall I had some pretty big aspirations for December; I was going to publish regularly in not one, not two but three blogs. To no ones' surprise I didn't manage to do this. I did get some good stuff out, but I failed in my larger goal.

I've been thinking about why, both why I set up such a large goal and why I failed. Which leads me to some thinking about blogging in general and where I may go with it. Stay with me here, I promise it's not all navel gazing.

I've written before about the tension between written and spoken language (though this post is no longer an accurate reflection of this tension for me). I identify as both a storyteller and a writer. Both art forms help me understand the world, my place in it, what I believe and help me say something to the world, though they do it in very different ways. These two identities are inextricably linked, but I find myself fighting more resistance when writing than I do when telling.

Oddly enough, standing up in front of people is less frightening that sitting down in front of the screen. There are lots of reasons for this, but one crucial piece of it is interaction. When I tell a story I can see the impact immediately. When I write that happens rarely, if ever. That's why blogging appeals to me; there is a chance that someone will feel or think something in response to my writing and they just might let me know.

As I look at this, my inner demons are telling me this may be one of the most self-centered, whiny things I've ever written for public consumption. Talk about a cry for attention! But aren't we all motivated by a desire for interaction? For conversation? For touch, for a smile, for the knowledge that what we do has an impact upon an individual or the world? Blogging makes that possible and I'm sure I'm not the only blogger who uses this form because it allows for conversation with the reader. Of course I write for my own edification, but I am not enough of an introvert that I'm content with shouting down a well. I want to know that what I say is heard.

So I think I set such a lofty goal for myself in the hopes that it would help me find an audience, that I would be able to converse with you and find out if what I say is meaningful, useful or entertaining. I also wanted to use this as a springboard to better writing habits, to understand my own thought process more, to begin work on a book; I hoped knowing I was writing for someone to read immediately would help.

So what happened? A couple of things.

At least in the U.S. December is a crappy month to try to set aside significant time for a new creative endeavor. The whole world conspires against you.
I got tired of listening to myself. I didn't rally the necessary support to write regularly. Instead of hoping for reader responses (which isn't fair, how many blogs do I comment on? Right.) I should have simply found friends to bounce these ideas around with. The posts would have been stronger and I would have enjoyed the process more.
Self-sabotage, fear, intermittent depression, inner demons (who ask me why would anyone want to read this anyway, you know those voices, I'm sure) on and on and on.
And when these factors converged (December, poor planning, not organizing support, demons) I froze. I had nothing to say. I let other things get in the way. Doing the dishes and checking cnn became far more urgent than writing. Hello resistance, my old friend.

What have I learned?

I love this format, it's a great marriage of the immediacy of storytelling and the contemplative work of writing. I need to remember that blogging, like any other creative undertaking, can't be done in a vacuum so I need to rally support, friends who will help me be a better writer and more regular blogger. And I need to remember that resistance, in all its forms, is a damnable beast, but a coward. By doing the thing that frightens me, in this case writing this very post and feeling afraid that either no one will read it or you will all disdain me afterwards, I move forward.

And that is why this post isn't entirely navel gazing. We all get afraid sometimes. When we face our fears we often discover they aren't as overwhelming or as dire as we thought. And if they are, we can find allies to help us defeat them.

I'll keep writing. I hope you keep reading. And if you're so inclined, say "hi" from time to time. I'd love to hear from you.

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer

Not my resolutions, but...

2011-12-20T09:19:00.000-05:00

I'm not a big fan of New Year's resolutions. I try to live my life with intent, so try not to need to resolve at the new year - it seems to be setting myself up for failure.

That being said, I love this list of New Year's resolutions from Woody Guthrie. I think I could add a few of these to my "how to live" list. Thanks to boingboing for posting this.

Do you do resolutions? Are there any you'd like to share?

On listening

2011-12-19T09:02:00.000-05:00

There is a wonderful program called This I Believe, in which various people, some well-known and most everyday, wrote and read essays on their core beliefs. These ranged from forgiveness to science to faith and more. I would listen to these essays on NPR, transfixed. I was moved to write my own This I Believe essay; I ended up writing more than one, as I found I have several core beliefs. But I kept coming back to the same thing.

I believe in listening. When asked to define myself, I often start with, “I am a listener.”

This may seem like an odd thing for a storyteller to say, after all, my craft requires people to listen to me, do I have to listen to them? Yes. When you think about it, storytelling starts with listening. Without a listener, the storyteller, no matter how superb, is talking to the wind. The wind may be an excellent listener, however because storytelling is an experience based on relationships, and most of us don’t have two-way relationships with the wind, we need active and engaged listeners. Storytellers listen to their audiences while they tell their stories and shape the tale to meet the needs of the audience. It’s a relationship, a dance, not just a rote performance.

Storytellers who listen to the world around them in their daily lives can craft stories that are more readily recognizable, where the audience can find themselves and their own story with more ease. These stories, where the audience doesn’t have to work as hard, give the storyteller a way to reach their listeners and connect with them more deeply, thus creating a more satisfying experience to all. We’re more likely to remember a story where we found ourselves, in some way, than a story we found completely alien. We’re all Luke Skywalker, Little Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf, after all.

But there’s more to it than that. We all need to be listeners to the world. When we listen intently to those around us, we have a much better chance of understanding them. We also model for them the way we want to be listened to. Have you ever had a conversation with someone where you were interrupted constantly? Where that person kept diverting the conversation to themselves? Where your experiences were only launching pads to their own stories? We have a chronic listening deficit in the western world (maybe globally, I don’t know). We are taught from a very young age that if we shut up and listen we’re passive, giving up the advantage, that we won’t gain anything from the interaction. I disagree. By listening to those around me, by giving those with the greatest need to talk a chance to be heard, I have forged deep and meaningful relationships, helped people find their place in the world and ultimately had opportunities to express my own ideas in a wider range of forums than I would have otherwise.

Listening is the base of every workshop I teach; it’s inevitably the hardest part for participants. Being still and listening to others is harder than standing up and telling a story, harder than finding a new company vision, harder than working through your own life for your next story. Without listening, without being listened to and listening to others carefully, all of these tasks become much more challenging.

We can learn to be better listeners, it’s a skill like any other.

Next time you’re talking to someone you love, just listen to them. Don’t interrupt with a question or your opinion, just pay attention and listen. Wait until they wind down before you praise, ask or empathize. You may learn something you never knew.

Try sometime just letting the interrupter talk. Listen to them. You may find they wind down after a while and become your ally because you are the person who took the time to hear them.

Listen to those whose views you oppose. You may find they have the same basic concerns that you do. They love their families, care about their communities and want to be happy just as much as you do. By listening to them you may teach them that the enemy isn’t so frightening after all. If you can extend them that kindness maybe they can extend it back to you.

Leaders need to be great listeners. They need to remember that everyone in their organization has their own measure of wisdom as well as opinion. By listening to them you may learn things you never knew about process, engagement, success or failure and potential improvement. But you need to be willing to listen.

It’s not easy. We want to share our own stories and have our own voice. You will have that chance, but if you can listen, you may learn more about the world and yourself than you ever expected.

Prompt Sunday

2011-12-18T09:01:00.000-05:00

Three images to amuse and inspire you. And don't forget to sign up for a hand-made assemblage, on this blog post!

All of these images are from the photography archives at the Smithsonian Institution.

Poem for a snowless Saturday in December

2011-12-17T09:01:00.000-05:00

A Winter Without Snow
by J.D. McLatchey

Even the sky here in Connecticut has it, That wry look of accomplished conspiracy, The look of those who've gotten away With a petty but regular white collar crime. When I pick up my shirts at the laundry, A black woman, putting down her Daily News, Wonders why and how much longer our luck Will hold. "Months now and no kiss of the witch." The whole state overcast with such particulars. For Emerson, a century ago and farther north, Where the country has an ode's jagged edges, It was "frolic architecture." Frozen blue- Print of extravagance, shapes of a shared life Left knee-deep in transcendental drifts: The isolate forms of snow are its hardest fact. Down here, the plain tercets of provision do, Their picket snow-fence peeling, gritty, Holding nothing back, nothing in, nothing at all. Down here, we've come to prefer the raw material Of everyday and this year have kept an eye On it, shriveling but still recognizable-- A sight that disappoints even as it adds A clearing second guess to winter. It's As if, in the third year of a "relocation" To a promising notch way out on the Sunbelt, You've grown used to the prefab housing, The quick turnover in neighbors, the constant Smell of factory smoke--like Plato's cave, You sometimes think--and the stumpy trees That summer slighted and winter just ignores, And all the snow that never falls is now Back home and mixed up with other piercing Memories of childhood days you were kept in With a Negro schoolmate, of later storms Through which you drove and drove for hours Without ever seeing where you were going. Or as if you've cheated on a cold sickly wife. Not in some overheated turnpike motel room With an old flame, herself the mother of two, Who looks steamy in summer-weight slacks And a parrot-green pullover. Not her. Not anyone. But every day after lunch You go off by yourself, deep in a brown study, Not doing much of anything for an hour or two, Just staring out the window, or at a patch On the wall where a picture had hung for ages, A woman with planets in her hair, the gravity Of perfection in her features--oh! her hair The lengthening shadow of the galaxy's sweep. As a young man you used to stand outside On warm nights and watch her through the trees. You remember how she disappeared in winter, Obscured by snow that fell blindly on the heart, On the house, on a world of possibilities.

Friday fiction: Doorways

2011-12-16T09:01:00.000-05:00

It was a scene out of a movie, one of those long trembling moments when the plot could fall one way or another, and each character is desperately hoping for a different outcome.

We’d been friends for years. It was the kind of friendship that had been broken and remade over and over again, something that, frankly, I don’t usually care for. I prefer the kind of friendship where you know the other person will be there, predictable, a straight road, maybe annoying, but reliable. Not this friendship. This was a storm-tossed ship, riding high then crashing low, unsure of its direction. If you asked either of us we’d agree it was because he was a little crazy and I was a lot impatient. And if you asked again one or the other might tell you it had something to do with the way he felt, and the way I didn’t, but then again, we might not. In any case, we’d been friends for years and navigated many choppy waters to finally find ourselves here, standing on opposite sides of a doorway.

It had been one of the good times, clear sailing on bright waters. I was in love with someone I found troubling and didn’t understand; he had no one but me. We’d been up late talking and it was time for him to leave. So many things hung in the air unsaid, so many things that I felt as though I was pushing through them as I walked behind him, towards the door.

As he stepped through the doorway he turned and looked at me and it was all there on his face, all the longing and love he hadn’t voiced, everything he wished he could say. I looked at him for a long moment and I knew, as clearly as if he acted upon it, that he wanted to reach through the door, take me in his arms, and kiss me. He opened his mouth and no words came out. I spoke, before his breath could organize itself into thought.

“Don’t say it. I know. And we both know it can’t be. Not now, maybe not ever. Thank you, though. Just, thank you.”

And we stood there a moment longer, looking at each other. I couldn’t be the first to turn away, the one to break the contact he needed so deeply. Maybe I needed it, too.

“Go home.”

And he did.

If this were a movie, someone would have written us better lines. Or turned my heart in that moment from the complicated love I was already in, to this simpler, longer, maybe more honest one. Or at least given him the gift of love waiting down the road if not at the foot of the stairs. But life isn’t quite like the movies. All that we were left with was that long moment in the doorway, bodies framed, and the lingering question of what would have happened if we were two different people at a different time, who instead had said “yes.”

Life is a collage: writer's block, a suggestion and a giveaway

2011-12-13T21:37:00.003-05:00

Before we talk about this week's suggestion, let's take a moment to celebrate last week's winners! As you may recall, last week I talked about keeping a writer's notebook and offered two hand-altered notebooks complete with suggestions, games and other creativity triggers. While I received a few emails asking me for the notebooks, Elsa and Jo were brave enough to leave comments, so they are my winners. I'll be contacting them privately for shipping information. Thank you to everyone who contacted and even considered contacting me.

This week I want to write about getting over creative blocks. While a writer's notebook is a great way to capture ideas, sometimes an idea is elusive and really doesn't want to be set down. I sometimes find myself working on a story or a blog post and the words just won't come. When that happens, if I'm clever, I try to get at the idea another way. I get someone to listen to me. Or I try to use other parts of my brain to explore the idea.

Words are great. I love words. But sometimes if I can't find the right words, using images is a way around the block. So I doodle, or make a collage or an assemblage that uses some of the images and ideas floating around in my head.

Next time you get stuck, when the words don't come, when the paper or screen just mock you, try doodling out the idea instead. Try cutting out pictures from a magazine that have something to do with your story. Try gathering objects that your character might love. It doesn't matter if you can't draw, if the magazine isn't quite right or if the objects are distant approximations (a twig can be a magic wand any day) what matters is you're accessing another part of your mind. You're bypassing words and the anxiety you may have around the right word, so you can loosen up creatively and get moving again.

Leave a comment or send me an email about how you get over creative blocks, what you do when the words just won't come. I will give a custom collage or small assemblage to one of this week's commenters. I look forward to hearing what you have to say!

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Prompt Sunday - bingo!

2011-12-11T09:00:00.000-05:00

I'm on my way home from Los Angeles. It's been a good trip, with various adventures and dramas. As I often do when I travel, I've been playing bingo. I make up an imaginary list of stereotypes and mutter, "bingo," whenever I see one of them.

My LA list included things like:

Someone carrying a little dog (bingo! a chihuahua)
Someone under 8 years old on a cell phone (bingo! and being pushed in a stroller by someone on their own cell phone)
Someone talking about working in the service industry while they look for their next role/sell their screenplay (bingo! three guys over brunch)
A celebrity (bingo! Kareem Abdul Jabar. He's very tall.)
The Pacific ocean (nope)
and so on.

I love this game. I play it all the time in all different kinds of circumstances, not just when I'm in new places. I find playing bingo makes me more observant and appreciative of the world around me. I see things I might otherwise miss, I make up stories and I amuse myself.

Some of my every day bingo lists might include:

Something that could be mistaken for a UFO
A person who looks like they have a secret
A pair of red shoes
and so on.

I challenge you to come up with your own bingo lists. It will make you look at the world more acutely and give you terrific fodder for story, for art, for seeing the world without the lens of fatigue and disillusionment.

Feel free to post your own bingo lists in the comments, I'd love to know what you looked for and what you saw. And as a reminder, I'm giving away altered writer's notebooks with suggestions and prompts next week. Go here for a chance to win!

Saturday share: Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

2011-12-10T09:00:00.000-05:00

On Saturdays I am sharing some of my favorite resources with you. I love this poem by Wendell Berry. He is one of my favorite writers, a man of letters and conviction. This poem is one of my guideposts as I move through the world.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Friday Fiction: Running away with Greta

2011-12-09T08:00:00.000-05:00

I'm proud to say this story was was a selection from the 2011 Muse and the Marketplace for The Drum Literary magazine. You can hear it here.

* * *

When I was a little girl, somewhere between 5 and 10, my best friend was Greta Smith. She lived on the other end of our block with her mom and brother, Christian. I remember thinking it was odd that her brother was named after a religion.

Greta was my cool friend. There was a giant poster of some kind of sports car in her living room and I saw star trek for the first time at her house. I remember her mother tried to explain “divorce” to me. I didn’t understand – my parents fought all the time but they were still married.

Greta was the first person who told me that the way my father treated me wasn’t right, that it wasn’t okay that he yelled at me, threatened to hit me, told me I was a bad girl when I was just being a kid. She told me I didn’t have to suffer.

After one particularly bad fight I climbed out of my bedroom window, down the wisteria tree and ran to Greta’s house.

I expect I was crying but I don’t remember tears.

She said we should run away. I thought this was a grand idea. We found old broomsticks in her backyard brush pile, then took shirts from the rag bag. I would bring crackers, socks, peanut butter and my teddy bear. She had a map and a bottle of orange juice. Between us we had a few dollars. We agreed to meet at midnight on her front steps. I went home to prepare.

That night my mother made creamed corn for dinner, my favorite, usually reserved for my birthday or when she wanted me to know she was sorry my father and I fought. That she didn’t stand up for me. That I wasn’t a good girl. She wanted me to know she loved me anyway.

After dinner I went to my room. I played. I filled the shirt with stolen crackers, socks, a jar of peanut butter and what money I had in my piggy bank, then I tied the bundle to the end of the broomstick. I would be a hobo if it meant no one would yell at me anymore. I hid my prepared supplies under the bed.

My parents read to me, tucked me in and turned out the light.

I think I fell asleep around 11.

The next day I walked to Greta’s house, ashamed.

She asked me why I didn’t come, she’d been on the steps at midnight, why wasn’t I there? I imagined this little girl, in the quiet pool of the streetlight, waiting. The world was so big at night. I realized I never would have tasted my mother’s creamed corn again and I was glad I hadn’t come.

“I fell asleep.”
“Well, at least you didn’t chicken out.”

We played all day.

I got home before dinner, left my hobo stick under the bed just in case, and stayed up long past bedtime, staring out of my window, listening to the night.

Packing perfect beauty

2011-12-08T09:01:00.000-05:00

God, I wish I could wear stuff like this - my mother says it was as uncomfortable as hell, but oh, everyone had a figure then.

Just look at it! This is a marvel of engineering. The snaps and hooks and elastic are something else. So much force is required to mold me, or you, or almost anyone into that perfect shape. Suspension bridges have nothing on breasts and bellies; engineering schools should have courses on women’s undergarments. Maybe they do and I just took all the wrong classes.

I never liked the word. Girdle. I understand you can gird your loins before battle, but really, what do you do when you gird? It’s one of those nouns turned into a verb made more feminine by the -le on the end. Now when we gird our bellies and breasts, it’s with body shapers, certainly a better name and less painful to wear, but those slick shadows don’t have the same allure as elastic and snaps, metal and straps.

Oh, those straps, like an octopus reaching down to grab soft silk stockings, shaped like legs themselves with a seam to draw the eye up and down. The delicate stitching along the sides, a zig-zag cartography molding hills into plains and flaring out over hips like a sudden curve in a road. Cups like reassuring hands, lifting what is or what isn’t there into high fairy tale pillows that no woman has ever really had but we all pretend we did, pillows that have no relation to their real purpose or shape.

Of course, if a woman is to be this beautiful, she can’t breath or bend. To touch her is to touch a hard surface, not warm skin and soft fat over muscle and bone, nor the hints of strength and possibility in her own body, but a construction designed for looking, not touching. And god forbid one piece of rubber or metal goes awry; you could lose a limb as it goes tearing out of your clothing.

But, oh, to be a goddess from afar for a few hours, untouchable and unattainable. Gasping. Fainting. Perfect.

The observed world: In Transit

2011-12-07T09:01:00.000-05:00

Wednesdays bring you the world through my eyes. Two pictures in transit. And don't forget, leave comments on yesterday's post for a chance to win a hand-altered writer's notebook!

The observant eye: a suggestion and a giveaway

2011-12-06T09:01:00.000-05:00

I saw an adequate movie recently in which a man writes a barely fictionalized memoir that becomes a best-seller. The movie tracks the impact of the memoir on his family, his siblings and his relationships. It's not pretty though parts were terribly funny. My favorite part of the movie was a dinner scene, where the entire extended family gathered to celebrate the patriarch's birthday, someone characterized in the memoir as wonderful but really a mean-spirited, money-grubbing inattentive father and philandering husband. The dinner rapidly falls apart into some of the more painfully funny film scenarios I've seen recently and, in the midst of it, the memoir-writer pulls out a notebook and starts taking notes.

That was it, the golden moment of the movie, the glimmer of truth and the place where I saw myself.

I carry a notebook with me everywhere I go. Most writers, artists, observers of the world do. I jot down all different kinds of things - overheard conversation, a name that strikes my fancy, a story idea, a poorly-rendered sketch of scene I don't want to forget. I often write things down at inopportune moments.

If you're not already doing so, I urge you to do the same. Make note of your world. Observe the planet around you, the shades of brown in bark, the sound of a taxi, the odd turn of phrase, how you feel in this moment in this place. You don't know what you'll do with this material, but at a bare minimum it will make you more observant of the world around you. And you may end up crafting your next great work from it.

To help you out, I'd like to give you a notebook. I've taken two Moleskine notebooks (one red and one tan) and tweaked them. You can see them here:

What's more, I've put occasional prompts, questions, images and other items into the notebooks themselves. Each one is unique.

Leave a comment below or send me an email as to why you'd like one of these notebooks. I'll pull two names at random and will announce winners next week.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Lightening the Load: The Artist's Survival Kit

2011-12-05T09:05:00.000-05:00

Mondays can be tough. We re-emerge from our weekends back into the daily routine of work or school or other kinds of life. I think a lot of the Monday burden is really just about attitude; if we think of Monday as a chance to enter a new week, refreshed, it might be a little easier than if we groan about it too much. I only succeed with this sometimes.

On Mondays throughout December, I'll post something to help lighten the load. These links, thoughts, images and so on are all things I have found useful. I hope they help you. And please feel free to post your own load-lighteners in the comments!

Keri Smith is one of my favorite artists, writers and creativity gurus. She uses simple illustrations to help you and me break out of our ruts, to help us remember that the world is an adventure and we are all explorers. Her work helps me step away from consumerism and back into my own creative possibility.

In 2010 she issued an Artist's Survival Kit on her blog. This generous gift is for everyone, not just artists. It's for the days when the world grinds at you, when you feel as though you just need a break and an encouraging word, when you question your own creative spirit. I carry it with me to help me through the tough times. I am incredibly grateful to her for sharing this with us.

You can find the post explaining the kit and download it here. It's free. But it would be really nice if you checked out some of her books too, like The Guerilla Art Kit, Living Out Loud, How to be an Explorer of the World, Wreck This Journal, and The Non-Planner Date Book. They would make great gifts for the creative people in your life. You know, your mom, your son, your cousin whom you never see, the mailman... maybe even yourself.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

2011-12-04T12:02:00.001-05:00

Overheard:
"No way!"
"No lie!"
"Not yet."

Prompt Sunday

2011-12-04T09:01:00.000-05:00

As promised, here are some images that you might find interesting. I'd be curious about what these inspired, if you were moved to write something, wonder about them, imagine something new into being.

I took these photos and, if you really need to know, can tell you more about them.

Enjoy!

Lights in the darkness: Resources to help with holiday headaches

2011-12-03T09:10:00.000-05:00

While I am not Christian, I enjoy the story of Christmas. When I think of it as a world-wide birthday part, a celebration of a baby and the possibility of miracles, it gives me pause and makes me smile. What I have come to find more and more challenging is the rampant consumerism Christmas has come to represent, at least in the U.S.

Today I’d like to offer you some resources and ideas to escape the consumerism of the season and maybe get closer to its roots; a celebration of miracles, of community, of light in the darkness.

Breathe
The holiday season can be so very hectic, it feels like we don't even have the time to breath. When we become breathless our bodies generate more stress hormones and we can feel like we're panicking. We become short-tempered and agitated.
Take the time to breath. When you're out running around, slow down, close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Better yet, learn to meditate and take a few minutes each day to care for yourself by taking easy breaths and letting go of the stress that's consuming you. This site has some nice tips and guided meditations.
Give something away
I know, this time of year you're already thinking a lot about giving gifts. But I mean a different kind of giving. Some recent studies have found that money can, in fact, buy happiness, but not the way the researchers expected. When people spend money on themselves their happiness is far less and far shorter lived than when they use the same amount of money to do something nice for someone else. Not because they have to, the way we have to around the holidays, but simply because they can.
Make a donation to your favorite charity; better yet, make a donation to the favorite charity of someone you love. Give clothing that doesn't fit to a worthy organization. Buy a homeless person a cup of coffee. You may find you benefit from this simple acts of kindness more than you ever expected.
Create a miracle
You can have a huge impact on the life of someone you don't know, simply by taking a little time and giving a little money. I have become a supporter of micro-financing programs like kiva.org which helps impoverished people around the world start their own businesses. It's a chance to give someone in some of the world's most impoverished places dignity and self-determination. And if that isn't a miracle, I don't know what is.
Be a light in the darkness
These are dark days. For those of us in the Northern hemisphere, we're leaning away from the sun and are wilting from lack of light. These are dark days. If you take in the news in any form, you can't help but think the world is coming to an end. Here's a tip:
It's not. The world will survive. The light will return. It may take awhile and it may be painful, but we as a species and our planet are quite resilient. With any luck, we'll learn something, maybe even change for the better. (I know, cynics are laughing at me. I'm laughing at me. But I'd rather hope a little.)
In the meantime, what can we do? What we have always done. We do the best we can and we strive to be a light in the darkness. Be kind when you can. Maybe be a little kinder than necessary. Say "please" and "thank you." Remember that everyone else is as stressed and harried as you are, and maybe the jerk who cut you off in traffic is rushing home because their kid is sick or their soldier spouse is finally coming home.

What else do you do to cope with these rushed, crazy days? What brings you solace and comfort? What are your lights in the darkness?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Friday (non) fiction: Life saving story

2011-12-02T09:10:00.000-05:00

Stories save our lives in all kinds of ways. Sometimes you hear the story you need at exactly the right moment to realize you’re not alone, to find the solution to a problem, to feel comforted in the midst of darkness. Sometimes you tell a story that gets you out of trouble, connects you to a solution or a person, helps you understand who you are. And sometimes it’s somewhere in the middle, the right story, the right time, the right life.

About 15 years ago I was dating a guy who, while sweet, had a little bit of a macho problem. He wasn’t a very large man and I think that bothered him, so he moved through the world with some attitude, a swagger. I’m sure some of you know people like that. Maybe even you are like that. And maybe, like me, you sometimes find that kind of attractive.

One night we went out to dinner in Chinatown, before Chinatown was neat and tidy, back then it was still known as the Combat Zone. You were much more likely to see people selling drugs or themselves than you are now. My date kept glancing around as though daring bad guys to leap out at us; I just kept an eye open and walked towards our destination. We stopped off at a convenience store ATM and it was as we were walking out into the night that it happened.

A fellow who looked pretty down on his luck barreled into my date. They bounced off of one another and became puffer fish, bigger and spikier by the moment. My date, knowing I hated this stuff, stayed quiet, but wouldn’t back down when the other man loomed over him and yelled.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You think you own this place? Huh? Well?”

The man’s face got redder and redder and he accused my date of things he couldn’t possibly have done. Soon my date’s face was turning red as he heard his mother insulted, as he was accused of planning to be in this man’s way on this very night, as he heard his own manhood demeaned.

And then the angry man pulled out a hungry knife.

“What, you want me to cut you? Huh? Is that what you want?”

I don’t remember doing it. I just know that I found myself standing in between these two men without thinking about it, planning or even being aware of my own movement. I was facing the yelling man. He looked as surprised as I was.

“Hey,” I said, “What’s wrong?”

He blustered. “This asshole got in my way.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to, I think he just bumped into you by accident, nothing to get mad about. What’s going on, why are you so upset? What happened?”

He deflated, all of the air gushing out of him. And he told me his story.

“Lady, I’m really tired of people walking all over me. I work construction, been doing it since high school. I got laid off and I can’t find a job, I’m doing day work when I can get it. You every do day work? It’s hard and ugly. You shovel shit or plant trees or build walls, whatever they tell you to and you don’t get breaks. There isn’t any union, that’s for sure.
“I’ve been looking for work every day for months and can’t find a damn thing. My wife got fed up with it, she was working two jobs, so she took the kids and left. She’s staying with her parents but says I can’t see the kids until things are more stable. That’s what she says, stable. Since she left I can’t pay all the bills and the electricity got turned off yesterday, so it’s not like stable is happening any time soon.
“I got a message today that my dad got sick, but he’s in Arizona and I can’t get out to see him. So I don’t have my kids, my wife, a comfortable home and I’m not gonna have a chance to say goodbye to my father.
“I’ve been sober for over 2 years, but it seems to me like this is a damned fine time to have a drink, because, hell, it’s not like I have anything left to lose, so when this guy got in my way, yeah, something happened.”

He stopped talking and glared at me for a moment, then just looked uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.”

I wish I could tell you I talked him into going to a meeting or helped him find a job. But that wouldn’t be true. I can tell you he shrugged his shoulders as if he were feeling his skin again, fitting back into his own body. “I guess you people are going someplace. I guess I don’t need to go in there right now. Mister, I’m sorry I knocked you over. Lady, I’m glad you got in the way. Thanks for asking.”

He walked off. My date and I had dinner, but I just couldn’t see him the same way after that; he had been looking for a fight and I found a story.

I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t asked. If I hadn’t found myself stepping in. I do know that knife curved into a wicked grin. I do hope that telling his story helped and maybe gave him enough of himself back to maybe save his life.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

A month of Sundays: Posting daily in December!

2011-12-01T09:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve decided to try to blog everyday for the month of December. Really what I’ve decided is to blog and write more frequently, but sometimes setting a BIG but specific goal seems more achievable than a smaller, less specific dream.

Alright, it’s not really a month of Sundays, but it will be a lot of writing and discipline. I’ll need our help.

Here is what I hope to accomplish from this experience:

Better writing habits
More engaged readers (you)

To help me do this I’ve come up with an editorial calendar. Not to give too much away (hey, I need to keep some things surprises, right?) in general I plan to do the following:

Thursdays: Some kind of observational essay, like much of this blog already is. Today is an exception, since I'm using today to state my blogging intent.
Fridays: Fiction.
Saturdays: Something from someone else (a poem, an image, links, etc) because there are lots of interesting people in the world.
Sundays: some kind of creativity or writing prompt.
Monday: something to lighten the load of a new week.
Tuesdays: A piece of creativity, something inspirational and a contest.
Wednesdays” the observed world. An overheard comment, a photo, a description of something I’ve seen.

I’d really love to have your feedback - this is the help I was talking about. Please let me know what you think of any of these posts. If I say something that inspires you or makes you think, please let me know! Part of the appeal of blogging is to interact with the world. I’d love to know what you’re thinking.

As if all this weren’t enough, I’m also going to be blogging more regularly on my cooking blog and my organizational storytelling blog. Check those out later this week for more information.

Thanks for the support. I hope I write something interesting or useful for you!

A poem for Thursday

2011-11-24T23:14:00.000-05:00

Bird-Understander by Craig Arnold : The Poetry Foundation

Of many reasons I love you here is one

the way you write me from the gate at the airport

so I can tell you everything will be alright

so you can tell me there is a bird

trapped in the terminal all the people

ignoring it because they do not know

what do with it except to leave it alone

until it scares itself to death

it makes you terribly terribly sad

You wish you could take the bird outside

and set it free or (failing that)

call a bird-understander

to come help the bird

All you can do is notice the bird

and feel for the bird and write

to tell me how language feels

impossibly useless

but you are wrong

You are a bird-understander

better than I could ever be

who make so many noises

and call them song

These are your own words

your way of noticing

and saying plainly

of not turning away

from hurt

you have offered them

to me I am only

giving them back

if only I could show you

how very useless

they are not

Creativity takes time (video)

2011-11-15T09:10:00.001-05:00

You know it. I know it. When you are given a hard deadline and the mandate to be creative.... NOW! we get brainfreeze.

KreativMagazin put together this nice video to demonstrate that creativity takes time. I liked it and I think you will too.

Prompt Sunday

2011-11-14T09:16:00.000-05:00

Here is your prompt for today. Why are Superman and the Hulk getting high? Who is in the back seat? What universe is this?

Prompt Sunday

2011-11-06T09:30:00.000-05:00

Here is your visual writing/creativity prompt for today. Who is she? Who are they? Who took this photo and what happened next? I'd love to know....

Getting out of dodge

2011-11-03T11:37:00.000-04:00

image from Kalidassa on Deviant Art

I don't know about you, but sometimes I get stuck. I get stuck in my own patterns, my own drama, my own skin. I don't always notice it as quickly as I might hope, but when I do, I panic. OH MY GOD WHAT DO I DO I'M STUCK scream all of my internal critics. They all suggest that being stuck is an eternal state and I won't be able to do anything about it.

They're wrong. There are a ton of things I can do about being stuck, things you can do too.

Some of those things are pretty simple, like talking to a friend, going for a walk, helping someone else, standing on your head, things like that. Stuff that gets you out of your own mind and out of your rut. But sometimes that isn't enough. When that happens, I get out of dodge.

I know, I'm nowhere near Dodge City, Kansas and you probably aren't either. But I get out of my current locale, I go someplace else where I can meet new people, have new experiences and be someone else or, more accurately, remember the best of who I already am. When I was younger I used to go overseas every few years and pretend to be someone else. I would tell stories about another life, the kind of life I wanted to live and create a person I hoped I might be when I got home. But I never was that person and these adventures only left me with a vague sense of longing, so now I go to other places and give myself permission to be my best self, without the baggage of the day-to-day that so easily can pull me down. I have permission to soar.

I've become more selective about where I go for these moments, so I can be both genuine and fed without any temptation to be someone else, and recently I had one of the most enriching out-of-dodge experiences of my life. I went to the PopTech conference in Camden, Maine. If you've not heard of the conference, this is how they describe themselves:

We’re a global community of innovators, working together to expand the edge of change.

When I was there I absolutely felt as though I was part of that community. I felt enhanced by possibility and moved to action.

It was three-and-a-half days of talks, conversations, excellent food and inspiration. I met people who had great ideas to change the world and acted on them.

I realized that I have every opportunity to be one of them. As a storyteller, I change the world every day when I listen to someone, when I tell a story that moves an individual or a group. What's more, I met dozens of wildly creative, intelligent people who got it when I told them I am a storyteller, who understood the broad application and possibility of story and narrative.

I felt as though I had come home to a family who had just been waiting for me to walk through the door. By getting out of dodge I was able to remember who I am and carry it back home with me. I am energized and motivated in ways I haven't been in a long time. This trip out of dodge did everything I needed and more. I have remembered the best of who I am and am acting on it. I am so grateful that I was wise enough to go, so grateful that these experiences exist and the community welcomed me.

All of this begs the question: Why don't I give myself permission to soar all the time? Why do I have to get out of dodge to be my best self? The easy answer is about the daily grind, the commute, the bills, the things that wear me down. But the better answer, one I think you and the PopTech community will understand is much simpler.

I have permission to soar all the time. I just need to remember that I have wings.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Prompt Sunday

2011-10-30T14:02:00.001-04:00

Starting today, I'm going to start posting a picture every Sunday. These are pictures that amuse or intrigue me and might, I hope, spark inspiration.

Let me know what you think, what you imagine in response to these images.

Vancouver General Hospital remembers 100 years: Surgery, 1905, a photo by Vancouver Coastal Health on Flickr.

On birthdays and blessings

2011-10-27T08:31:00.000-04:00

Today is my birthday. I have taken to writing a list on this day every year to celebrate the things in the world I most cherish, the things that help me understand my place and role, the things that simply make my heart soar. If you're interested in previous lists just go to other Octobers on this blog, you'll find them there.

I am so grateful to be in this beautiful, perfectly broken, transcendent world. And I am grateful for:

Each breath.
My lungs and heart and body.
My senses.
Luscious tastes.
Colors and patterns.
The world rushing by my ears.
And even the persistent whine of tinnitus, that reminds me that I am alive.
The scents that waft by, noticed and ignored.
The touch of my lover's hand, the rasp of my clothing on skin, the breeze on my cheek.
The beloved people in my life, known and unknown.
My family.
My chosen family.
My dear, dear friends.
And those who wander further from me, my co-workers and those I see in passing.
And the strangers I will never know who each have their own complexities, dreams and birthdays.
Story
Art
Music
And the wisdom to occasionally remember that these things feed me as much as any food.
Work. Not merely a job in these tight times, but the work of my hands and my heart.
Craft, the labor to make something good.
The places books take me to.
The joy of discovery. "Oh yes!"
And sharing that discovery. "Oh yes, and..."
My mind. And the range of emotions.
And the minds of others.
The resilience of my body.
The gifts of age.
Wonder.
Disagreement.
Problems to be solved.
And mysteries to ponder.
The places I will never go.
Wildness.
Water.
Wagging dogs.
Language.
Singing, even if others may not appreciate my voice.
Laughing until my stomach hurts.
Good food.
Change. The passage of time and the knowledge that things will change.
Silence.
Unexpected beauty.
And this life. This singular, glorious life.

Any others? 44 seems like such a short list.

I wanted to end with this picture and the reminder that, no matter how tired, frustrated or fed up we are at any one point in our lives, things will change, whether or not we want them to. We can influence most of those changes and, even if we can't, we can moderate our own responses. The person I was at 12 didn't yet know about the smell of the air in Tuscany, the joy of listening to a new storyteller, that persistence pays off. I feel so tender when I look at her, wishing I could tell her that things will get better. Someday I'll look back at the person I am now, at 44, and marvel at what I didn't yet know.

Oh, and let me add - the cat's name was Taffy. She lived to 18 and was a great friend.

Storytelling in a suit: the art and craft of business storytelling

2011-10-13T17:16:00.001-04:00

I wrote this article for the Connecticut Storytelling Center's newsletter, HearSay. It's a great publication with all kinds of useful resources. I thought you might find it of interest, so am sharing it with you here. I hope you find it interesting. If you're interested in other storytelling articles, click here. As always, please contact me for reprinting permission.

Human beings are storytelling creatures. From our earliest hunter-gatherer days we have used story to explain and understand ourselves and our world. This is true of organizations as well. The stories organizations tell about themselves (branding, marketing, vision and mission) are how they wish to be seen externally. The stories they tell internally (newsletters, intranets, gossip, employee chatter) are how the organization sees itself. The stories they tell themselves about their customers shape the products they make and the services they offer. None of this is a surprise, of course, since organizations are created and maintained by humans, the storytelling animal.

I’ve always been fascinated by the intersection of business and art, and for the past ten years I’ve worked as an organizational storytelling practitioner helping companies and their employees tell their stories. In the course of this work, I’ve heard a huge range of stories and seen how story helped companies find their voice, solve internal problems, develop new products, expand, grow into better places to work and become better global citizens.

Organizational storytelling is quite different from our usual model of storytelling and yet surprisingly similar. As storytellers know, when you “story” something, you give it life and depth and meaning. This is true in organizations, as well. Storying a company, a process or a product humanizes it – in a way that a memo or spreadsheet does not – and thus extends ownership throughout the organization or community. The story itself actually becomes a deliverable, a product, alive and vital to the audience, whoever they may be.

But it’s not always a simple process.

Organizational storytelling requires a lot of homework. First, how does the client want to use story? To sell an existing product or service or to design something new? To raise more funds? To attract better talent or further engage their employees? To clarify or develop a mission statement? The practitioner must have an understanding of their client’s stated needs, as well as a toolkit for new needs that may arise.

For example, I was hired by a large agricultural advocacy group to help them develop a new mission for the 21st century so they could grow their membership and attract more funding. They were interested in collecting stories from the farmers and educators within the organization, as well as from other company stakeholders, including board members, marketing personnel and administrators. My client also told me that each invested group thought that their own story should be the focus of the mission, to the exclusion of the others. In short, I was being asked to re-story an organization that had become highly factionalized.

I spent the weeks prior to my first meeting with the group learning as much as I could about their sector of agriculture, about their history and competing organizations. I also sent questionnaires to the workshop participants, and from these I learned essential information about the organization, preliminary stories and a sense of internal themes. I also learned that most of the participants thought storytelling was useless and the event was likely to be a waste of time and money.

On my first day, I wore my suit so everyone would know I took them and their work seriously. When I arrived in the meeting room, each faction sat separately from the other. Arms were crossed. Faces were closed. I began by establishing my credentials: about business, about their business in particular and about storytelling. We introduced ourselves, discussed expectations and set the ground rules – listening skills, honesty, open-mindedness. I talked about how story works and its importance in business. Then I asked them to tell each other stories.

We started with success stories: Tell a story about something you are proud of in your work. Or, tell about a specific time when the work you did had an impact on an individual. From successes, we were able to move to frustrations: Tell a story about a time when you felt hindered in your job. Finally, they felt safe enough to talk about experiences they perceived as failures. As they told these stories the different factions began to realize that they all were telling very similar stories, with similar themes, that reflected similar values.

Over the course of three days, all the participants told their stories, in small groups and to the whole room. Farmers were talking to educators were talking to other stakeholders. Slowly, they began to distill the values of the organization as it is now (not as it had been) and they came to see the utility of storytelling and listening. By the end of the session we had developed a set of stories that every stakeholder could use, a new set of corporate values derived from those stories and a new mission statement.

They also discovered tools to help identify new talent whose values were aligned with their own and realized the importance to the organization’s growth of hiring people with skills beyond the agricultural realm – that is, to bring in new ideas and new stories. And now they had the skills for listening and collecting those stories.

The board chair told me later that she had been quite skeptical about storytelling as a tool for their organization, "But," she said, “You got us. You understood us.” Because I had learned as much as I could about agriculture and their specific history, I could speak their language, listen for useful motifs and navigate their politics. Had I not done my homework, I would not have been able to help.

When an organization decides to build a storytelling practice, it commits itself to greater authenticity and engagement. Externally, a storytelling organization is better able to articulate its value, regardless of its service or product. Think about your favorite brand. Why do you love it? What stories does it tell? Apple tells stories of good design and human connection. Chrysler recently started telling a new version of the American story with its Imported from Detroit advertising campaign. The Red Cross is there in times of need. Each of these stories somehow resonates with an aspect of being human, some story we wish to tell about ourselves or our community: technology so simple your grandmother gets it yet you still look cool while using it; strength and patriotism; helping and being helped. What’s more, each of these companies tells these stories as personal experiences – someone specific using their product or services.

Internally, a storytelling organization is a listening organization. They listen to their employees’ stories so they can help them become more engaged in their work. For example, I was asked to help a division of a government agency understand why much of their work force had low morale. Because I was a neutral observer, employees were much more forthcoming with me than they would have been otherwise and it quickly became clear that the style of management and conversation was one based on volume, not quality, of ideas. During several listening-based story workshops I lead, the leaders were able to develop new styles of managing while the less assertive employees began to speak up. Employee engagement and retention rose significantly.

A leader who uses story authentically and listens to their employees’ stories can’t help but connect more effectively to everyone they contact in the organization. It becomes harder to make thoughtless management decisions and, as a more positive work environment builds, the organization flourishes.

Storytelling is a broad and flexible tool that can be used successfully in any organization and it gives storytellers a chance to extend the impact of our work. Whether we listen to stakeholders to identify new values, problems or directions; coach a leader to be a better speaker and listener; develop story to communicate how a product or service will or could be used; or help build organizational cohesiveness, storytellers help businesses remember their roots – that they are composed of people, and people, each and every one of us, are composed of story.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

We live in a generation of autobiography...

2011-10-11T22:57:00.000-04:00

A lovely look at autobiographical travelogue by Lucy Knisley. Worth looking at for any personal storyteller, regardless of medium, particularly the first 10 minutes.

"it's worth knowing you have an audience to share it with, it makes for more responsible work."

"it's important to recognize events in your life, even if they're small and transitional...they help us understand ourselves better."

"journaling is a way to collect your scattered and confused thoughts."

Life is the Story from Lucy Knisley on Vimeo.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

The visible world

2011-10-01T16:16:00.001-04:00

I've lately been taking photographs every day, printing them and pasting them in my journal. I've found I often don't want to write about my life, but I still want to record it, so this seems like a reasonable compromise. I thought I would start sharing some of them with you. None are staged, all are exactly as I found them.

Some of these images act as writing prompts, others simply remind me of where I've been and what I've seen. I'm giving them to you without context, so you can dream them into your own worlds.

Living the life of a storyteller

2011-08-17T22:09:00.000-04:00

Image found at http://shannonmcm.com/

I spend a lot of time writing about storytelling and various issues in the art. I’ve written about striving for excellence, various performances, listening, telling specific kinds of stories and so on, but I’ve not written explicitly about living the life of a storyteller, how to move through the world so story informs everything you do and everything you do is informed by story, moving through the world prepared to accept the gifts and challenges story brings. In some ways this whole blog is about living the life of a storyteller, so I demonstrate by example, but I thought it might be fun to come up with a list, a few ways that might change the way you think about your life and incidentally deepen your storytelling and other endeavors.

“yes, and…” is the first rule in improv. It's also the first rule in the life of a storyteller. Every experience is fodder for the next story. You see a hippy walking a toy poodle? Great, that could be a story. Your mother calls and talks your ear off? That’s story fodder too. You accept life experiences, joyful or tragic, participant or observer, as opportunities for stories, even if you may never tell the obvious story in front of you. Maybe that toy poodle is really a magical servant. Maybe it’s a hallucination personified. Maybe the hippy is really a breeder of rare dogs. Maybe it was inherited from their just-deceased stock-broker son. You don’t know what the story really is, so you can make it up. It’s your story now. Even if you don’t use the idea immediately, add it to your compost heap, a file somewhere that contains various ideas, phrases and inspirations for stories. “Yes, and…” also means that you’re willing to risk failing. If you work on a story that doesn’t go where you expected or you get stuck, it doesn’t mean it failed. It means you learned something new about your own process and maybe you should move onto a different story. This one will wait for you. Frankly, “yes, and…” is a pretty nice rule to have for life in general.
Listen. The best storytellers I have ever known are also among the greatest listeners. They know that listening to other tellers and the world around them will only deepen their own telling. By listening intently to other tellers they learn more about the craft of storytelling and increase their understanding of how it works in performance and in the world at large. Great storytellers also listen to the audience. Remember, there is no fourth wall in storytelling, so you can react to your audience in real time. If the audience loves it when you talk about trees and you can do so appropriately in the context of the story, talk about trees more. The meat of the storytelling performance happens in the audience’s head. Listen to them and take advantage of it. Equally, storytellers need to be listened to; practice your new stories with a friendly audience who can give you useful feedback. You get to decide if you use that feedback or not, but a little friendly listening can go a long way. Lastly, when you listen to the world around you, it’s quite likely you’ll overhear stories just waiting to be told.
Praise. Be abundant in your praise of other tellers. Don’t hesitate to tell others what you love about their work and their gift. Just as importantly, accept praise as you receive it. Don’t second guess it or deny the listener’s experience by minimizing their praise. What we don’t need but frequently get or give is “constructive criticism.” Newer endeavors especially thrive when they are fed, not when the roots are plucked off. Heck, be abundant with praise in general. If someone does something well or kind, let them know you appreciate it. How often do you feel appreciated? You’d be surprised how giving appreciation leads to being appreciated. Thanks to Doug Lipman for starting me down the path of being a routine appreciator.
Fail again, fail better. In other words, take risks. If you take no risks in your art or your life you will never grow. Don’t be afraid of failing. Your job is to try new things, fail frequently and to learn from each experience, so you can reach new heights of success.
Change is inevitable. You may be a superb teller of personal stories. You may one day find yourself drawn to tell folktales. This may be frightening but remember, change happens. The only time change stops is when you die. As you try new things, listen, praise and take risks, you will change and grow. The material you are drawn towards will change, as may your audiences. Embrace it. Find a way to make it your own.
Value. No one else does what you do. Your art has value and deserves to be valued. Your whole self deserves to be valued. When you are living the life of a storyteller you may find people under-estimate the time and work you put into your craft. Don’t let them. Make sure they know that your skills are valuable. This must start with valuing yourself. If you don’t know what to charge for your work, ask other tellers what they charge. Don’t be afraid to ask for what you’re worth; you support yourself and your community when you do.
Self-care. No one else is going to take care of you for you. You must understand what nourishes you and your art and provide it for yourself or ask for it clearly and firmly. What is conducive to you doing your best work? Do you need a cup of tea ahead of time? Do you need to run a mile? Do you need space and quiet in which to create? No one will know to give you these things if you don’t ask. Equally, you need to explore what helps you feel most whole, how you can take care of yourself. Maybe you need a bath before you can sleep, or you are renewed by eating sushi once a month. Find a way to care for yourself and you will be a more complete artist.
Abundance and generosity. Assume the world is abundant. That there are ample gigs for all of us, that there are audiences, that you will learn and tell the next story. Be generous with your talent, your compassion and your heart. When we expect abundance the world becomes a much bigger place than when we assume there is scarcity. What we are given or create for ourselves can be accepted with that much more joy. When we are generous it becomes easier to accept the gifts of the universe, because we have become part of the gift of the universe. Envy (I’m a better storyteller than he is) greed (I want more gigs, even if they aren’t right for me) refusal to share (No, I don’t know anyone who can do that gig even though I can’t) all will only keep your heart compressed. Be like the grinch, let your heart grow three times in a day.

You may have guessed this manifesto is about more than being a storyteller, it’s about life. We are all storytellers; the world is our stage and we can decide if our life-long performance is a sold out success or a bust. Go for it. The world is waiting.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Oddservation - mental health

2011-08-17T18:58:00.002-04:00

Two women next to me, practicing mental health assessments. Outside, a man is talking to himself. They adamantly ignore him.

Oddservation - Pushing buttons

2011-08-17T18:22:00.002-04:00

A man walks by pressing a button that emits a distressed bird call. Who or what is he hoping will respond?

Poem: In the Library

2011-08-10T09:32:00.000-04:00

First, a confession: Three of the women I love most on the world (my mother and two dear friends) are librarians. I believe librarians and libraries are holders of secret knowledge. Support them.

Second, diversions: I tell several stories set in libraries. I wish any of them conveyed this much mystery this easily. And when my sweetheart suggested he give a room of our apartment over to a library, I knew I was with the right partner.

Third, a journey: I discovered this poet tonight when I was looking for a poem about watermelon. You can read why here.

And that's enough exposition.

In the Library
by Charles Simic

for Octavio

There's a book called
"A Dictionary of Angels."
No one has opened it in fifty years,
I know, because when I did,
The covers creaked, the pages
Crumbled. There I discovered

The angels were once as plentiful
As species of flies.
The sky at dusk
Used to be thick with them.
You had to wave both arms
Just to keep them away.

Now the sun is shining
Through the tall windows.
The library is a quiet place.
Angels and gods huddled
In dark unopened books.
The great secret lies
On some shelf Miss Jones
Passes every day on her rounds.

She's very tall, so she keeps
Her head tipped as if listening.
The books are whispering.
I hear nothing, but she does.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

On persistence - Diana Nyad

2011-08-09T21:52:00.000-04:00

I've written from time to time about various heroes. Pete Seeger. Mr. Rogers. John Lennon. Dr. King. I have another one.

Diana Nyad is a lot of things. She is a journalist and writer. She is a long distance swimmer who recently, at 61, attempted to swim from Cuba to Florida. She is a lesbian. She is a woman who has overcome any of a number of obstacles to attempt and often achieve her goals.

Why is she one of my heroes? Because of her determination, her outstanding goals and willingness to not achieve them in the effort to be more than she was the day before; attempting the goal, giving it everything, is worth it. Because she is undaunted by age and by the culturally imposed limitations of gender. Because she speaks out.

Diana Nyad undertook her most recent swim from Cuba to Florida for both personal reasons (the public personal reasons have to do with feeling better at 61 than she did at 29, when she last tried this swim) and public reasons (to remind those of us who feel too old to try things that age need not be a limitation). She chose to end her swim when she was just under half-way along, the currents and various physical challenges proved to be too much. Even this is monumental - she swam over 50 miles in 29 hours and made the decision to not permanently injure herself but to end when she could make a the decision to do so. This is the choice of a wise, mature woman.

While Diana didn't complete the swim, she inspired me to strive for bigger goals, to not be afraid of failure, to be strong. She has achieved her goal of inspiring me, and thousands others, to live big, regardless of age. Thank you.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Storytelling and meaning

2011-08-03T22:01:00.000-04:00

Storytelling reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it.
Hannah Arendt

When we stand in front of an audience and tell stories, we give our listeners the chance to apply their own meaning to the narrative we present. As storytellers, our job isn’t to be explicit about meaning, but to reveal it as if we are drawing back a curtain to a stage where the audience can both see the story play out and place themselves on the stage. A well-told story gives the listeners a chance to find their own meaning in our words and gestures; a poorly-told story requires that we be explicit in the meaning. It requires that we expose Oz as a fraud; when we spell out that there is no magic, we assume the listener isn’t clever enough to figure it out themselves and certainly not clever enough to understand the magic in the message of the story - that there's no place like home.

Let’s take a look at a story.

Think about the story of Little Red Riding Hood. A child goes into the forest after a warning not to stray off the path. She encounters a wolf, to whom she tells her destination. The wolf races ahead of her, eats her grandmother and ultimately the child. What is the meaning of this story? Is it a warning to not stray off the path? To not talk with strangers? To obey our parents? To be wily in sourcing our supper?

Maybe your understanding of the meaning in Little Red Riding Hood differs from that of your listener. For some it may be a simple warning about the dangers in the woods. For others it may be an allegory for growing up too quickly. Or for abuse. Or for how hunger drives wolves to extreme acts.

Does the story lose power if you conclude with, “And that’s what happens to bad little girls who disobey their mothers and talk to strangers”? Is it more powerful if you use all of your craft to show, not explicitly tell, your meaning in the story, thus leaving the audience with the image of the wolf’s bloody mouth and the child who has been silenced, allowing them to insert their own meaning into the story guided by your images?

I’ve written before about the wonderfully flexible nature of story, the way that the teller cannot control what happens in the listener’s head, so how ultimately our job is to get out of the listener’s way. Storytelling works best when all three players (teller, listeners and tale) are allowed to dance with one another without interference.

If you explicitly tell your audience what the story means then you are cutting into their dance with the tale. It’s inadvisable to do this unless it’s important that the moral be explicitly stated.

You may be thinking that none of this applies to you, that your stories don’t have deeper meaning. Every story has meaning, because every story is commentary on some aspect of the human condition. When you describe your commute to work you are saying something about your community, your socio-economic status, your feelings about your employment and more. You are also giving your audience the chance to compare your commute story to their own, to put their own feelings and meaning into your story about your wait for the bus or drive through traffic or walk to your office. Stories reveal meaning because story allows humans to connect one to another.

When you develop your stories for performance, decide early in the process what meaning you hope your audience will walk away with. You may find your understanding of a story and your sense of its meaning will change as you tell it, but don’t forget throughout that there is meaning and your audience can be guided in a particular direction. Should they leave with a question? Moral certitude? Construct your telling so that meaning is a likely outcome, but bear in mind you cannot control the story in your listeners’ minds. The best you can do is guide them along a path.

If you want Little Red Riding Hood to be about staying on the path, make sure the danger in straying is apparent as she strays and the consequences are clear. If you want it instead to be about talking to strangers, make that the danger moment. Or, if it’s about cleverly finding new foods for dinner, make sure your wolf is sympathetic, leave little room for your audience to think otherwise.

In revealing meaning without defining it, you have the opportunity to dance with the story and your audience without having to tell them when to turn. You are letting them lead their own internal story and own it, thus making it a more powerful experience for the listener. They will be more invested in the story and in you as a teller, because you trusted their intelligence, the story and your own skill. You didn’t need to show them the man behind the curtain, they knew he was there all along and believed anyway.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Re-emergence soundtrack

2011-07-29T22:41:00.000-04:00

I spent the last week in the middle of the woods. No phone or internet, no tv or radio; just me, some friends, the wild world and encouragement to write. It was a deeply restorative time, one I needed badly. I've come back re-energized and with renewed priorities.

I have some concern about how to maintain this energy and purpose in the face of so many competing needs. I've written, talked and, as I was driving home (about five hours) I sang about it. Without consciously thinking about it, I found myself singing out some of what I need to remember.

As I drove out through upstate New York my dear friends (and yours too, probably) The Beatles, sang to me about the Two of Us, how connected I am to so many, and reminded me to Let it Be. By the ferry into Vermont Joan Armatrading reminded me that I'm Lucky. Kate Bush sang to me about Cloud Busting, how the impossible is possible even when forces align against us. Barreling into New Hampshire David Wilcox sang about Laura's last ride in Johnny's Camaro (if you don't know this one, you should), then Jane Siberry reminded me that Love is Everything and that I am Bound by the Beauty. And by the time I was almost home The Beatles were back with me, all of us singing at the top of our lungs about being a Paperback Writer, considering scenes In My Life and remembering to take a sad song and make it better.

By the time I got home my throat was sore from singing for five hours but my heart was reassured that I could maintain my self against the combined forces of traffic and timecards, work and worry. I was midwifed across three states and back into my known life, a renewed woman, by four guys from Liverpool, some wild women and a gentle man.

And I got to wondering: What are your soundtracks? What music midwives you from one state to another? How do you re-emerge from retreat to everyday life?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Flash mob in South Africa

2011-07-26T08:30:00.001-04:00

By now you've seen some YouTube video of a flash mode, heard about one on the news or even participated in one. They are a lot of fun, an opportunity for play we sorely need in our busy lives.

Most flash mobs make me smile. This one made me smile and brought tears to my eyes. It's a lovely singing moment in a mall. In South Africa. With black people, white people, all kinds of people, singing and marveling together. This wouldn't have happened 20 years ago (20 years ago I was fasting to help convince my university to divest from South Africa). Ten years ago I don't know if there would have been only wonder on these faces.

Music is powerful. In this context it becomes more. Let us all sing and wonder together.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Retreat

2011-07-22T10:08:00.000-04:00

I'm going on a weeklong retreat in the woods. No phone, no email, no twitter, no tv, nothing to tie me to the modern world beyond basic needs. Really, twitter and email aren't basic needs.

At first it will be hard. I'll shake and tremble with confusion. But it will be good for me.

It's good for all of us to get out of our lives from time to time, to disappear into places larger than we are. To live in the moment.

Where do you retreat to? What do you retreat from?

I'll see you when I get back. I'll bring back secrets from the loons.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Why do we tell stories?

2011-07-13T09:05:00.001-04:00

For more information about me as a storyteller and writer please go here. For information about organizational storytelling go here.

This post was originally posted in 2010. I'm revisiting it now to see if I still agree with what I said then.

For many years when I ran Storytelling for Grownups in Medford, MA I would start every session with that question. The answers were as varied as the attendees, including:

it’s fun
if I didn’t I would die
it helps us connect to each other
it keeps the monsters at bay
it’s a socially sanctioned way to get the attention we desperately crave
because I can’t sing.

And so on. You get the gist.

So why do we tell stories? Not just as storytellers but as human beings? I don’t pretend to know all the answers to this, but I can propose some and I’d love to know what you think. Please add your thoughts in the comments section below.

Recent research shows that storytelling is hardwired into our brains. We learn more effectively when we hear narrative, rather than just dry facts or are expected to passively take in information. In fact, MRI studies have shown that the parts of our brains that process experience (“this is happening to me”) are activated when we hear narrative, but not when we watch video or read. Cool, huh? This means that we are built to listen to stories. We hear stories because that’s part of what humans do.
Be retelling our own experiences, whether as personal stories or through the metaphor of folktales, myths or literary tales, we process our experiences into something we can understand more deeply and can share with others without the audience needing to care for us. We tell stories because we have to. It does keep the monsters at bay.
When we tell stories to audiences that are hardwired to hear us, we are re-enacting something our species has been doing for countless generations. Culture is conveyed through stories. Meaning is more easily described through metaphor and narrative than by exposition. You can certainly describe the events that made you feel sad, your physiological reaction and the sequence of steps you undertook to feel better, or you can tell the story and connect with your audience. Someone will think, “I’ve been there too.” We connect through the storytelling experience because it is a shared, finite, temporary moment in time that captures our attention and pulls at our deepest ancestral memories. It keeps who we are alive, in the dark times and the light.
Stories convey so much meaning they can do anything we want. When we tell a story and connect effectively with the audience we can make them laugh. Or cry. Or get aroused. Or commit heinous acts. Or lead. Or save the world. Stories are a shortcut to the human heart. We tell stories because we need to connect with one another. We need to be heard. We need to listen.
And yes, it gives us the attention we crave. It’s a huge amount of fun; come on, who doesn’t enjoy being the center of attention once in awhile? Whether you’re telling to one person or an audience of hundreds (or even thousands) when we tell a story well we connect with the best part of ourselves, the most giving part that offers up our own honed experiences, words and art to our listeners so they can in turn connect with whatever the story touches inside of them. They get to have that experience and we can guide them through it. If that isn’t fun I don’t know what is.
Oh, and singing? We all can sing. We just can’t all carry a tune. Sing anyway.

If you'd like to find venues near you please check out the National Storyelling Network.

Poem: Siren Song

2011-06-10T19:08:00.002-04:00

by Margaret Atwood
This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows
because anyone who has heard it
is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?

I don't enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,
I don't enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique

at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.

God is what happens when people are interconnected

2011-06-07T15:36:00.000-04:00

An enormously moving speech by Jim Gilliam from the Personal Democracy Forum about faith that people connected can create a new world and the internet makes it possible. Gillam is a film producer, was a born-again Christian and has survived cancer three times. Thanks to Cory Doctorow for posting this at boingboing.Please watch it, this is powerful, relevant and real.

Watch live streaming video from pdf2011 at livestream.com

Blogworld

2011-05-24T18:07:00.000-04:00

I'm spending the next few days at Blogworld and New Media Expo, looking for connection with bloggers and readers, and searching for some tips to become better at this. I'm looking for inspiration and reconnection to why I blog in the first place.

I know that part of what draws me to blogging is the word-written-to-be-read. As a performing storyteller, I'm in the same room with my audience, so am accustomed to an immediate response to what I say on my audience's faces, in their sighs or laughs. As a writer, I don't get that. I began blogging because I knew there would be an audience, even if you're not in synchronous time with me and even if I don't get to see your responses. There is a chance you will respond by commenting or sending me an email. That helps me be a better writer, knowing I have an audience.

I blog to connect with you, my readers, as well as to connect with my own thoughts. I'm looking forward to connecting with others who are driven by similar needs, connecting through the written word and in search of response. I'll keep you posted on what happens here. And do let me know if there's anything you'd like me to write about, I'm always looking for suggestions!

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Disappearing

2011-05-18T14:30:00.000-04:00

I sometimes want to disappear, just vanish from this heady, complicated life. t turns out I'm not the only person who feels this way - I'm sure you have too at some point.

Photographer Alec Soth traveled America to interview and photograph hermits, monks, drop-outs and others who have shed the regular world. This journey resulted in a book and a documentary (trailer below).

So tell me, if you disappeared, who would you be?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Storytelling is not just for campfires

2011-04-22T15:58:00.000-04:00

From Fathom Business Events, an interesting take on business storytelling.

Writing advice from Jack Kerouac

2011-04-13T09:05:00.010-04:00

Belief and Technique for Modern Prose

Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
Submissive to everything, open, listening
Try never get drunk outside yr own house
Be in love with yr life
Something that you feel will find its own form
Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
Blow as deep as you want to blow
Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
The unspeakable visions of the individual
No time for poetry but exactly what is
Visionary tics shivering in the chest
In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
Like Proust be an old teahead of time
Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
Accept loss forever
Believe in the holy contour of life
Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
Don't think of words when you stop but to see picture better
Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
You're a Genius all the time
Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

(with thanks to the Gotham Writer's Workshop. For more writers on writing go here.)

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Tuesday storytelling links

2011-04-12T09:00:00.002-04:00

I think it might be useful to post links to recent storytelling articles and blogs of note. Please let me know if you find this of use or if you have a link you'd like me to post.

In the interest of simplicity, I won't post too many at any one time and will try to give you a range to choose from. Enjoy!

Connecting Meaning and Learning through Storytelling, Huffington Post

Why Getting Kids to Bed is a Families Worst Nightmare (and how stories can help), Express UK

Storytelling in Psychology and Marketing

Once Upon A Time In Brooklyn (collecting folklore in the city), Brooklyn Eagle

Storytellers can win a year of organics goods, Stonyfield Farms

and for good measure, a list of story prompts.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Friday Fiction: A jacket that's wrong for the weather

2011-04-01T05:05:00.000-04:00

I'm delighted to introduce you to Ryan Underhill, my partner in the Great April Fool's Day Blog Swap organized by Tony Noland. We each were given the same prompt, a jacket that's wrong for the weather, and went from there. His story is a lot of fun, I'm sure you'll enjoy it!

* * *

Gisele hunched her shoulders as the cold, bitter wind blew through the fabric of her windbreaker. She knew it was too cold for it, but she's been in a rush when she'd left the house and hadn't grabbed anything more substantial. The last thing she had wanted then was to be in a house with Mark any longer, not after finding a string of love notes in email and IM messages to “Jessica”, a woman whom Gisele could only imagine to be a horrid little thing who delighted in ruining the lives of others. The cold would be less suffering than that. 

Eventually the wind became too much, and Gisele ducked into the front of the next store that she came to. The sign above the door read “Geomancy”. Gisele wasn't sure that meant, but paid it no mind. She just needed to get out of the cold for a moment, and it was as good a store as any. “Brutal out there, isn't it?” the girl behind the cash register asked her as she entered the shop. 

“Yeah, it's pretty bad,” Gisele said as she turned around to look at the girl behind the counter. She had a look on her face that showed that she wanted to ask Gisele why she wasn't wearing a thicker coat, but had enough tact to not say anything. 

“It's a long story,” Gisele offered. 

“Well, take your time, do some window shopping,” the girl offered. “The weather outside means it's going to be pretty quiet in here today, and frankly I could use the company.” 

Gisele started to look at the items arranged on the shelf next to the door. There were a series of oddly-shaped statues along the shelf. They didn't look like anything Gisele had seen before - little collections of loops and waves, handshaped out of clay and having a shape that seemed instantly alien and familiar. “What are these?” she asked as she picked one of them up. 

“Better be careful with those,” the girl said, jumping over the counter. 

“Oh, sorry, are they expensive?” 

“No, that's not it at all. You'd think they would be, because they were dug up from an archeological site in Babylon. But they're sandstone, so they're not very durable, which drives the price down a little. Also we have to sell them cheap because a lot of people get a little freakout out at the idea of owning a soul catcher.” 

“Soul catchers?” Gisele asked. “You mean, like dream catchers?” 

“Uh, kind of,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose. “Only with, you know, souls. Legend has it that if you used it correctly you could trap someone's soul and force it to walk the endless paths of its surface, and while their soul was trapped they had to do your bidding.”

Gisele tried to read the girl's face, but couldn't tell from it whether she honestly beleived that or was trying to put one over on her. Either way, she uneasily put the soul catcher back down on the shelf; Gisele wasn't entirely sure she believed in souls, but she wasn't entirely sure that she didn't believe in them, either.

“My name's Marisa, by the way,” the shopgirl said, extending a hand that Gisele promptly shook, introducing herself as she did.

“So, are you sure you don't want to talk about what he did?” Marisa asked. “We've got a kettle in the back room – I can make you some tea or something and you can let it all out.”

Gisele looked at her quizically.

“Sorry, I just assumed there was a him,” Marisa said. “It happens every once in a while – woman comes in, horribly underdressed for the weather, with that look in her eyes like you had when you came in – usually there's a him.”

Gisele smiled. “There sort of is – it's a long story,” she explained. “Maybe that tea would be a good idea.”

“Okay,” Marisa said, bouncing into the back to turn the kettle on. “It'll just be a couple of minutes.”

As soon as the girl was out of sight, Gisele picked up the soul catcher again. Its surface had seemed dull at first, but the more she looked at it, the more intriguing and captivating it appeared to her. She was mesmerized by it, and quickly slipped it into her pocket. She still wasn't quite sure what she thought of it, but if it worked it would be the perfect way of getting back at Mark. If not it would at least make for a fun paperweight.

As Marisa seemed fully occupied in her tea making, Gisele started to head towards the door. It had been years since she had shoplifted, but she felt like she needed this thing, and her purse was back with her coat.

Then the smell of oolong tea started to waft into the room, and she stopped moving. She was taken back to the nights in university that she had spent studying and drinking oolong tea to stay awake. The nights before Mark and his lies.

She took the small piece of sandstone out of her pocket and put it back on the shelf. “Do you need any help in there?” she called to Marisa as she headed to the back of the store.

Italy, part two

2011-03-30T09:21:00.001-04:00

We're a bit over half-way through our Tuscan adventure. I'm processing all of these experiences and will have more to say when I'm home and have wrapped words around the experiences, but suffice it to say, this is lovely. We're eating all kinds of wonderful things that I will write about on my food blog when I get home - Mom and Dad, I mention that for you!

Sunday we went to Montepulciano, a lovely and typical hill town. Considerably larger than Sarteano, shops were open, people were bustling everywhere. We wandered in and out of shops, watched people and marveled at the enduring nature of stone. The medieval structures and roads were still intact as they are in Sarteano and the place has a sense of timelessness. I was especially struck by all of the walking paths, clearly a city built for horses and pedestrians.

Monday we spent in our homebase, Sarteano. It was a cold, rainy day. I, of course, went walking anyway. Within a few minutes I was completely soaked through. I wandered uphill, along streets I'd not previously explored and found myself outside of the 13th century church. Inside it was dim, cold and thankfully dry.

Sarteano Cathedral

Tuesday, yesterday, we went to Florence (Firenze), the birthplace of the Renaissance. Florence is overwhleming, especially after the quiet and still in Sarteano. The city is full of tourists, so we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by many languages, faces, bodies and rapid movement. That being said, it is a beautiful city built in 14th century and largely unchanged in its architecture in the tourist zones. We took a walking tour with a highly educated guide (though to believe him you'd think everything started in Florence. Everything.) and wandered through the Uffizi gallery, one of the best collections of Medieval and Renaissance art in the world.

Kevin and I returned home while the rest of the party stayed in Florence for the night. Today we drove around the Tuscan countryside, wandered in olive groves and explored Etruscan tombs. I love the depth of time I can find so easily in this country, the sense of stories buried under stories.

It's a glorious, warm, clear day, too lovely to spend inside. I'll post more pictures next time I'm online, we need to head away from wifi to meet our friends at the train station.

I'll write more soon.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Italy, part one

2011-03-27T06:09:00.000-04:00

My friend, the amazing Judith Black, won first place in the 2010 massmouth Big Mouth Off. The prize was a week in Tuscany with five friends. And to my delight, amazement and honor, Judith invited me and my partner Kevin Brooks, to go with her.

And here we are, in Sarteano Italy.

It's stunningly beautiful. It is still a medieval town. The streets haven't been widened to accomodate modern cars (as we discovered when we drove to our guest house, the rental car clearing walls by an inch or two on each side), the walls stone with stories embedded, the faces ancient and lovely.

I'll write a more detailed post in a few days. You can see more pictures here. And I am so very grateful for this chance to see the world. It's good to be alive.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

2011-03-24T14:54:00.001-04:00

I'm leaving for Italy on Friday, so I'm experimenting w/ mobile blogging.

A gift for Wednesday

2011-03-23T09:54:00.001-04:00

A friend drew my attention to this poem. I read it and immediately wept, so violently did it describe how I wish to move through the world. I needed to share it with you.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Stories of where you're from

2011-03-17T12:39:00.000-04:00

Today is St. Patrick's Day. In Boston, where I live, this is a really big deal. Even if you're not of Irish descent you may very well be wearing green today. Many people take this as an opportunity to drink a lot of beer, eat corned beef and cabbage and carry on. Those of Irish descent may use today as a chance to reconnect with their roots, to tell stories of where they came from and the history that helps make them who they are.

St. Patrick's Day is a lot of fun, but bear in mind you don't actually need a special day to remember your heritage.You can seek out then tell those stories anytime and they'll bring value into your life.

The U.S. is a nation composed largely of immigrants (voluntary or not) and those descended from immigrants. Our ancestors brought with them a rich cultural heritage in story, music, food and tradition.Those who are native to this land have their own rich heritage of stories, music, foods and traditions to draw on. If you explore these aspects of where you're from and tell some of these stories, you may gain insight into who you are now and your role in the 21st century.

You don't need a special day to tell the stories of where you're from, be it another country, your family in another time, or from just around the corner. If you take these aspects of your personal history and weave them into your own narrative, the stories you tell will have resonance for all your audiences, even if they don't share your cultural background; audiences are usually interested in stories they can relate to and empathize with. As long as your story is one people can feel connected to ("We had a hard time but we made it." "We came from far away and now we're here." "We celebrate holidays this way only once something crazy happened.") your personal history will only enrich what is ultimately a human story, just as much as it may be an ethnic, cultural or national one.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Assemblage: The luck beneath our feet

2011-03-13T09:15:00.004-04:00

luck beneath our feet a photo by laurapics on Flickr.

I made this with found objects, items from a friend's mom's house, artificial grass and a brick background print, all in an Ikea shadowbox frame - it's about 6 inches square. I was aiming for a close up look at the things we pass by and overlook. I hope you like it.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

World Book Day

2011-03-11T10:03:00.000-05:00

Today is World Book Day as designated by UNESCO. It's another one of those cool international celebrations that doesn't get much play in the U.S. To celebrate I've listed below five books that changed my life (it's hard to pick only five).

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery
The Fairy Tale series by Andrew Lang, including The Red Fairy Book (I know, this is cheating since it's a series).
Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo
The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

This is by no means a list of the books that have influenced me above all others, just some of those that have helped shape who I am as a reader, a writer, a teller, a person.

What books have changed you? What stories have shaped how you see the world, how you write and what you tell, how you live?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

It isn't always pretty

2011-03-10T15:27:00.001-05:00

I love this time of year, when every day brings new hints of spring. Today I saw the noses of daffodils and crocuses peeking out of the ground. But I have to say, after a winter like the one we've just had, it's not a pretty time of year. The trees are still bare, there are piles of dirty snow lurking in every parking lot and along most streets. There is trash and worse newly uncovered as the world melts. It's not particularly appealing.

I don't care. In fact, I'm reveling in this changing landscape.

The times of greatest growth and most intense change are rarely pretty or without peril. Whether seasonal change, physical growth (remember growing pains? those really hurt!) or personal growth, when we are in the midst of it, it's hard to see the coming beauty. But it's there.

It's in the rich scent of dirt I can smell each afternoon.
It's in the green tips emerging from the ground.
It's in the red glow of the trees as their buds get ready to issue forth leaves.
It's in the mud and rainwater splashing into my sneakers.
It's in the mourning doves who have come back to my yard.

It's in our hearts when we are in the most turmoil, unsure of who we are, when we are waiting for our own personal spring. Be still. Do you hear your ice cracking? Do you hear the birds in your heart sing in praise and celebration? Does your skin feel tight, as if you are about to blossom?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

International Women's Day

2011-03-08T11:21:00.001-05:00

Today is the 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day. While it doesn't seem to get much play in the U.S., this internationally recognized event is an important milestone each year. It gives us a chance to look around, see how far we have come and how far we have to go

I wanted to take a moment today and do two things for International Women’s Day.

First, as a storyteller I think we become better tellers and listeners when we tell and hear stories of all people, regardless of gender, age or nationality. Here are some of my favorite traditional stories that feature strong women and girls, the ones I can quickly recall off the top of my head. I hope you tell these stories.

Tatterhood
Vasilisa the Beautiful
Baba Yaga
Clever Manka
The old women on the road
Janet
Scheherzade and her sister, Dinazade

There are so many others. Tatterhood and Other Tales is a good place to start.

Second, I’d like to recognize some of the amazing women in my life, those who have inspired and helped me, set examples for me and set a high bar for my vision. I’m absolutely certain I will omit women who belong here from this list. Please don’t feel slighted if I've forgotten to list you. I am blessed with many amazing women in my life.

My mom, Florence Packer. My step-daughter, Cara Brooks. My mother-in-spirit, Ruth Hill.

My friends, among them Amy, Mary, Christie, Stacy, Serene, Joy, Elsa and many others. Thank you for your kind hearts and good ears. I would be devastated without you.

My storytelling comrades, among them Norah, Andrea, Doria, Elizabeth, Fran, Regi , Marni and so many others. Keep telling, we need your voices.

Those whom I have never met, but inspire me. Sojourner Truth. Mary Oliver. Jeanette Winterson. And many others.

We are stronger when we lean on one another and do so with gratitude. Thank you all.

Oddservation - Life through a lens

2011-03-06T10:44:00.000-05:00

I use all different kinds of things as starting points for stories - writing prompts, my own experiences, the overheard, media, etc. Sometimes I will use visual prompts.

Here are three photos I've taken in the last six months or so that might evoke stories. I'd love to know where you go with these.

As usual, I hold the copyright to the images; if you'd like to use them please see my creative commons license or contact me. Thank you!

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Giving things away - The Little Prince

2011-03-05T12:14:00.002-05:00

As you know, I've decided to give some things away.

I don't know how old I was when I first read The Little Prince. My father gave me a copy and I fell in love. I remember reading it and sobbing at the end, my parents trying to console me that the Little Prince was happy. I thought that was a crock.

Since then I've read my way through five or six copies, rereading it until the covers fall off and the pages loosen from the bindings. Each time I read it I find it has different meaning for me, but no less than that first time. I still cry.

I've given it as a gift. It was the most quoted book in my high school year book (It isn't with the heart that one can see rightly...). I've tamed birds and chipmunks and other small animals. I hope I could tame a fox, but I don't know. I've been tamed myself. I've drawn quite a few elephants in snakes to see who gets it. Not everyone does. I hope you do.

If none of this makes sense to you run, don't walk, to your local library and read The Little Prince. It might be in the kid's section. Don't let that fool you.

Today's give-away is a Little Prince domino set, given to me by a friend from France who went back home. It's a box full of baobobs and lambs, princes and roses, foxes and stars. Tell me why it should be yours in the comments section; make sure I have a way to reach you. I'd love to give it you.

On my other blog I'm giving away a selection of cookbooks from the 1960s and 1970s. Take a look!

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Giving things away

2011-03-03T12:03:00.000-05:00

image courtesy of myrpgame.com

I’ve been thinking about stuff lately. You know, stuff. The accretion of physical objects that leak into our lives, become precious and then become anchors to where we are and who we were.

I’d like to have less stuff, but I’m awfully attached to it. This worries me.

As you may know, I’ve been helping a friend clean out his mother’s home – she is a compulsive hoarder – so I have some idea of what can happen when we hold on too tightly to all the stuff in our lives. I’ve been thinking about how to get rid of some of my stuff and have some ideas.

Throw it away. Rent a dumpster and have a wholesale disposal party. I know a couple who had to do this when they moved (they didn’t plan well and ended up with more than they could take with no time left to give it away or sell it) and it broke their hearts. I don’t want to do this.
Sell it in the local paper, craigslist or eBay. Some of this stuff is undoubtedly valuable. I have offered some of it for sale, with mixed results. Honestly, I find this kind of selling to be generally more trouble than it’s worth.
Give it away via freecycle. I’ve done some of this, but have had some frustration with unreliable pick-ups and so on. I’ll do so again, but I don’t have the time to answer 400 items about a pair of socks.
Sort through it and give it to a worthy charitable organization. I can also give it away directly, offering sweaters to homeless people and books to schools. I have done this and find it satisfying; I will do so again.

All of these methods help with most of what I want to get rid of, but they don’t help with sentimental items, those things I no longer need or use but can’t bear to just put in a bag.

This is where you come in. I’d like to give you some of the things that come with stories attached. By giving them to you, I can tell myself they will be used and appreciated. I’m going to do this here and on my other blog over the next several weeks (I’ll give away food and cooking related items there). This ties in with my increasing interest in the value of a giving things away in general, be it content, time or product.

Every Saturday I’ll post an item and its story. If you want the item please tell me in the comments section. Let me know why you’d like it, why it interests you, what you might do with it. A sentence or two will do. Make sure I have a way to contact you. I’ll pay for shipping within the U.S. Once you get the item, if you’re so inclined, post a comment and let me know how you’ll use it. This isn’t necessarily first-come-first-served. The best story gets the prize.

Just so you know, here are some of the things I’m thinking of offering here and on my other blog:

Old cookbooks and recipe booklets
Fabric
Jewelry
Beads
Books I have loved and would like to share
Paper ephemera
Music I have loved and would like to share
Etc.

If there is interest in this I think it would make a neat series. Thanks for helping me out. I’ll feel better, knowing the things I’m giving away are going to people who will appreciate them, people I have some connection with. And you will have a story and a new thing to play with. Check back on Saturday here and here for the first offering.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Love stories

2011-02-15T22:46:00.002-05:00

Alright, I know I'm late, Valentine's Day was a few days ago, but since love stories are everywhere, regardless of season or date, I thought it might be fun to look at some of the reasons to tell love stories and some things to consider while doing so.

True love, first love, lost love.

Humans are fascinated with romantic love, commitment and procreation (I'm not talking about sex directly here, but about the bonds that lead us to create families). Mythology is full of love stories. Cupid and Psyche. Rachel and Jacob. Krishna and Radha. Arthur and Guinevere and Lancelot. Our folktales are consumed with love and marriage. Our films, all musical genres, books and popular media are consumed with it. Who and how we love matters, we love talking about it, dreaming about it, telling stories about it.

Unrequited love, secret love, unwanted love.

When we tell love stories, regardless of the content of the story, we are revealing some of our own longing and dreams. We can't help it. The stories we choose to tell are always revealing, especially so when those stories are about something as meaningful as love. It's worth keeping this in mind when you stand up in front of an audience and tell a love a story; when you finish, they might know a little more about you that they did before.

There are some points to consider when telling love stories.

Personal, real-life love stories are very powerful for the audience to hear. They can identify more easily with you, the teller, and the other characters if they believe this is a real-life (or close to real-life) experience.

Has enough time passed since the incident that you can tell the story without the audience having to worry about you or you having to worry about the consequences? If you fall apart in the midst of your story then the audience is wrenched out of their own imaginations and into concern about you. Your job as a storyteller is to help them stay in that story-trance. If you can't yet tell the story of your break-up without crying, work on the story more or wait a bit longer. If the story is about your unrequited love in 7th grade that turned into an affair thanks to Facebook when you were 30, you may want to leave the story in the first person and only conceal the identity of the other people in the story as needed. I don't recommend telling your spouse about the affair this way; make sure enough time has passed that all the involved parties can bear hearing the story or at least knowing it exists.
If you choose to tell a real-life love story decide how much information you should reveal or conceal. If the story is about real people, would they mind you talking about them? If your parents met in a strip club and this is a closely guarded family secret, you may want to shave off the serial numbers a little.
Your passion becomes the audience's passion. There is a great deal of difference between, "We broke up," and "I loved them so much. It was so good for so long. And then something happened." Use your emotions to build the narrative.

If you're telling a myth or folktale, don't strip the passion out of it. Tell it like it's real. These stories have stuck around for a long time because they talk about some of the basic parts of being human.
Isis' quest to restore the body of her husband Osiris is full of love and sex, jealousy and triumph, pain and loneliness, feelings we may think of as very modern, yet the story is thousands of years old. When you tell these stories, they are your story. They speak of your own experiences in metaphoric language, so you can infuse them with your own love, longing, pain and jealousy.
Use sex appropriately. Sex can be a part of love and so it may have a place in our love stories. If your story has sex scenes make sure you've practiced and are comfortable telling them. Do your best to gauge your audience; for many audiences an implied moment is far more meaningful and comfortable than a more thoroughly described one. Generally with love stories, you don't want to knock your listeners out of their story trance by making them embarrassed.
Everyone has similar experiences. The details of your love story will vary and will be utterly unique to you, but we all have loved, longed and lost at some point in our lives. By telling these stories we connect with one another, we comfort each other, we are given permission to feel just a little bit more than we might otherwise allow ourselves.

As storytellers we are the ambassadors of human experience. Regardless of the kinds of stories we tell - but especially stories of basic experiences like love - we offer our listeners a chance to feel less alone, more connected and more alive. We heal ourselves and others by telling love stories and offering the hope that we, too, will be loved.

Fiction: The True Cause of World War 1. Part 3

2011-02-04T09:15:00.000-05:00

Part 3. In which the poets reclaim their words from God.

The story so far... In Part 1 we met a group of poets in the early 20th century. Language is their love, their mistress, their all consuming passion. One day, a new poet named John Davies is introduced to the group. He seems naive and unlikely to be a crafter of words. He reads them a poem and they realize he is someone extraordinary. In Part 2 John Davies reveals that he received a visitation from a heavenly messenger, who told him he is destined to write the greatest poems of his generation, all in praise of God's return. He reads his friends a poem and they are compelled to write...

I wasn’t alone. We were all compelled to write throughout night, right where we were. We didn’t go home, we didn’t stop to wash the ink from our clothing or our hands.

The next day our fists were full of paper, our fingers ink-stained. We hadn't slept but, oh, we all were so alive and we all had the best poems we’d ever written. Sheaves of paper in praise of God, heralding God's arrival. This went on for days. We read each other poems, which compelled us to write more, praising God, praising creation, looking forward to heaven on earth. We didn’t drink or stop to eat beyond the barest sustenance nor barely to sleep. All there was was poetry, glorious language and the hope of God’s retrun.

Every day John Davies had greater and greater poetry. His words were inspired beyond anything I had ever read, beyond anything that had ever existed. Soon John took to the streets reading his poems aloud on street corners and in parks, in markets and outside churches. Instead of ignoring him or mocking him as though mad, people stood and listened. The rag man, fish monger and the wealthy alike all were entranced. They would walk away telling each other God's imminent arrival, their faces suffused with joy. The newsboys stopped calling out the latest murders and wars and instead screamed, “God is coming. Prepare yourselves for joy!”

It spread like ripples. Everyhere John went, all anyone could talk about was God. No longer did people discuss their own dreams and woes, cures for colic or recipes for bread. Business ground to a halt in his wake. Anticipation filled every crack and alley. God was coming. And John was God’s herald.

I don't remember who got angry first - perhaps it was the one of us who tried to write letter to a friend but could only write praise. Or the one who threw down his pen in dismay when he tried to write “I had a good day” and instead wrote “God’s day is glorious. “ Or the one who wanted to write “I have a headache,” and instead penned, “God teaches through suffering.” We could no longer write anything other than God. There were no words in our hearts not full of God.

We began to talk in whispers. One by one we all admitted our rage except for John Davies, who was too full of glory to see what what had been stolen, too full of joy to mourn the loss of the voice of man. If part of what poets do is talk of man’s experiences so God can understand us, how can this god steal our voice? How can God understand anything of us now, when all our words are God’s? If poetry is God seeking to understand man, then how could God take man’s voice out of poetry?

What could we do? The bubble of praise was spreading. John was like a disease, everyone he touched, everyone he spoke to had nothing left, no words or hope or glory of their own. Nothing left but God.

Sigfried asked first. “Take us to your rooms, we want to meet this messenger, feel this heat.” John Davies refused.

Robert implored him. “Come. Let us see the light that creates poetry. Don’t you think we are as hungry to feed at the source as you were?”

John said nothing, only looked away. A few days later he came to us and said that yes, he would bring us to his rooms and show us the messenger.

His rooms were no different than mine or anyone else’s. A few rooms, a bed and a desk, a coal stove, books. But in his room was light and warmth and grace such as we had never seen. We did not know whether to love or hate this thing as we found ourselves on our knees before it. We looked at it and it sang celestial music to us.

And then, as if we were of one mind, we moved. It took six to hold it down, three to hold John back and only one to draw the knife across its glowing throat.

Blood poured out, staining its whiteness. Its blood was as red as any I had seen or would ever see again even in what was to come. In a voice unaffected by its wound, it asked us why we had done this. And one of us said that times are different now. Poetry is man talking to man, not just God.

Another said it was because we need our muses. God can’t be our only muse, we want to speak with the voice of man. We want to talk about man’s life, man’s experiences, man’s glory. Not only only about your god but the things that make us what we are. We've been away from the garden for a long time now, let us sing our own songs. God should be able to listen to us and grant us our own muses now.

It smiled a terrible smile and said in a gentle voice, “Very well then, you want a muse, you shall have a great and terrible muse.”

There was a gush of blood and it died. For some reason, I guess the stain of childhood stories and the remains of a belief in the Bible, I expected the body to vanish, to be taken back to the heavens. Instead it simply lay there, inert and dark. Its light was gone. John Davies sagged to the floor and didn't move.

We cut off its wings and wrapped them up in a sheet. One of us carried that soft bundle, while two others draped its arms around their shoulders, pretending it was a drunken friend. We stumbled out late at night and when we could see no one watching us, we threw it into the Thames along with the bundled wings. Together, the body and wings sank with splash that hurt to hear.

Conclusion next Friday.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Stuck in the middle with you

2011-02-03T15:02:00.001-05:00

Image courtesy of Josh Harper.
Used under a Creative Commons License.

I am one of many, an adult child with adult children (actually step-children, but they still count). I know I am lucky, many people don't have these kinds of connections, but as my parents age the caretaking responsibilities are shifting. It's a complicated thing.

(I need to stop here and address two readers in particular: Mom and Dad, if you're reading this, what I'm writing about doesn't mean you should change anything. It's my honor and duty to care for you and fret about you as needed. It is different and challenging, but I'm your daughter and I love you.)

(There are some realities associated with a blog your parents read.)

Okay, back to the topic at hand. My stepkids are more or less launched. They have their own lives and are finding their way through the world, one lurching step at a time. I think they all know that their parents and I are still here for them, but they are figuring out their lives on their own; they don't need us anywhere near as much. I'm terrifically proud of all of them. This doesn't mean I've stopped worrying about them or caring for them as needed, it just means the intimacy of care has changed.

Just as I exhale, the kids will be okay, the need for care shifts. My parents are aging. They need me more. I am their only child so I feel an appropriate obligation to be available to them, to help as I can. This is complicated by the facts that I live hundreds of miles away and we have all of the usual baggage parents and children can carry.

As my parents need more care I have become intimately familiar with each sign on the Garden State Parkway. I keep my iPod full of interesting things to listen to at any moment. My car is never below half a tank.

It isn't the increased travel I find challenging, but learning this new territory in our relationship. What is the line between care and interfering? When one parent is ill, how do I support the healthy parent without alienating them? How do I ask the difficult questions that might highlight the things they can no longer do so easily? How do I ensure both parents know they are loved, even if I'm hundred of miles away? How do I care for myself in the midst of this? What are the lines between increased care and helping them maintain their independence, between being present when they need me and still continuing my life? What happens next?

I know none of these questions are unique to me, they are merely unique in how they are expressed in my family, as each family has its own language and politics. I know many of you struggle with similar issues.

It also raises the question of who will care for me when I'm old. My step-kids have their own lives, in-laws and parents, I don't think it's reasonable for me to expect them to guide me through my old age. The state system for the aged is unlikely to be much of a safety net by the time I'm in my 70s. Several childless friends and I have sworn to care for each other as we age; honestly, I expect we'll see more intentional communities of elders in the coming years. It gives me comfort to think of a cluster of old ladies and gentlemen, helping each other across the street, but I wonder if that will be enough.

And again, I'm not the only one in this position. Maybe you are one of these middle-people, caring for the both the old and young. I'd love to hear from you, about your struggles and solutions. We're stuck in these middle years together. Maybe if we find a better way to negotiate now, it will be a little clearer when it's time for someone to care for us.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Brigid's Day

2011-02-02T10:08:00.000-05:00

courtesy wikimedia commons

Today is Brigid's Day. Also known as Imbolc and Groundhog Day, today celebrates the Celtic goddess Brigid. She is also known as St. Brigit, as the Catholic church quite wisely adopted her.

Brigid oversees creative endeavors, poetry, storytelling, healing and smiths. She is represented by leaping flames and, as a goddess always stretching up, she urges us to lift ourselves higher, whether onto the next hill or to a new, more challenging task. She is the goddess of lofty pursuits.

Many years ago I visited her sacred flame in Kildare, Ireland, kept alight for thousands of years with only brief interruptions. The church built on this ancient, sacred site is strong and imposing, a solid place to consider your place in the universe. Around the flame were offerings - scraps of burned paper with a word or two still visible, beads, goddess figurines, shattered vessels. It was a wondrous place.

I spent part of the morning sitting on the damp grass watching the fire flicker and stretch, then the deacon of the church invited me inside to get warm. As it happens, it was Good Friday. I listened to a sermon outlining Jesus' journey through crucifixion. It was a brutal story. As a Jew I'd never heard it told in such detail. I wept with the old women attending the service. But there in the church built to honor the saint derived from the goddess of creativity and flame, I saw all of these stories as paths to our own creative redemption. Whether through art or story or prayer or community, creative action lifts us up into our better selves, where we can examine our own spirits and our place in the world with fewer distractions.

Brigid has walked with me through some of my life's more challenging moments. I've taken comfort in creative acts of writing and telling, art and poetry. I am grateful for the reminder that, through striving to go higher, I burn brighter.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Telling untold stories

2011-02-01T17:36:00.001-05:00

February is Black History Month in the U.S. While I think it's laudable that we have an official reminder to explore the stories of African Americans, it troubles me that we still need a reminder to do so. African American history is a vital part of American history.

What Black History Month really makes me consider is how important it is to tell the untold stories. For so long African American history was relegated to a few minutes in school about slavery and the civil rights movement. By dedicating a month to it we're reminded that we can't so easily disregard the contributions, struggles and lives of millions of people. Each one of those people had a story that was kept from the mainstream for far too long.

When we tell the stories of the unvoiced we change the world. This has to be done carefully and respectfully, of course. It can be a kind of cultural imperialism when someone tells a tale from another culture as if it were their own. But we are all human with similar experiences, so these stories belong to all of us though many come with a context that must be respected. I've written about this here if you're interested in exploring it further. What I'm writing about in this post is how important it is to tell the stories that have been hidden, from the personal to the global.

We each have stories in our lives that we've kept under cover. Stories of love lost, of joy or pain, of unexpected success, of some experience we've thought we should keep secret because it makes us different. When we are brave enough to tell our hidden personal stories we are given the opportunity to realize that we're not so unusual, not so alone and not so disconnected. Others with relatable experiences will respond to that story. They may not say, "That happened to me," but the teller will feel the shift in the air as the audience realizes that this could be their story, too.

Likewise, when we tell previously hidden global stories, we build bridges between cultures and experiences. When we tell the stories of the enslaved and the all-too human slavers, the stories of exodus and homecoming, the stories of genocide and rebuilding, we remind ourselves and our listeners that these experiences are cross-cultural. By shining light on the previously shameful we make those experiences easier to bear, because they become shared experiences.

Don't wait for a sanctioned holiday to explore the hidden tales. Tell one of your hidden stories to a friend. Learn a hidden story from another culture. We build bridges between people and cultures when we share our experiences and listen to each other with open hearts regardless of the time of year.

A story.

When I was in fifth grade the television epic Roots swept the nation. I am Caucasian and attended a largely African American grade school. I watched Roots with great excitement, caught up in the tragedy and triumphs of one family. I wept with shame that slavery played such a prominent role in my country's history, yet as an American Jew, I knew my ancestors hadn't set foot in America when Africans were legally enslaved here. I didn't feel personally responsible for what happened, I knew only that I was responsible for how I treated people now.

One of my classmates confronted me unexpectedly, an African American boy who needed to lash out at a white person for the pain inflicted upon his ancestors. When he told me I was a bad person because white people were slavers, I replied that I was Jew, my grandparents came to this country in the early part of the 20th century so they couldn't have owned slaves here, and besides, Jews know a thing or two about slavery.

He sputtered into quiet, then asked me, "What does being Jewish have to do with slavery?" I told him about Passover. He listened. Then he told me about his great-grandmother who had been a slave. We became friends. I had a tiny glimpse into what it means to be African American in his family, where the memory of slavery is still a stain, a scar, a badge of honor. I had a tiny glimpse into what it means to be black in America. I am still grateful for the lesson and remember it far beyond Black History Month.

I don't know where is now. I don't know if he remembers me and the friendship that grew out of anger and stories. I don't think that matters. What does matter is what he taught me and the friendship that was there when we both needed it. I hope he's happy.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Fiction: The True Cause of World War 1. Part 2

2011-01-28T10:55:00.000-05:00

Part 2. In which we learn where poetry comes from and begin to suspect that language may be contagious.

The story so far... In Part 1 we met a group of poets in the early 20th century. Language is their love, their mistress, their all consuming passion. One day, a new poet names John Davies is introduced to the group. He seems naive and unlikely to be a crafter of words. He reads them a poem and...

Paper trembling in his hand, John Davies read us a poem. It wasn’t so many lines, it didn’t rhyme, in truth I don’t remember what it was about, but it was the best we’d ever heard. The room was silent.

Finally Sigfried cleared his throat, his customary aplomb gone. “Oh. Oh my. Could you read us another?”

John Davies read another and another and another until he’d read all he had brought. We clustered around him, slapped him on the back and assured him that yes, he was a fine a poet, then before not too long we all rushed to our homes to write. To see if we could compare with the fire, the fury, the light of his words. We couldn’t. But we kept trying, each of us writing long into the night, long after the coal in the scuttle had burned to ash.

We all fell in love with him then. We all hated him then. Great poetry makes you want to be greater yourself and when the source of that inspiration stands before you and grins like a school boy twisting his cap, you don’t know whether to fall to your knees in awe or to plunge a knife into his heart and bury him, before anyone knows such a thing ever existed.

The great thing about John was that he was never mean about it. Of course he knew he was good, how could he not with our praise soaking into his skin, but he thought we were good, too. He never pushed us down, always brought us up. The gift he brought to us, the gift of sharing his poems, made us want to write and made us be better writers. We all wanted to hate him, his talent made ours look tiny, but we couldn’t. He was too good a man. In our own ways we each fell in love with him not only because he had words like that but because he made us better writers. Better people.

John Davies quickly became one of us. He talked and he listened. He taught us how to listen. In truth, we hadn’t been good listeners before. Now, when someone brought a fresh poem instead of thinking only about how we would tear it down, we listened to it as the tender new thing it was. Of course, the insults were still elegant and we all competed to be second to John, but we were perhaps a bit kinder to one another. Not that we would ever have admitted it. We still argued about nature of poetry, of history, of man, god and nature itself. Above all else we argued about and revered words. Words poured out of our hearts, down our arms, into pens, across paper in smears of black ink. I remember the scratchy sound of nib on paper, I remember feeling so eager to write the nib split and spilled, I remember the smell of ink, I still remember John’s handwriting. Cramped, small and unschooled. Beautiful in content if not in form.

I don’t know how long it had been, but by then John was a friend. I valued him as much as any of the others. One evening he seemed troubled and quiet. He had never been as boisterous as the rest of us, but not like this, staring into his beer as if it might contain answers or maybe more questions. The others were drinking, smoking, arguing - verdant isn't right word for spring it’s trite and over used, try something else. Someone noticed John didn’t look right. Pale, pulled in. Rocking back and forth as if he were trying to comfort himself.

“What’s wrong?” we asked him and pushed another drink into his hand.

He pushed it away. “No, I don’t want another drink. This one’s gone warm anyway.” We crowded around him.

“What's wrong?" we insisted. "Are you ill? Has someone died?”

“No, I’ve had some news.” The room was silent. Waiting. Finally, “What news?”

“What would you do if you were told the thing you most wanted to hear and you were told it from a source of utter purity? What if you learned the thing you most longed for and feared were true?”

“I’d get drunk, what else?” someone laughed in reply.

“No I don’t believe you would.” John Davies clutched at his drink.

“What were you told.?”

“I can’t tell you. You’d laugh, think I’m mad. Hell, I think I’m mad.” His hands were shaking and he was pale, sweaty.

Sigfried stepped forward and crouched so he was at eye level with john Davies. “We are your friends. You can tell us anything.” Sig could be very persuasive. He waited.

Someone handed John Davies a glass of water. He drank, spilling down chin. He looked at each one of us, a steady gaze as if he was affirming who we were. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Last night as usual I went home to my rooms. I was sitting at my desk writing, words pouring out, you know how it is. I don't know how long I'd been writing when I felt heat on back and I wondered if the landlady put coal on fire. Not bloody likely, she’s a stingy soul. I turned around.

“Gentleman, I don’t know how to tell you what I saw.”

The room grew quieter still, I think no one breathed. John Davies was out of words? Unable to describe a piece of the world?

“It was as though it was made of light. As though it was heat and poetry personified. I didn’t believe it, especially not the wings, but it looked at me and said
John Davies I have come with a message from God.
Now I don’t know what you would have done, but I found I was on knees, there was no doubting when I heard that voice, when I was in that presence. This was something divine.”

Someone asked what we all were wondering. “What did it say?”

“It said to me: You are voice of your generation. You shall write the greatest poetry in 20th century. But you have been given a gift for purpose.

“Poetry is how God seeks to speak with Man. Poets speak with the voice of God and, since time began, poets have spoken God's dreams through Man’s throat and fingers. Poets are celestial translators, speaking words for Man that God can no longer speak directly. Yet they are words from God that Man hears. Man can no longer bear the voice of God without a filter. Poets translate between Man and God. And you are the greatest poet of your generation.

“I think I wet myself then. You would have too.”

None of us disagreed.

John Davies went on. “It said: We have come to you with a message. God is coming, you are God's herald. God thanks you deeply and truly for your service to Man and as God’s voice. God needs you to spread word of God’s return. With that my heart was full of the most glorious poetry.

“ I ran to desk and began to write regardless of the winged thing standing behind me. I think I would have hurt anything that tried to stop me from writing. I found myself writing songs of God's return. The thing stepped forward and touched my shoulder. Now, John Davies, you will go forth and spread the word.

“When I stopped writing the room was cold, the creature was gone, my hands were cramped and the sun was cresting the trees. I have all of this.” He held out a great sheaf of paper full of his cramped handwriting.

“John,” said William, “surely you just drank too much absinthe.”

“I was NOT DRUNK,” John Davies roared, “and I have the words to prove it.”

He read us a poem then. I don't remember it. I do know it was best I ever heard. I do know it was full of words overflowing love and longing and hope. As soon as they entered my ears and flowed through my body my heart too knew this language. This was the language of the world before the Tower of Babel fell. All I could do in response was to grab paper and begin to write poems of God. All praise songs about God coming to earth and the joy we would lie in once God arrived.

I wasn’t alone. We were all compelled to write throughout night, right where we were. We didn’t go home, we didn’t stop to wash the ink from our clothing or our hands.

To be continued next Friday

Guest post: Mental illness

2011-01-27T09:32:00.000-05:00

I have a dear friend who is fighting some mental illness issues. She has taught me so much about courage, dignity, strength and the value of small things. Yesterday, in her own blog, she wrote about how hard it is to feel alone and how much she appreciates those who are still by her side. I read this and thought that these were words more people needed to hear. No one, no matter their illness, deserves to be abandoned.

To protect her privacy I've reposted here with her permission. If you'd like to contact her please leave a comment or send me an email; I'll make sure it gets to her. More importantly, reach out. Our lives are too short and the world is too big to leave each other behind.

-------------------------------

Mental Illness?
By J.

I remember when I started slipping this time around it wasn't just me who slipped. It was my friends and family; they slipped away one by one!

First, it was the dinner invites (thank heaven), then craft days (sad), gym dates (sadder still) and finally phone calls and emails. Until I was left, alone, with this power in me - no, scratch that - this power OVER me, that reminded me that I was worthless and deserved every evil thing I did to myself. Every meal skipped was punishment, every mile logged a reminder that I was far away from being someone who was cared for or, for that matter able to be cared about.

***I am going to stop myself here to interject that I do have a husband who stood and continues to stand by my side.

I DID and DO have a couple friends who reached out and, when I couldn't reach back, came and strode beside me.

I also still have a couple friends who, to this day call and come over and probably know of nothing being wrong because my job to them is to be their friend (a role I am okay with so don't think this is pitiful).

I do have friends I have made in ip and at resi who daily amaze me!

I want to touch on a couple of these before I get to my point here.

Hubster = great guy who REALLY doesn't see evil in this world, so to him I'm not sick and it is not something we discuss.

Friends who have reached out and supported (Laura & k) me = there was a period where I thought that they hated/were ashamed of me. That was the eating disorder talking and for a year I was convinced hook line and sinker! A single hug from k (aka the world's best hugger and the only person who has permission to hug me whenever) and a gentle invitation from l with honesty and kindness for thanksgiving broke those walls for me (okay that and they think pupster is cute!)

Friends who never know = this is a hard one for me, part of me loves it and then part of me gets to the "where is the back and forth in this relationship?"

And lastly new friends who only know "crazy joy." I often wonder if (when??) I get better, will they still love me? Or is our desire to injure our bodies, minds, and souls our bond? I believe with a couple it is but I am pretty sure at least 2 (l and n) are for keepers!

This brings me to today! Today, I sat in a church and cried silent tears while in the company of 4 others. Let me repeat that: 4 OTHER PEOPLE! as my cousin Joe was laid to rest!

Joe was wonderful, and sweet, and literal, and loved to dance (he has been taking ballroom dancing for years) He truly lived the simple life, he had childlike virtues and gentleness. You couldn't help but love him! Joe was crazy, he was, I guess you'd say, clinically insane.

As I sat there I was brought to my own funeral - would the handful come? Probably. Would those who had been my "best friends" for years? Or would the stigma of loving someone like Joe, like me, maybe even like you, keep them away? I don't know and honestly, I don't want to.

I started out being very sad with these thoughts and the turnout and then a little bit of Joe reached me and I decided that those people he has danced with for years? Well, this week they'll dance for him. And his girlfriend? Well, I am sure there's a smile or two that will leave her face and land on his. And my sisters? Well, shame on them, I hope they remember that nobody chooses insanity. But I still hope they can send a thought, a prayer, a laugh or a kiss up to an old friend with a child's light!

So I leave with this request: if you have someone in your life with a mental illness (including yourself) please remember them. Cards, phone calls, emails and visits are relatively cheap and yet priceless!

-----------------------------------------------
(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Five things to do with storytelling when you don't want to go outside

2011-01-24T09:10:00.002-05:00

We're deep in the heart of winter, up in the Northern hemisphere. These short, cold days and long dark nights lead me to nesting behavior. I just don't want to go outside when it's 10F with 2 feet of snow on the ground. I know, I'm a wimp, but this offers me a chance to hunker down and do some reading.

It's been awhile since I posted storytelling resources. I'm betting some of you are like me, having a tough time getting outside in this weather. In the spirit of keeping our creative fires burning, here are some storytelling things you might do from the comfort of your home. Please note, some of these links were previously posted here, but this is an updated list.

Learn something new, part 1. How about adding a traditional tale to your repertoire? If nothing else, reading some of the old stories will remind of you that people haven't changed very much in the last 10,000 years. The same things still matter to us, it's just at a more frantic pace. You might learn something about yourself or find a piece you'd like to tell or alter.
There are many great online resources full of traditional stories.
- Sur la Lune is a lovely site with detailed analysis of some familiar (and less familiar) fairy tales. Also links to a store with merchandise for folktale nerds like me.
- Folklore and Mythology Electronic Texts has a fairly academic and thorough listing of hundreds of story texts.
- The Internet Sacred Text Archive includes myths and legends from around the world.
- Google books has complete texts available you can find with a simple search. Looking for fairy tales? How about Indian fairy tales? Or Hindu fairy tales? Give it shot, see what you find. You might be surprised.
Learn something new, part 2. The internet has many wonderful other resources available for you to explore.

Explore the resources at your local library. Most public libraries have their catalogs available online. Many will allow you to hold a book that you can pick up later, when it's warmer. Try a catalog search for storytelling with children, for example. Or some other topic that interests you. See what you can find!
Learn about a new kind of storytelling. As I mentioned last week, it's sometimes good to tell the stories that scare you. Check out the site for an organization that does something you'd like to tell about. Do you care about marine life? Go to the Cousteau Society and see how they tell their story. How would you tell that same story? What about digital storytelling? Or stand-up comedy?
Read an article by someone you admire. Many storytellers maintain blogs or archives of their advice. Go to their websites and poke around.

Listen to some stories, watch some storytellers in action. Organizations like massmouth post videos of storytellers strutting their stuff. What about trying a youtube search for storytelling? Maybe your favorite festival has videos online from previous years?
Hone your craft. There's no time like the present to work on your own skills as a storyteller and business owner.

How about telling a story in your living room, recording it and then going over the recording? What was great? What could be eliminated or fleshed out?
Work on a new idea. Jot down some notes, call a friend and aks them to brainstorm with you.
When was the last time you updated your webpage, resume, myspace, facebook or linkedin pages?
Send a few emails to organizations where you'd like to tell.
Update your basic press release.

Tell someone a story. Do you live with room-mates, family, friends? Do you have a telephone? You can always reach out and tell someone a story. Maybe even more importantly, you can listen to their story. Ask them to tell you a story. You might be amazed at what happens.

These cold, dark days are a gift. We have the chance to pull into our shells and do some housekeeping, catch up with ourselves. Savor the time.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Fiction: The True Cause of World War 1. Part I

2011-01-21T09:15:00.001-05:00

Part I, in which we consider words as weapons, great talent and modesty.

Have you ever met someone who had the gifts you most long for? It fills your heart with conflict. You don’t know whether to be grateful that yes, such things exist in the world, or full of hate and rage, that you are not the chosen one. That you must feel the grinding jealousy of someone else’s light. When he first came among us we didn’t know whether to love hom or hate him. We thought we had to choose.

This is not the way to tell the story. I am old now. The others are gone, all dead and buried, mostly forgotten, a few celebrated but truly their hearts are unknown. I am the only one left, the only one to tell the story, the only one who knows what really happened. Sometimes I think my whole life was meant for this moment. That this was my role. To witness. To remember. And finally to tell.

We truly were something special. There is no we anymore, all that’s left is the story. All that’s left is what’s in my memory. With telling it to you, the story will be complete and I can rest.

I won’t tell this to you in my voice. I don’t want you to know what my hand did, what my voice said. My shame and fear and sorrow are still too deep. And I want my death to end this story, to ensure that these actions are not repeated. I would rather be forgotten and leave behind only a warning. So please, indulge an old man. Listen.

We had never seen Seigfried so excited. It was written! He had done it! The world can finally rest! He went on and on and on about his marvelous words. Frankly we were sick of his talk about marvelous words, he was extraordinary but only every once in a while, though truly, the poem was written and it was fine.

We lived in our words. Through our words. Our words were our swords, in our limbs, our every sense. We were the best of our generation in the best of times. We listened to each other, read each other’s poems and criticized with the sharpest of phrases, a surgeon's scalpel had nothing on our tongues. We spoke to one another as only poets could.

We talked about meaning and greater meaning. We gathered to talk of everything that mattered in the world; of beauty, of truth, of love, of language and mostly of poetry. We were drunk on language, it sustained us, fed us and inebriated us more thoroughly than the finest foods, the sweetest wines. We were in love with language, with our youth, with what we thought we could become.

Me and Seigfried and Willy and Robert and Bertie and all of them. We wrote our poems, drank our wine, wenched and then compared notes. But it was always the words that we came back to, the words that drove us, each of us trying to write a better poem than last time, capture that peculiar essence of what it was to be alive, how our lovely mother tongue could mother us all. Some nights we were undoubtedly insufferable, singing and arguing and boasting beyond compare, but when we wrote and listened to one another - ah! Then we lived.

It was Bertie who told us about him first. He was too eager, so we didn’t believe him of course. He said, “I have met the perfect poet. I have found the poet whose words will change world and he doesn’t even know it yet. I will bring him to you, you will listen to him and you will believe.” His face was radiant. How could we believe him? I thought he’d simply found a better absinthe.

Robert laughed. “He’s not better than any of us. Bertie, you’ve just fallen in love with another pretty face, you’re confusing fine words with a fine -”

“Oh no, John Davies is the best there is, maybe the best there ever will be.”

Bertie’s face took on a stubborness I had never seen. There was something different in his voice and I wondered if maybe he as telling the truth. Then I laughed with the rest and went on teasing him about his fine boy poet.

It took Bertie weeks to convince John Davies to come to us. I don’t know where he met him, he never would say which perhaps confirms my suspicions that Bertie first thought of him as a toy and nothing else, but he wouldn’t stop talking about the words that flew from John Davies' pen. He said he begged him to join us, but he didn’t want to. That he would say over and over again, “Oh no, I can’t come, can’t read with them, I am just not good enough. I am only a simple man who likes to write.”

The awful thing was that it wasn’t false modesty, he was a simple, kind man who by happenstance had the greatest gift for poetry I have ever encountered. He didn’t think of himself as anything other than someone who wrote what he believed. Nothing more or less.

Bertie begged and pleaded. Finally John Davies came among us and nothing would ever be the same. We didn't know that at first.

Sigfried walked around him and said, “So you’re Bertie’s prodigy. Very nice We’ll see if your words are as good as he says. Frankly I think he’s been dancing with the green fairies too much. But it’s not your fault that he falls in love so easily.”

John Davies look chagrined and twisted his hat in his hands. He sat at a table in the corner and sipped a beer. He remained quiet while Sig declared in a voice that brooked no challenge, “Poetry isn’t the voice of God. The fools who decry us as as blasphemers for writing poems of men and mens’ lives haven’t lived themselves, they are too afraid of their own blood and passion to know what poetry really is. Poetry is man's voice. Poetry is the song of man’s experiences. It is how we proclaim ourselves beyond God because God doesn’t waste time with us. God no longer bellows from the mountains, no longer gives us tablets writ with rules. God has left us alone to babble to ourselves, so we have given ourselves poems to take over the voice of God. Poetry fills in where God lacks.”

John Davies leaned forward then and spoke into the silence that always followed Sigfried's challenges.

“No. Poetry is the voice of man for God. It’s how God understands man. Since the fall of the tower, we no longer speak with divine tongues. God gave us poetry so we could explain ourselves to him. He longs to know us in our own words.”

It was the first time he’d spoken since Bertie introduced him. It was as if he noticed his voice in the silence and pulled back, embarrassed. Sigfried looked at him from arched brows. The argument went on around the room - did Adam and Eve chatter in verse and so all cultures have poems? - was the tower of babel really a kind of meter? but the words lacked the passion that rang in John Davies’ voice.

Finally the arguments turned into little more than biblical puns. Sig announced that it was time to read. He asked if anyone had a poem they would like to share, that we could then discuss. No one stepped forward. The discussions, as all but John Davies knew, were brutal. Poets snipe like no one else and utter the most elegant insults you will ever hear.

And of course, because he didn’t know, John Davies was the first to step up. He cleared his throat and, clutching a sheaf of papers, said, “If no one minds, I did come here to read my little poems to poets. Perhaps I could try.” I could hear the fear in his voice and almost told him to sit down, almost wanted to protect him, but didn’t for fear of the lashing I would then endure. With barely a glance beyond his drink, Sigfried waved him into the center of the room.

Paper trembling in his hand, John Davies read us a poem. It wasn’t so many lines, it didn’t rhyme, in truth I don’t remember what it was about, but it was the best we’d ever heard. The room was silent.

To be continued next Friday.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Feeding the birds

2011-01-20T12:44:00.000-05:00

We've gotten an awful lot of snow here in Boston over the last few weeks. We have close to 2 feet on the ground and more is coming. I love the aesthetic of snow, the blinding whiteness, the way it glows blue in the evening, the quiet it creates, but I am getting tired of the shoveling, the slipping, the traffic delays. I'm no different than most, enjoying snow when it's convenient and complaining when it's not.

How lucky we are that we have warm homes and safety. Just consider how many don't. I'm carrying food and chemical heat packs to give to the homeless people I meet. It's not enough, but it's something. This weather reminds me that we have an obligation to care for each other when we can.

That extends to my non-human neighbors. Each morning I look outside and see a crowd of birds waiting for me at the feeder. I'm of two minds about feeding them - I so enjoy watching them flock and fight, though I know it disrupts their natural cycles and inclinations. I do it anyway.

As I watch the birds, mostly house sparrows, gather at feeder, I am struck by the tenacity and familiarity of life. As they fight with each other for seeds, some jerk their heads, tossing seed out onto the ground below. Birds flock on the ground to eat what falls. Is this altruism? Is it tossing a morsel to the crowd so the lucky birds with a perch will be left alone? Am I just ascribing human feelings to these lovely little creatures?

When I was a child, a sparrow was caught in the fence lining our backyard. I could see it struggling to free its foot from the boards. I put on a pair of gardening gloves and walked to it. It eyed me with what I imagined then was relief. Now I think it was resigned terror, a predator finally coming to finish it off. As gently as I could, I held it with one hand while I shifted the boards with the other. Its foot was released. I held my cupped hands open and felt its rapid heartbeat as it sat in my palm. After a few moments it flew away, leaving a smear of blood on the boards and my gloves.

I remember its lightness in my hands, the frantic beat against my skin even through the fabric glove. I know this particular bird probably died soon thereafter, weakened from its injured foot, but I imagine its descendants landing on my bird feeder this winter, cocking a cautious eye at me as they eat. If I listen closely, I believe I hear their heartbeats.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Tell the stories that scare you

2011-01-18T22:22:00.000-05:00

Every storyteller, writer and artist has a comfort zone, the place where they know they can excel or at least do well enough, easily enough. It's comforting to think of yourself as a teller of funny stories, fairy tales, personal stories, bawdy stories, whatever. It's a really good thing to know what you specialize in and to have the confidence to tell those stories well. It helps with marketing and artistic self-esteem. You should know what you're good at and not be afraid to tell people.

Once you know what you're good at, don't think that means you stop growing. You may be able to tell a fairy tale with more pizzaz than anyone else around, but what would happen if you stretched a little and told a personal story? Would it kill you? Or would you maybe learn something about yourself as a performer, artist and human being?

When we step out of our comfort zone and tell a kind of story we don't typically tell, we have a chance to hone the creative process. For example, I am not comfortable singing in front of audiences. My singing voice isn't strong nor particularly tuneful. But I wanted to tell a story that had a sung refrain. I first worked on the story by myself, then with trusted friends. I eventually had a story I was willing to share with an open mic (as of now I don't know if this story will remain in my repertoire for reasons unrelated to singing). I still don't sing well, but I was able to craft the story and make accommodations for my singing. I was able to spend time thinking about why I wanted to tell this piece and put in a level of work I might not offer a more familiar kind of story where I am more comfortable. I was able to see my weaknesses as a performer, because they were so exposed in this story, and work on them. All of this work enhances all of the stories I tell.

Other examples might be telling a personal story or one with loaded emotional content. Those stories can be frightening to the teller. Remember, you're not alone. You don't know what's happening in the minds of your audience, you don't know who needs to hear this story so they know they're not alone. If you put in the time and the effort to craft a personal story you can tell effectively, you're giving your audience a huge gift. You're building bridges from person to person and making the world more connected. You're also going to learn about storycraft and maybe even yourself along the way. The secret is to put in the work.

It can be very hard to step out of your comfort zone, especially if you don't have a community with whom you can practice. If you're isolated, don't venture out to good practice spaces like open mics, or don't ask people to listen to you and help you craft better stories, you may feel afraid to work on a different kind of story than the one you're accustomed to. Ask a friend to listen to you. Jay O'Callahan has said we should ask our neighbors to listen to us practice, it builds community and builds a greater appreciation for storytelling.

Find someone and tell the stories that scare you. Even if you never turn them into performance pieces you will learn immeasurably from the experience. Besides, it's not like you'll forget how to tell the stories you're comfortable with. You might just end up with the next great story for your repertoire and a whole new kind of tale to explore.

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

Listening to strangers

2011-01-13T09:05:00.000-05:00

Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me?
And why should I not speak to you?
- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, To You

I love talking to strangers. Pretty much wherever I go, I find myself engaged in conversations with people I've never met before and am unlikely to meet again. There is always opportunity. On the subway, out for walks, in line at the supermarket. Cops, bums, clerks. You may be thinking this is risky, but I've found that people love to be listened to and are grateful for a willing ear, so I've never felt endangered. And really, that's what I end up doing. Listening to strangers.

I think of this as my work in the world, as the best kind of storytelling. Storytelling, after all, is mostly listening. You listen to your audience for their sighs or yawns. You tailor your story according to how they react. Sure, you're going to tell the same plot, but you can shift the details based on what they need. This is how I tell stories anyway.

When I talk with strangers, I'm doing the same thing. I listen to what they have to say, respond with what they need to hear. If I can, I tell them something similar to what they are telling me. I tell them the story they're looking for. They then know they have a sympathetic audience and can say what they need. They know when we're done talking I will disappear and take their secrets away, so they are safe with me.

And they are safe. I file these stories away, jotting them in my notebook. I remember some forever. Others might become the seeds of a character or story I tell. Still others become stories I tell the next stranger, when they are in need of solace and companionship. These conversations are among the key ingredients in this storyteller's creative life and I would never hear them if I wasn't willing to listen.

I've heard about death and birth, love and rage, damnation and redemption. Each story came spooling out of the teller with only some good listening and trying to tell them the story they need to hear so they can tell me what they need to say.

"Wow, that sounds amazing."
"My aunt had something similar. Are you okay?"
"Sure, I have a few minutes."

I don't know if these stories are factual though I hear them as true, nor do I know how they end, but it doesn't really matter. We're two human beings connecting, telling each other stories for a few moments and bridging the gaps between us. And really, in the end, isn't that what storytelling is about?

(c) 2011 Laura S. Packer

Ten places you can tell a story

2011-01-10T08:00:00.000-05:00

In my storytelling travels I am often asked, "Where do you perform?" I have a pat answer about theaters, fringe festivals and schools, assisted living facilities, businesses and spoken word venues. But the real answer is anywhere I can. Just about every time I open my mouth, I tell a story. If I limit myself to venues or other audience driven opportunities then I miss out on most of the chances I'll have to tell.

Stories are a part of the human fabric - as massmouth says, because you have a life, you have a story. You tell those stories everywhere. At home, to your friends and family, at work, to the stranger beside you on the bus.

When you consider your storytelling life, why limit yourself to performance spaces and the places you get hired? Here are some suggestions for places you can tell. Your audiences may be different than what you're used to, but it's good for you. Stretch those boundaries. See what comes out of your mouth.

Open mics like this one or that one are great places to stand up in front of audiences and say something. The audiences are usually friendly and at worst you've tried something new. You don't need to go to a spoken-word specific open mic, just respect the time limits and present work you're proud of. If you're nervous, bring a friend. You can even call the organizer ahead of time to make sure you'd be welcome.
Story slams are another great place to tell a story. Unlike traditional open mics, slams are competitive and often themed, so you'll need to make sure your story meets the slam criteria ahead of time. The competition gives everything a bit of an edge, so your adrenaline really propels you onto the stage and helps you bring out your best.
For both open mics and slams, try a google search with your city name and "open mic" or "story slam." The links above are local to me.
Home Sweet Home. You tell stories to the people you live with every day. What if you were to ask them if you could set up storytime? A few minutes every week or every few days where you told them a tale, for their ears only. You might need to coach them on the kind of response you want - should they tell you what they liked? What they thought needed work? Should they break into wild applause? Regardless of the ground rules, your kids, spouse, siblings, parents or housemates will probably appreciate a bit of story time once in awhile.
To your pets. Tell your pet a story. They might not look like they're listening, but you never know.
At work. Or just hanging out with friends. My co-workers routinely ask me for stories. If I'm working on a piece and need to hone a particular section, they listen to me. I set up ground rules, as mentioned in #2, but they have become one of my most reliable and charming audiences.
In odd public places. Bring a friend or two to listen to you and start declaiming your tale aloud in a public space. Others may come to listen. Welcome them. Tell for the joy of it, for the relationship you'll build with your audience; many locales require permits for public performance, so check out the law beforehand. At a minimum, if you don't have a permit, don't set out a hat. Tell for the love of story and for the love of your friends who came out to hear you.
House concerts. Ask a friend with a nice, big living room to host a house concert. Have them invite ten friends over, you invite ten friends, order some pizza and tell them stories.
At work, part 2. Or in school. Next time you need to give a presentation, tell a story. Instead of facts and figures pull a story from the real world or from traditional stories. Make it relevant, short and interesting and it gives your audience a way to connect with your material beyond the slides.
Volunteer. There are many wonderful underfunded organizations in the world. Think about what you're passionate about, find the organization that helps people with that need and ask if you can come and tell their constituents stories. Battered-women's shelters, assisted living facilities, dementia units, children's hospitals, prisons - most organizations that help the needy may need your help. Go tell some folktales to kids who are down on their luck. You'll enjoy it just as much as they do.
In the middle of nowhere. Next time you find yourself alone on a beach, in a field or the woods, tell yourself a story. Hear how you savor the words, how your mind and imagination come together to craft this moment of beauty. You are the only audience you can always count on; why not perform your very best when you are the only one listening? Besides, the trees, grasses and waves may hear you too, in their own way.

Pompeii revisited

2011-01-09T14:37:00.000-05:00

I've been playing around with altering books lately. This is my latest effort.

I have a code in by dose

2011-01-06T16:33:00.003-05:00

I've had a cold for the last week. It's not pretty. I'm coughing enough that I keep thinking I'll crack a rib, my nose is sore and chafed from blowing and the amount of mucus emerging from various orifices makes me feel like a biohazard site. I'm so congested I can no longer speak clearly. All I really want to do is doze and drink tea.

I get one or two bad colds each winter and every time I try consider them gifts from the universe. No matter what I may want to do, I need to stop doing it. I need to stop running around, stop trying to do 17 things at once, stop putting my own need for rest and recuperation behind the business of life. I just have be sick and get better. Because I'm in generally good health I know it won't be fatal, it's just uncomfortable. It's the universe telling me that if I rested more, took the time to look after myself with a little more diligence, I might not have gotten this cold in the first place. And each time I swear I'll remember to take better care when I recuperate.

I manage to do so for a little while. For a week or two I sleep more, take my vitamins and take long, soothing baths. Then something happens and I start rushing again. I forget. Until the next cold.

David Wilcox has a great song about this called COLD, where he says

You ever wonder why you get a cold
Look at the word - spell it - C-old.
C-OLD  You're pulled over by the reaper for a warning
 He says,"I clocked you thinking 80" 
You know you're not that old
 You've been worried about the darkness in the morning

Colds are reminds to stop rushing through life and simply live it. Don't worry your life away. Drink some tea. Eat some soup. And when you feel better, be grateful for your own self in the midst of busy-ness and the fine world around you. You know, the one you can smell again.

I hope I can remember this time. Now, where did I put those tissues?

(c)2011 Laura S. Packer

How to be alone

2011-01-02T12:18:00.000-05:00

I love this.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

We are who we are

2010-12-16T13:22:00.001-05:00

My parents visited for Thanksgiving. It was good to see them, though somewhat fraught with old baggage and expectations. You know how it is, those patterns are established when you're young and you spend the rest of your life struggling to break free from them.

While here, my mother reminded me of how when I was a child, if I ate something I particularly loved, I would dance and make yummy noises, humming while I chewed. She said this right after I took a particularly delectable bite of turkey and had closed my eyes and was, yes, making yummy noises while wiggling a little. She was delighted. I was mortified. I am 43, not four.

She's right. I am still who I was when I was a child. Even if I changed my name, my appearance, my locale, some things about me would be constant. As I've been thinking about this, it gives me comfort.

I was thinking about it prior to my parent's visit when I was going through a box of old papers they had saved for years and now have given to me. It's the kind of stuff parents save - report cards, the drawings that lived on the fridge, that kind of stuff. Most of it is honestly of little value to me, but I did find my first and second grade notebooks.

In looking through them I learned this about myself:

I have always asked questions and gone in directions teachers found distracting
I have always had terrible handwriting (the notebooks are full of teacher's comments, asking me to write more clearly)
and I have always had a far-too active imagination.

No matter how hard we try, we cannot escape ourselves and this is sometimes a good thing. Our childhood selves can give us gifts of imagination, of unrepentant pleasure and of hope. When we remember what was best about ourselves in our innocence we find it still lives within us, even if it is sometimes a little embarrassing, in these adult bodies. I would still like to be a ~~raddit~~ rabbit some days. I certainly love imagining what it might be like.

I am who I am. We are who we are. Popeye was onto something.

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

We still miss you

2010-12-08T09:10:00.001-05:00

Oddservations: Life through a lens

2010-12-05T21:56:00.001-05:00

I've been away due to NaNoWriMo. I finished by the skin of my teeth, writing just over 50,000 words in November, a collection of the stories I've been telling for the last umpteen years. As I launch back into my blogging life I thought I would start with some images that I've caught over the last few months.

road to nowhere

road to somewhere

road to somewhere better

One year ago today

2010-11-03T21:15:00.000-04:00

My friend and mentor, Brother Blue, died a year ago today. I'm not really sure what to say, beyond this:

Blue, I miss you.

Thank you for the gift of your stories, of your spirit, of your willingness to be a fool for story and love and life. Thank you for your bravery in the face of unbearable and unspoken odds. Thank you for remembering over and over and over again to be kind when it would have been so easy to be cruel.

Thank you so much for every gift you gave us, the recognized gifts and the unrecognized. Thank you for loving me when I felt unlovable, being honest with me and reminding me to be who I am even when it seems impossible.

Thank you for teaching us so much about love. Thank you for showing us what enduring love looks like.

The night you died I looked at the love of my own life and said to him, "We are so lucky." Even as I cried and continue to cry I know how lucky I am to have had you in my life, to have had you call me your baby girl, to have had the gift of your presence for so many years.

We are all so lucky to have had you. Thank you.

I will love you forever and ever and ever, aaahhhhh....

(c)2010 Laura S. Packer

Ethics of storytelling - organizers

2010-11-01T13:12:00.000-04:00

Last week I introduced a new series of blogposts about the ethics of storytelling. We examined the ethics of storytelling from the storyteller's point of view. This week we'll take a look at the ethics of storytelling from the organizer's perspective. As before, these opinions are solely my own and do not represent those of any organization.

For the purposes of this post, organizers are those who put together storytelling events, series, run or work for organizations that promote storytelling or organizations that hire storytellers. Organizers are wonderful. We could not do the work we do without them. Whether it's someone who runs an advocacy organization, organizes an open mic, or decides to hire a storyteller for their corporate event, organizing is hard and often thankless work. Thank you.

Organizers have a lot of things to juggle as they do their work, so I will try to keep this post brief. Here are some ethical questions and considerations they may want to take into account. These issues become ethical when considered in the broader realm of promoting the arts (especially storytelling) and creating a good experience for all involved.

Ethical considerations when hiring and working with storytellers

Are you hiring the right teller for audience? Your cousin's best friend may be a wonderful storyteller, but are they skilled at the kinds of stories that would be appropriate for your audience? Does your potential teller have experience telling for the kind of people they will be telling to? Should someone who only tells to small children be hired to tell at a business dinner? Should someone who only tells to adults be hired to tell to pre-schoolers?
Is this the right audience for a storyteller? I'm delighted that you want to hire a storyteller. That being said, will your audience be able to give the storyteller the attention they deserve? If you aren't sure, let the teller know ahead of time that there may be some distractions, so they can prepare appropriately.
Financial considerations Are you paying the teller a living wage? Remember, the 45 minute performance reflects hours of work. If you can't afford what they're asking for, try negotiating and offering them something additional in return - services, goods, etc.
Care and feeding of storytellers If you're feeding and housing your teller, have you asked about allergies or other special needs?
Sound Do you have a sound system for your teller? If not, have you let them know so they can plan accordingly?
MCing the event A good introduction tells the audience that you care about the event. A distracted, careless MC can start a teller off on an awkward note. Make sure you can pronounce their name. Likewise, if you (or the teachers in the classroom or the organizers in the background) are disengaged it tells the audience that it's okay to ignore the performer. If you are engaged your audience will be more engaged too.

Promoting events

Due diligence Have you sent out a press release, let your community know and done what you can to ensure an audience? Even if this is a private event, letting the local press know that a private event is hiring a storyteller helps raise general awareness of storytelling and is a nice bump for the artist.
Ask the teller to help Most storytellers will be glad to let their mailing list know about public events. Make sure you give them appropriate details well in advance so they can promote themselves.

Advocates and organizers

Are you presenting a good public face for storytelling? As a storytelling advocate you become a public face for storytelling. Do you remember to say nice things about everyone else in public? Of course you get tired and some people annoy you, but publicly we need to help each other out. As Norah Dooley, founder of massmouth says, "A rising tide floats all boats."
Are you the right person for every gig? As an advocate and a public figure you may get gig offers that are tempting, but not in your area of expertise. Are you referring them to other tellers who may be able to do a better job and thus represent our art as a whole more effectively? This was discussed in detail in the ethics of the teller post.
Are you asking for help? Advocacy and organizing work can be overwhelming. If you are overwhelmed can you share the load? You'd be surprised how often people may think you have everything under control and so forget to ask if you need help.
What are your goals as an advocate/organizer? Do you know? It helps if you know why you're doing the work you're doing. It means you can say no more easily, say yes and work more effectively. Massmouth's mission is "promoting the timeless art of storytelling through social Media, education and live performance" so everything this organizations does is to that end. What are your ends?
Does your organization have a code of conduct? If it does, are you following it? Many non-profits have codes of conduct that dictate how you can benefit personally from your advocacy work. This helps avoid conflict of interest. If your organization doesn't have one, consider developing one - many granting agencies look for conflict of interest policies. If your organization does have one and you are in a position to be bound by it, follow it. You'll still be able to get work and advocate for your cause.

As before, the opinions expressed herein are mine and do not reflect those of any agency or organization. I hope this is a starting point for conversation. I'd love to hear what you think!