Musing 18 July or some of the places I have told stories

Yesterday I told stories at the annual Winnebago Jamboree. My first set had about 500 people and the second about 200. It was fun, and reminded me that this lovely, strange career has taken me to some odd places.

Here are some of the places I have told stories:

• The Winnebago National Jamboree
• A nudist camp
• On a boat in the middle of the ocean
• On a hill with earthworks in the U.K.
• From the flight attendants' station on a crowded, delayed airplane
• Innumerable different stages, homes, festivals, events, libraries, schools, assisted living facilities, boardrooms, campfires, conferences, bars, restaurants, computers, etc.
• Several funerals
• A wedding at a pagan retreat center
• A wedding in an art museum
• Many art museums
• On a stage in front of about 3000 people with my stories simultaneously translated into at least four different languages
• At several deathbeds
• Christenings/naming ceremonies
• In various weather conditions
• In a basement as a tornado passed nearby
• In a major league football stadium
• In a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant
• On a bus
• From a carousel
• and more.

I am so grateful for all of this, and look forward to sharing stories in many, many other places. This career has helped me see a big world and have many unusual experiences. I am so grateful. 

I would be remiss if I didn't say that I'm always looking for new storytelling/teaching/coaching adventures, and would be happy to have adventures with you.

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(c)2023 Laura S. Packer

These are the times we are made for

These are unprecedented times. Never before in human history has a pandemic swept the globe so quickly. Never before have we been able to see it unfurl in real-time. Never before have we been so bombarded with information and misinformation, rumor and fact. 
Each of us is responding the best we can. What that means changes on a daily basis, sometimes even by the minute, but that doesn't mean it's anything but our best, even if in this moment the best you can do is nothing at all.
It can be hard to find a path or even a clear identity when so much is happening at once, but that doesn't mean who you have been, who we are, is invalid because of cultural changes brought on by illness, fear, and propaganda. In fact, who we are as storytellers is more important and valid than ever before. 
We are storytellers.  We are the ones who know that each individual story matters just as much as the big picture. We are the ones who know that person-to-person contact through story doesn't mean contagion of illness, but of shared humanity and hope. To quote Brother Blue, "We are the ones we've been looking for." 
We are listeners.  Storytellers understand the vital importance of deep listening without judgement. We can hold space for others and create places where anyone can share their tale so we build community, connection, and empathy.
We are observers.  Storytellers watch the world with an artist's eye. We see what is visible, what is overlooked, and what is hidden. We see, we notice, and we remember.
We are holders of truth.  Whether through metaphor or fact, storytellers hold the truth of what it is to be human. We hold the truth of love and loss, of heroism and deceit, of hope and resilience. We speak truth to power and know our words will echo through the world.
We are cartographers.  Elizabeth Ellis said we need to tell difficult stories because we are saying, "I went to hell. I came back. Here is a map." Our stories, whether traditional or personal, serious or funny, are maps to survival and change. They are a coded document of endurance, empathy, and determination. 
We are makers of meaning.  Storytellers know that meaning lies in everything. Whether a joke that reveals our fears and aspirations, a myth that shapes the world, or a personal recollection, our stories help everyone who hears them interpret and understand the world. We know that words matter. 
We are storytellers.

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

This was originally written during a cold 2011 New England winter, but it seems strikingly relevant now, when we are all washing our hands a million times a day and tracking COVID-19 as it moves closer and closer to our communities.

The world seems like it was so much simpler then. 

I've kept the original context for historical reasons and have added a few more thoughts. 

We're deep in the heart of winter, up here 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.

1. 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, you might even find some comfort in knowing people have made it through tough times before now.
   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. Karen Chace's wonderful blog has many great resources, including this list of fairy tale books on google books. 
• Check out Csenge Zalka's amazing blog, The Multicolored Diary, for some wonderful world stories. 
2. Learn something new, part 2. 
• What about a personal story? Or some fiction? Try a genre that you don't usually engage in, or try telling in a style new to you.
• 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 and many have vast digital holdings that you can access without going outside. 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. 
• Try some new kind of art. Maybe you could write a poem, do a collage, or something else to nourish your creative spirit.
3. 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?
4. Work with a coach to dig deeper. Many coaches, myself included, work via Zoom, Skype, Hangouts, or others video conferencing technologies. None of us need to go through creatively challenging times alone, help is out there at the click of a mouse.
5. 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, facebook or linkedin pages?
• Send a few emails to organizations where you'd like to tell.
• Update your basic press release.
6. Tell someone a story. Do you live with room-mates, family, friends? Do you have a telephone or an internet connection? 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.
7. Join the Virtual Storytelling Guild. You can share stories from the comfort of your own home, listen to others tell in real time, and share the fire of storytelling, all through video-conference. 

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

(c)2011 and 2020 Laura S. Packer

Gratitude: Observations and readings

We are in the gratitude season. Honestly, I think it's always gratitude season, but right now it's everywhere. The reminders to be grateful are relentless. They are also necessary. In our busy, fretful lives it's easy to forget that most of the time, most of us are very, very lucky.

I have had a gratitude practice for many years. It's part of what kept me going after Kevin died; I would write down three things I was grateful for every day. There were days when that list was simply, "Kevin, Kevin, Kevin," but over time other things began to creep in. It was part of how I knew I would survive, even if sometimes I didn't really want to.

I am so grateful to you, the readers of this blog. Thank you for accompanying me for so long and so well. While much of my storytelling blogging has moved over to Patreon (check it out for posts, signed books, coaching, stories, and more), please know I still appreciate you, see you, and will continue to post here from time to time.

What follows is a gift, the Gratitude entry from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story. While this was previously published here, it's been expanded and revised. Over on Patreon I've shared the Sharing the Fire and Self Care entries from the Audience to Zeal Workbook, never before published online. They include readings and exercises to keep you going when your storytelling or personal flames might be low. I hope you enjoy both.

While these writing are specific for storytellers, I think there is utility and maybe even wisdom for everyone here.

Gratitude

excerpted from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story
(c) Laura Packer


We are so lucky to do this work. No matter the size of your audience, if we have one person who really wants to hear us, we’re far luckier than many, many people. No matter what critique we receive, if we get up and tell again, we are lucky and strong and can be grateful for the opportunity. No matter if we fail, make a mistake, struggle with jealousy or insecurity or any of the other demons that haunt us, every time we stand on a stage, we are so lucky that we can step beyond our own limitations.

We are so lucky to hear these stories. Every time we listen to a story we are being shown into someone else's world in a deep and intimate way. Every time we listen deeply to a storyteller we are giving them the gift of doing the work they love. Every time we are kind to a beginning storyteller or are moved by an accomplished one, we are opening ourselves up to awe, to connecting with someone else, to stopping the tumult for just a little while.

All of this is no accident. By our own hard work, talent and the whim of the universe, we are able to stand up and tell stories in front of interested audiences, be they kids, festival crowds, business people, or conference attendees. This is something to be grateful for. By cultivating a sense of gratitude for your work, your audiences, your colleagues, and more, you become more resilient when things aren’t just right and more receptive to opportunity. Ongoing research has established that cultivating gratitude makes everything better.

• Gratitude opens the door to more relationships. Storytelling is all about relationships. When we are grateful for those relationships and express that gratitude we are more likely to be remembered and invited back. When I let my audiences know I am grateful for their time, when I thank those who hire me, I am letting them know that they are just as valued as anyone else. We all need to hear that from time to time. 
• Gratitude improves physical health. My body is my instrument. When I am grateful for it I take better care of it. If gratitude will help my body endure all I put it through (this traveling life takes a toll) then I will be grateful for it every day!
• Gratitude improves psychological health. When we are grateful we are less likely to hold onto toxic emotions. What I am feeling is reflected in my performance, no matter how practiced I am. If I take the stage with gratitude I am less likely to remain annoyed at the promoter who misspelled my name or any of the other myriad annoyances. 
• Gratitude enhances empathy and reduces aggression. Storytelling is all about building empathy. Our brains are more likely to respond empathetically when we hear a story. If gratitude will help me feel more empathy then I'm all for it. 
• Grateful people sleep better. Studies suggest writing in a gratitude journal before going to sleep can improve sleep. As storytellers we need to be rejuvenated and sleep helps. 
• Gratitude improves self-esteem. Who doesn't need a little help here now and again? We are more likely to stop comparing ourselves to others when we feel grateful for them.
• Gratitude increases mental strength. We all need strength. Performing - heck, life - can be exhausting. 

We are so lucky. Remember that and be grateful. Be grateful for every performing opportunity, for every audience member, for every time you hear a story even if you've heard it a million times already. When we are grateful we expand the possibilities for storytelling. Our gratitude will be obvious to the world.

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If you're read From Audience to Zeal I have a quick question for you

Do you have a favorite entry in From Audience to Zeal? I'm asking because I'm working on an article about it and want to include the topics most people found useful. Thanks!

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Doing it anyway

"a walk in the rain" by Jeff Mendoza.
See more of his work here.

I spent this past weekend at the National Storytelling Conference (NSC), a wonderful gathering of colleagues and friends. It's packed full of workshops, keynotes, performances, and a whole lot of chatting with people I see only once a year. It's great.

It's also tremendously difficult. I first attended the NSC with Kevin and continued to attend them with him for the rest of his life. There are many memories and associations at the conference, as well as many moments when I desperately want to turn to him and say whaddya think? Going through the conference without that intimate connection, without that person to whom I can say anything, without Kevin, it's hard. Add to that the truth that the many people at the conference knew Kevin and love him still, it becomes something of a minefield.

It's something of a minefield but I go anyway. Why? I hear you ask. I ask myself the same thing, and each time I come back to the same realizations, some of which have to do with him and some do not.

1. Revisiting relatively safe places that are triggering can help me access good memories I otherwise might not be able to find. I see Kevin everywhere at the NSC. I see him laughing, listening, telling, moving, alive. I remember him more fully. 
2. I reminds me that I can still share things with him, I just need to listen differently for his response. I talk to him just about every day. At the NSC I talk to him even more. thinking things like Did you see that? or What do you think about that? or Hey, look who's here!
3. I connect with those who also love him, and remembering him together feels good. It helps me know I'm not alone in missing him.
4. The event has its own value and Kevin would be really pissed if he knew I avoided it because of him. Spending a weekend with people who love storytelling as much I do replenishes me.
5. The price of love is grief. Knowing this now, I can prepare. I can plan on enough down time, find people to catch me when I'm falling, avoid the things I know will be really hard (like singing May the Circle Be Unbroken and calling out the names of those who have died). I can make choices.

Five years on, I find grief is like the rain. It is unavoidable, but now I have a little more understanding of how I can cope with it. I can avoid it, but that doesn't mean it's not there. I can let myself be drenched and give myself over to it, knowing now that I will eventually dry off and emerge again. I can bring an umbrella and chose to walk in it anyway, knowing I will get wet but I'll be okay. I am certain that I couldn't process triggering events and places like this when I was only a year or two out. They devastated me. Now, sometimes I choose to walk in the rain.

I don't choose to do it anyway every time, there are some places I may never visit again, but I now know I can choose. Sometimes, anyway. Besides, Kevin would kick my butt if I didn't get into the world, let myself be seen and loved, tell my stories, and live.

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Where do stories come from?

This was originally posted on my Patreon, back in January 2019. Most of my blogging is now over there; this week I'm musing on what it takes to coach effectively and how this is its own kind of story. For as little as $3 a month you can get all the great content you're used to, fun rewards, and the satisfaction of knowing you are helping me create more art and making your appreciation tangible.

Almost every writer and storyteller I know has heard, "I would love to do what you do, but I don't have any ideas. Where do your stories come from?" Science fiction writer Barry Longyear published the collection It Came From Schenectady as a tongue-in-cheek response, saying that he subscribed to a mail order service based in Schenectady and they sent him ideas monthly. I sometimes long to be as snarky, but the answer is a lot more complicated.

I find inspiration for stories in all kinds of places, from existing works to the overheard, from my life to the odd reaches of my own imagination. Sometimes these ideas bloom into stories with almost no effort. Other times it takes real labor to figure out what it is I really want to say. And every so often there will be an idea that lingers for a long time until it turns into something unexpected. It's this last kind of story I want to think about with you, today.

One of my favorite of my own stories is called Blood Woman. It's a dark, first-person fabulist tale that explores love, domestic violence, and what we might do to protect those we care about. The protagonist is a woman who bleeds rubies and cries diamonds. I don't tell it often because it disturbs audiences, but it has become a part of my Haunted: Stories for the Brave of Heart show. I love this story. I love the character, the images, the places it lets me go. It took years to uncover and I am so glad I gave it time to emerge.

Blood Woman and a few others are what I call "pearl" stories because, like a pearl, they start with a small irritant and take time to form into something meaningful. These are stories that start from a single, powerful image. The image stays with me for a long, long time and, if I'm wise and mull on it, it will emerge into a story in its own time. The narrative needs to slowly accrete around the image. The precipitating image in Blood Woman was a girl's arm with a scratch, nothing serious but the kind of wound she might get while playing, with a few drops of blood. A single drop falls from her arm and lands on the ground, shimmering. The image always included the sound of bells and the taste of salt.

Had I rushed the narrative I probably would have come up with something interesting, maybe a fairy tale about a spunky girl who finds her fortune, but because I waited I found a much more powerful story. It's one that took time to craft and create. Had I rushed, the image would have been a nice one, but not the central theme.

This isn't the only time I've had an image haunt me. I wish I could say I gave each lingering image time to become a pearl story, but I haven't. When I haven't the story is inconsequential and I often end up removing it from my working repertoire. When I do let the image take its time as it grows into a story, it might become something special.

This is, of course, not the only way I develop stories, but it is one of the more interesting and mysterious. The creative process requires us to trust ourselves and our instincts about our work; I can think of no better example of this than pearl stories.

Have you ever had a similar experience? What happened? I'd love to know!
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Catching up week 2: Being present in the moment with writing, teaching, performing

Coming back to blogging feels good. I needed the break so I could give myself permission to write about something other than grief. Kevin and his loss are a huge part of my life, but I want to write about so many things. As I said in my rise from the blogging ashes, I'm back and a lot of things are going on. This is the second of several posts catching you up on my life and things that have been preoccupying me.

Of late I've been present with the idea of presence, especially in my work. In this instance I define presence as calm existence in the current moment, within my current context. When I am more present while working I am more likely to find a flow state; it continues to be an interesting journey and thought exercise. The word presence has a lot of new-age baggage attached to it, but the basic premise of benign the moment and aware of the context, the audience, and the purpose has great value for me.

Writing is an exercise in presence. While it requires reflection and thought, time and recrafting, planning and purpose, the act of writing is grounded in this moment, this emotion, this thought. It engages my brain like little else, except perhaps teaching, coaching, and performing. I am fortunate and grateful that I find these elements of my work all-encompassing; they are among the things that nourish me the most.

Writing From Audience to Zeal and its accompanying workbook (due out in about two months from Small Tooth Dog Publishing Group) was an exercise in presence. It triggered imposter syndrome like few things have, so I frequently had to refocus, remind myself that I do know what I'm talking about, and write another few sentences. There was a lot of swearing and short little walks around the house. It was when I could be present with the topic, with the words, with my own 25+ years of experience that the writing flowed.

I don't always find writing so hard, but I tell you this as an example of the importance of being in the moment when writing, at least for me. Other kinds of writing (such as memoir pieces, stories, poems, journaling) are more easily infused with presence. I suspect this is because I am less concerned with the audience, it's more about my own satisfaction in the creative process.

Teaching and performing each require a different kind of presence.

I love teaching. It's funny, the imposter syndrome I fight with when writing instructive material rarely arises when I teach. I think it's because the audience is right in front of me and I am able to focus on them. I am present. This is the case even in largely online courses, such as the upcoming Right Livelihood Professional Training (co-taught with Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg) and Storytelling From Audience to Zeal: Finding, Crafting, and Telling Great Stories.

Right Livelihood Professional Training helps people find and follow their calling, so it requires some real self-examination on my part. I need to ask myself all the questions we ask our students so I know I'm engaged and teaching from an authentic place. It requires presence. Storytelling from Audience to Zeal has required me to craft a storytelling class with both live interactive and offline self-paced components. It's requiring my presence the process so it's easier for students to be present in their own learning. I need to look at each exercise with clear vision and make sure it's comprehensible outside of my own head. Both of these classes have taught me to be a better teacher because I must be more attentive.

Finally, performing requires deep presence on several levels. I need to be present internally, with the story and my own process, as well as with the audience in their context. This means I can't afford to get distracted by what I might make for dinner, my own imposter syndrome, or anything. I want to give the audience my very best, and the best that I am is in that moment. This applies to every performance, whether it's from a stage, in a corporate meeting room, during a keynote, or around a campfire.

All of this brings me back to blogging. I find writing a blog is an in-the-moment experience, combining aspects of performance (because I know the audience is right there) and writing (crafting effective written communication), not to mention instruction when I'm pontificating on a particular point of storytelling technique. It's good to be back. It's good to connect with you. It's good to be present.

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Catching up week 1: The Book

As promised, for the next several weeks I'll catch you up on the busy-ness of my life. You can read the whole list (though I may not cover each topic in a stand-alone post) here.

It's taken many years and several false starts, but I have finally published a storytelling book. From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story is a compendium of essays on a wide range of storytelling topics. I'm sharing my 25+ years of experience in a conversational, intimate collection that covers practical topics and some of the lesser known aspects of being a working artist. I am delighted with the way it's turned out, in no small part thanks to Sean Buvala and the Small Tooth Dog Publishing Group. Working with them was a terrific experience and I've learned so much about myself as storyteller, writer, and human being. At some point I will write about my own emotional journey with this book and the subsequent marketing (because writing it is only a small part of the work) but for now, I wanted to tell you about it.

From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story is unlike most other storytelling books. It's a cross between a dictionary with short, practical discussions on a wide variety of topics, and a storytelling memoir which includes many personal recollections to help illustrate different points of the craft. I was inspired in part by Anne Lamott's approach in Bird by Bird, which reinforced the idea that you cannot separate the teacher from the material. This seems especially true in an art like storytelling and even truer for a storyteller like me.

My great hope is that you will find From Audience to Zeal to be informative, instructive, and interesting. I wrote it imagining we were chatting about storytelling over a cup of tea; I want to be your storytelling ally. It is intentionally conversational and intimate. I cannot separate myself from the way I talk about storytelling and I didn't want to struggle to be less present in the text.

So how do you use it? There are several approaches and each has its own advantages.

1. Use it like a dictionary. As you continue your storytelling journey you will encounter questions, this is inevitable and good, since it means you're trying new things. When you do, pick up Audience to Zeal and look up whatever is puzzling you. You may not find an exact entry that addresses your concern, but I bet you'll find something related. For example, you may have an upcoming gig with elders in a memory care unit. While the forthingcoming workbook addresses exactly this scenario, Audience to Zeal does not have an entry specifically for this. 
Instead, you might read the entries for audience, interruptions, and set lists. Those three together will give you a good head start for your gig. You might be working on a presentation for your team. Again, while the forthcoming workbook will address this, Audience to Zeal does not. You could read the entries on applied storytelling, movement and gesture, anecdote, and sensory detail for a pretty good start.

2. Read it cover-to-cover. I suspect most readers will dive right in and start reading. Each essay is both independent and interwoven with other concepts from the book. If you read it cover-to-cover you may encounter the same illustrative story used several times, but in different ways. This was intentional, because it demonstrates how very flexible stories are and how important it is to take the audience and context into account. Reading it cover-to-cover will give you a mountain of resources, ideas, and exercises to use in your storytelling practice. It will also tell you quite a bit about me and my approach to the world. Reading it this way is perhaps more like sitting and chatting than using it like a dictionary.

3. Use it as a tool to become a better storyteller. You can think of Audience to Zeal as a kind of prompt book. Each week, or on whatever schedule works for you, open up to an entry. This could be at random or sequentially. Read it through, then spend some time working on that particular component of storytelling. Write an essay about it. Think about what you agree with or don't find useful. Try the exercises it may mention. Talk it out with a friend. See how this topic is already part of your storytelling practice, could be incorporated or may never be included. Ask yourself why.


Most of all, use the book in whatever way works best for you. I truly hope you learn something from it, maybe disagree with parts of it, gain clarity on what storytelling is for you, and that it helps you continue your journey. I'd love to hear your story about Audience to Zeal and how it affected your approach to the art and craft of storytelling.

Next week I'm going to spend some time musing on the challenges of being a working artist and tell you about some of my new projects. Thanks for coming along with me as I return to blogging.

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Ask the storyteller returns!

A few years ago I ran a blog series called #askthestoryteller. It was a lot of fun and a good way to get conversations going about different storytelling topics. I'm relaunching it today, but monthly instead of weekly. I don't think you or I want to have to ask and answer questions quite that often!

I'm starting with a question raised by storyteller Jennifer Cayley. She recently lost her beloved partner and asked me if any traditional tales were helpful to me as I moved through my grief over losing my husband. I am naming her with her permission and gratitude.


Let me start with my deepest condolences on the loss of Jan. I am so very sorry.


Traditional stories have been helping humans understand the tough things in life for as long as we've been human. They deal with love and loss, life and death. It is no surprise that these stories have endured so well; they help us know that our experience is part of the universal human experience and that we are not alone.

That being said, I struggled with traditional material in the months after Kevin died. While many folk and fairy tales deal with bereavement, most aim for some version of "happily ever after" and I had no faith that such a fate was available to me. Even now, in another relationship, it's an entirely different understanding of happily ever after. A few fairy tales about weeping helped a bit, but the happily ever after repulsed me.

Instead what appealed to me were, and are, some of the big epic stories, in particular Isis and Osiris and the story of Sedna.

Isis and Osiris helped me feel less alone. This ancient Egyptian myth is at least four thousand years old, so it helped me place my loss in the continuity of human existence; as long as we have loved, we have lost those we love. As long as we will love, we will lose those we love. I felt part of a timeline and so less alone. Isis loved Osiris fiercely and, even with her magic, could not fully bring him back to life. This helped me feel less helpless in my inability to alter the course of Kevin's illness.

The Inuit story of the goddess Sedna, while not about a lost spouse, helped tremendously. I think there is something about her rage to live and the implacability of her death that gave me solace. There is also the cruelty of the father's action that reminded me of cancer, so perhaps this story helped me see Kevin as transformed instead of gone. Lastly, Sedna is soothed by having her hair combed and I was hungry for gentle touch.

I kept reading stories and looking for the one that answered my pain, but I found no one remedy. As time has passed, I've found the stories of Koschei the Deathless have been helpful, because they remind me that immortality may not be all it's cracked up to be. I have also found comfort in some myths of lovers reunited in the stars.

Jennifer, while this is in no way a complete answer, I hope this helps some. I know you will find stories that give you solace and, when you're ready, I would love to know which worked for you.

Readers, what stories help you when you are in dark places? How do you connect with stories and use them to connect with others? And what would you like me to muse on in the next #askthestoryteller?

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(c)2018 Laura S. Packer

Storytime: Body and Soul

I thought, in light of ongoing world events, we could use a little Monday morning help keeping body and soul together.

I learned this story from Patricia McMahon, many years ago. We both were attending Tuesday night storytelling with Brother Blue in a basement bookstore in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Those were formative days for me, learning to listen and tell stories from some of the best storytellers around. It was before storytelling had become a buzzword; storytelling venues were few and far between and so this was sacred and rarified time. I went one night every week crammed in with others who were hungry for story. It was nourishing in the deepest of ways.

Patricia was one of my favorite storytellers. Every time she got up I knew I would hear something well-crafted and interesting. For the most part she was working her way through a novel, telling it eight-minutes at a time, but every now and then she'd tell something different. This is one of those something different stories.

Patricia heard Body and Soul from another teller, who had heard it from another teller, and so on. She knew it as a Sufi story and so I tell it as such. I've not been able to find a definitive source for this story, but there is a reference to a similar Arabian story in The Sufi Message of Hazrat Inayat Khan: Sufi Mysticism, by Hazrat Inayat Khan. I like the version I learned from Patricia and now tell, because it explains how to best keep body and soul together using tools we all have available to us all of the time.

I hope you enjoy this story.


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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

50 for 50 day 37: With gratitude for Brother Blue

This is post 37 of 50 celebrating my 50th birthday. You can find the rest here.

I've written before about Brother Blue (there are so many posts about him, maybe start here). Raconteur, storyteller, street poet, holy fool, he gave me and so many others permission to be who we are. He was the self-described "greatest storyteller in the world." Maybe he was. He was certainly like no one else.

I would not be who I am were it not for Brother Blue. Here is a little Blue to light the way forward.


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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Truth, honesty, and storytelling

I've been thinking a lot lately about the nature of truth. This has been brought on by many things including the news; a panel I'm part of concerning truth and storytelling; and my own tendency towards over analysis. It's a big issue and one I won't solve here, but it's worth exploring.

Several years ago I was in the audience at a story slam. The theme was "Beginnings." For those of you unfamiliar with slams, the rules usually state that the stories told must be original, somehow relate to the theme, short, and true. The events happened. Slams are judged events and the winner can get anything from a moment of glory to cash prizes.

The winning story was a poignant one, about the teller's birth. It was beautifully constructed, well-told and fit with the theme. We were all in tears. He won and rightly so; it was hands-down the best story of the night. A few days later it was revealed he had made the whole thing up. It was fiction. The local storytelling community was in an uproar, feeling betrayed and questioning the artform itself.

One could speculate endlessly on why he did this, he certainly knew the rules, but that isn't the point of this essay. I'm interested in the question of factual truth, emotional truth, and honesty in storytelling. I've written about some of the technical issues of truth and storytelling before, but this time let's think about philosophy. There is no way this essay can dive deeply into these topics (whole lives have been spent on them) but I'd love to start a conversation.

So what is truth? Honestly, that sentence always seems like it should be the punchline of some obscure joke. I don't know if objective truth exists, my personal philosophy tends towards not.

I do know that there are facts. Factual truths, for the purposes of this essay in the context of storytelling, are verifiable. I was born in a hospital in Philadelphia. I was premature and underweight. Evidence exists. Emotional truths (again for the purposes of this essay) are those metaphors, similes, fictions and sometimes verifiable events, that hold emotional power and meaning, revealing something about what it is to be human. I was born in a hospital in Philadelphia. I was premature and underweight. I was a small, scrawny, homely infant, yet when my father first saw me he cried, "She's beautiful!" To an objective viewer I was anything but beautiful (really, I've seen the pictures) but to my father I was exquisite. Both are true. One view contains emotional truth even if it might not be verifiably factual.

One of the wonderful things about storytelling is that we can express emotional truth through many means. Personal or factual stories, fiction, myths, fairy tales, and more. Because storytelling is neurologically powerful, we need to remember that the emotional truths we share can easily cause powerful reactions. Storytellers, whether intentionally or not, are truth-tellers if for no other reason than that we are wired for story. I would hope that we all use these different kinds of truth ethically, remembering that we are directly messing with our listeners' brains. It doesn't matter if you're telling a funny story, a fairy tale, a tall tale, a personal recollection, or something else, they all contain some form of emotional truth. We laugh at things that are absurd because we KNOW they are saying something about what is real. We need metaphor to help us understand the world and our lives. And those deep, personal stories help us all know we are not alone.

Which leads me to honesty. There is absolutely nothing wrong with telling a story that doesn't contain factual truth. The emotional truth makes it worthwhile and worth hearing. What we must do, as artists and craftspeople, is to remain honest with ourselves and with our audiences. Let the story serve the greater purpose of conveying emotional truth, but don't be afraid to own that you may have altered facts to serve truth. They are not "alternative facts." Fiction and metaphor are a vital part of what it is to be human and gives us safe ways to talk about the unspeakable. It may still be true and is no less powerful for not having actually happened. We have always needed fiction and metaphor, and we always will; the morally ambiguous moment is when fiction is presented as fact.

In performance storytelling practice, I'm certain many "true" personal stories have been polished a bit to be better stories, but if they retain most of their factual truth and it enhances their emotional truth, I'm okay with it. We violate trust only when we present something largely fictional as factual.

Storytelling gives us a way to craft the truths we hope are real. It gives us tools to speak of the things that might be too difficult to say otherwise. And we become responsible for the truths we offer, so we must remember our obligation to the audience to not deceive them as they strive towards their own truth.

All of this raises the question of how storytellers can present the story honestly to the audience with neither exposition nor apology, but still owning what kind of truth exists within. You don't want your audience to listen less deeply because they think the story isn't true, but you don't want to lie to them. This essay is long enough without tackling this issue and I don't have a magic solution, though there are several possibilities, three of which I'd like to touch on here, then build upon in another essay.

• You could, for example, weave in some kind of I wish that that was the way it had happened statement, perhaps at the end of the story. This tells the audience it isn't factual but emotional truth you're striving for, and may add to the poignancy of the whole thing. I do this in several stories, including Retellings and The Longest Day of My Life. In the first I tell the facts of the matter, then retell it the way I wish it had happened; while in the second I tell the facts and admit to the lack of resolution, then give myself the ending I wish had happened. Both are emotionally satisfying and give the audience honesty as well as meaning.
• You could create a fictional setting in which to set your stories. Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone stories are full of emotional truth and appear to be factual, yet everyone knows they are fiction. His audience is more than willing to suspend disbelief. I do something similar in my Crazy Jane stories. 
• You could present yourself as an unreliable narrator, then tell it however you want. Something as simple as, "I think this is how it happened, but it might not all be true" will make your audience laugh and identify with you, since everyone exaggerates from time to time. It also allows your audience to listen on several levels at once, for both emotional truth and with a grain of salt around the facts.

So what do I think happened with the teller in that slam? He told a powerful, emotionally true story. I wish he had told it in a different setting or had given us a hint that it was what he had hoped for, and that he hadn't felt the need to deceive his audience. But I don't really condemn him for all that I think he was dishonest. We all yearn for emotional truth, recognition and that sense that we are not alone. We all yearn for the facts of our lives to be different. Maybe he was telling the truth as he wished it had been. We all do. We just need to remember to be honest in the process as we search for our own truths.

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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

What to do when emotions rise during performance: Three tips

Hilda Dokubo
courtesy wikimedia

A few weeks ago I wrote about storytelling and telling tenderness. A risk of letting tenderness inform our stories and performances is that emotions may rise up unexpectedly when we tell. I’m not talking about when our audiences express emotions when we tell something meaningful, but the times when we are telling and find ourselves experiencing an upwelling of feeling.

For example, when I tell stories about Kevin I sometimes find myself on the brink of tears. How should I manage this? Should I not tell stories about him? Should I only tell these stories once I have thoroughly processed the emotions I feel when I talk about his life and death?

There are some who believe we can only tell stories that we have thoroughly processed. Others believe storytelling is inevitably a kind of therapy so it’s okay to tell truly raw pieces. I think both of these are extremes: If we wait to tell a given story until we have thoroughly processed the emotions attaches we may never tell certain important stories, but if we use storytelling performance as a substitute for therapy we violate the trust of the audience by forcing them to worry about the teller and their own experience of the story is sabotaged.

I know, beyond a doubt, that part of a being professional means I craft narrative that leaves room for the audience to have their own experience of the story; they have my permission to not really think about me if my story sends them into their own narrative. This is part of the story triangle, which I have written about extensively here. I also know, beyond a doubt, that storytelling like any other art has therapeutic applications for the artist and that some experiences will always be raw. If we talk about them there is a risk that our own emotions will well up.

So how do I balance this? How do I tell stories that are emotionally alive for me without violating the audience’s trust? What do I do when I slip and feel more than I intended?

• I try to head the problem off by practicing. If I know a story is likely to evoke a response I don’t want to reveal in my performance, I can make it predictable and so build a pause into the performance. There is a point in a particular Crazy Jane story where, every single time, my throat gets tight. Since I know it’s coming I now have a natural pause there, so I have a moment to swallow before I continue. Practicing also helps me develop some insulation from the emotion, so I am less likely to have an unexpected response than if I’d not practiced.
• If I do have a strong, unexpected response, I can often counter it by imagining the next part of the story as a series of PowerPoint slides. Nothing sucks the emotion out of a moment more than PowerPoint. If I can pause for a beat, see the bullet points of the next scene as a slide, I can usually regain control over my wandering emotions pretty quickly and easily. You may need a different metaphor from PowerPoint, this is the one that works for me.
• Lastly, if I do need a moment, if I get teary or need to take a breath, I remind myself that storytelling audiences are generally very understanding. I may pause, take a breath, smile and thank them, then continue. I find audiences appreciate honesty and vulnerability enough that, as long as I don’t run off the stage sobbing, they understand and will give me a little latitude. 
I should add, I have never needed to stop entirely. I’ve always practiced enough that I was able to continue with a deep breath or two. Professionalism matters.

These tips work for me. You may find other ways to balance the necessary honesty and vulnerability with professionalism. I’d love to know what works for you!

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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Three ways to bloom into a better storyteller

This was originally published in my newsletter along with some subscriber extras. If you want more content like this please sign up. I promise not to spam you or sell your name.

Spring is in full force where I live. I look out the window and the forsythia blooms bounce in the breeze like captured sunlight. The magnolia is opening up to the world as if it's sipping the air. The green shoots of crocus, hyacinth, and daffodils are everywhere.

I spent most of my adult life (to date) in New England, where spring was precarious. We never knew when a frost might rush in and doom the new growth, all the while knowing that summer would land on us before we were ready to give up the tender colors of the world reborn. In my current hometown, spring is a long, drawn-out affair, sultry and unmistakable. I love it. For the first time in my life, I really get spring.

In light of all the lovely life surrounding me, I wanted to offer you three ways you can nourish your own, artistic spring, three ways you can grow into a better storyteller.

1. Regardless of where you are in your artistic journey, remember that growth takes time. You plant a seed and then you have to wait. If you dig it up to check on it, you'll disrupt that vital, dark, embryonic time that all art needs to bloom. 
2. Once you have a sprout of an idea for a new story, a new way of working, or a new path, you nourish it, give it enough water, protect it from harsh environments and make sure it has adequate sunlight. Pulling on it won't help it grow any faster. Giving it the right kinds of support will. 
3. Once that story has bloomed, it may need pruning to make it the best it can be. Don't let your ego or attachment to a given phrase stop you from crafting the best story possible. Keep asking yourself why you love the story, how does it serve the audience, is it crafted to serve both your needs and those of the listener, and so on. 

How do you support your own artistic spring? Don't go it alone. Talk with friends, fellow artists or others in your community. Consider hiring a coach. Tell your story to people you know understand how tender, new art can be easily crushed and ask them for help nourishing it. I wrote recently about the power of appreciation in the workplace; this applies to artists as well. Get appreciated. And remember that being the best storyteller you can requires time, practice, encouragement and the faith that spring will come.

I hope you spring into new art and new life this year. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance.

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(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Tender stories and storytellers

Here we are, March first. I know that winter may not be done everywhere, but the beginning of March has always felt like the start of spring to me. Here in Kansas City, green shoots are nosing their way out of the ground. The crocuses are in bloom and the first forsythia showed yesterday. I know, some of this is unfortunate, due to climate change, and those tender buds are likely in for a chilly surprise, but still, these glimpses of spring help lighten my outlook. We have survived another winter and can loosen our armor, we can be revealed again as tender beings.

I've written before about storytelling and vulnerability, pointing out Brene´ Brown's beloved TED talk. I wanted to take a moment to remind myself that tenderness is vulnerability's sister, and just as important.

It's easy to focus on the negative connotations of tenderness. Easily hurt, weak or delicate, immature. Yet the word has other meanings that I think have relevance to performance storytelling and art making in general. Not tough. Gentle. Moved to emotion easily.

We all enter the world as tender beings. We are vulnerable, soft, delicate, moved to emotion easily. As we grow we toughen up, hiding the tenderness that still exists under the skin because it is too risky, too vulnerable to let it show.

New stories are tender things, like babies or those new shoots poking out of the ground, requiring a gentle touch to grow into the rugged moments on stage. When we recognize the tenderness at the beginning we are less likely to be frustrated when the story grows at its own pace - you can't hasten a flower by pulling on the stem. When we remember the tenderness of the beginning we can approach each telling with joy in the creation, with wonder that it even exists. When we let glimmers of our own tenderness show - say the affection we hold for the villain, the truth that a story still has meaning to us - the audience may be more likely to let themselves experience it all more deeply.

How do you allow tenderness into your art? Here are some possibilities.

• In early development, let yourself feel how a story affects you. Ask yourself why you are drawn to it, why you feel how you feel about it. Understand your own tenderness.
• Appreciate the tender moments in the story. What happens when the protagonist sees their love for the first time? What about when we remember the shame linked to part of a personal narrative? If we let ourselves feel those things as the story develops we can more easily communicate it to our listeners.
• Let yourself feel tenderness for your characters and narratives. Sure, your bad guys may be utterly reprehensible, but if you understand where they are tender they will be that much more believable and maybe just a little bit sympathetic. When your audience can sympathize with the villain they fall more deeply into the story and are left with more to think about. Even Disney villains have a tender spot we can feel for - Jafar has been overlooked for his brother his whole life. The wicked queen has only her beauty for comfort and is deeply betrayed by the mirror's honesty.
• Honor your own tenderness throughout the process. Don't think you need to become hard and cynical to become an effective teller. Leave room for your own heart and the hearts of your audience. Some of the best, funniest storytellers I've ever heard have tenderness at the core of their narrative. 

I'd love to know how tenderness helps or impedes your art. What do you think?

(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Creativity in times of stress: This is how it started video

I wrote last week about the power and frustration of everyday life when something hugely disruptive occurs. I wrote about it in the context of grief as well as in the current U.S. political climate.

As an artist, I have been somewhat stymied in the last few years. I'm working, I'm performing, but Kevin's death has changed the way my creative process functions. It is much harder. I feel as though I'm operating in a vacuum, that my greatest ally, co-creator and most constructive critic is no longer around. It feels this way because it's true. In the last year or so I've been slowly finding new ways to create new work, but it's hard.

The recent U.S. election and inauguration has added to my difficulty creating. I find myself questioning the worth and value of the art I make in this climate that feels so antithetical to what I do best. It feels the way it did in the first few months after his death when I felt alone and adrift, that my art could make no difference in the world. I question the value of the work, the thing that has shaped me and my life for years, and therefore my own value.

The answer, of course, is to keep working. To be silenced is to capitulate, to say that yes, the arts in general (and my art in particular) lacks relevance. I don't believe that, though some days it's hard to remember. I believe that now more than ever we need art; as sustenance, as distraction, as fuel for the hard work of creating change; as that necessary break that helps us remember the best of who we are and the possibilities of who we might become.

Part of my answer to the question of my own relevance is to make art that I find meaningful. Part of my answer is to help others find their own voices, to help create space where we all can be heard, to take that subversive step of believing that what we do and who we are still matters.

It's not easy. I am faltering every step of the way. But it's something. It helps me build connection, nourish others and myself, and find a way through in these challenging times.

What arts are nourishing you? What are you creating? How do you keep going? I'd love to know.

The following video was recorded in January of 2017 at the Atlantic City Story Slam. This story has changed some, but it's a start and sometimes letting the flawed process be visible is as important as anything else.



(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Storytelling tips and tricks: Ritual

The first storytelling venue I ever attended, and the one that launched me into this work, was run by the amazing Brother Blue and Ruth Hill. A couple dozen storytellers crammed together in the cafe of a small, basement-level bookstore. It was great. This was before storytelling had taken off, before The Moth, before "storytelling" was a buzzword. We gathered because we loved to hear and tell stories, and Brother Blue was a master who fostered that love in others. If you don't know him, take a look at the video below. If you do, take a look anyway. It's worth it. I'll wait.

Brother Blue was very much his own person. He encouraged us to be "fools for story" just as he was. One of the things he did to make this safe was to start each storytelling gathering with a ritual, wherein he would call upon the muse to help us climb the mountain towards great storytelling. He would declare breath sacred and invite the storytelling to begin. It was great. It was also, to the uninitiated, strange. Why ask for help from the muses? Why do this weird ritual?

We asked for help because any creative act cannot be done in a vacuum. We need help, whether it's from friends and colleagues or from some iteration of then divine. We did the ritual because it mattered to Brother Blue and, over time, it mattered to us. It helped us to shift into the mindset of listening, of doing our best. It helped us understand that the time to tell stories was sacred.

I have become a believer in ritual. Maybe nothing as elaborate as what Brother Blue did, but I know there is real power in setting an intention and then leaning into it. I do this through small rituals. For example, each morning when I start my work day I light a candle and take in five deep, slow breaths. This gives me a chance to come fully into the day, consider what needs to be done and how I should prioritize it. I then review my to-do lists, set some goals and get to work. Another example is in performance. When I was a newer storyteller I would sometimes feel very nervous before I went on stage. I developed the habit of taking a few deep breaths before I stepped out, then looking at the audience and greeting them, saying good morning or good evening, whatever was appropriate. By so doing I acknowledged them, I started a relationship with them politely, and I had a ritual to give myself a moment on the stage before I launched into the story. I still take a few deep breaths and greet the audience in some way.

My rituals have changed over time. None of them are as elaborate as Brother Blue calling the muse, but they serve a role in my creative and working life. They give me a chance to ground myself and a way to remember that the work I do is meaningful, bigger than I am.

Ritual helps us see ourselves as part of a continuum of work. It helps us state our role in the web of the world. It helps us remember why we do what we do. It helps us set aside the time we need for something we might otherwise consider foolish. It doesn't matter where you're telling stories - the classroom, stage or boardroom - what matters is that you take a moment to remind yourself that this is real, this is meaningful, this matters. It can be as subtle as a breath or as broad as calling out to the muse.

What rituals might you use or are you using? I'd love to know.

brother blue: Boston's griot from joshua bee alafia on Vimeo.

(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Link round-up: Opportunities, application, international, related arts

At the end of each month I'm offering a round-up of storytelling related links, a list of things I found interesting. I hope you find these useful. Please send me any that you'd like me to consider for this post next month, though I can't promise to use all that I receive.




Opportunities

• Scholarships are available for the Northeast Regional Storytelling Conference (one I ran for several years!). 
• Somerville celebrates with storytelling. 
• National Storytelling Week opportunity

Storytelling-in-action, performance and more

• Dial-a-story (I love this!)
• Indianapolis in WWI through story. 
• Build a better press release with storytelling techniques. 
• Storytelling to help people with dementia.
• Storytelling is booming via the Moth and others. 

International news

• A story of Egypt
• Preserving Guyanese storytelling
• Indian storytelling show similar to This American Life

Related arts

• Painted storytelling.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Storytelling tips and tricks: Interviews

I love backstory. This is the stuff that the audience may never know but can significantly deepen your understanding of your story and characters, so your telling will become richer. For example, if you tell the Three Little Pigs it might be interesting to know if the wolf is truly hungry, if he was bullied by pigs when he was a pup, or if he just wants some shelter and kind conversation but has poor social skills. Your telling might change based on your answers, even if you never share that information with the audience.

I would love to say I always take the time to develop backstory but that would be untrue. What I can tell you is that when I do take the time, I always learn something that makes the story more meaningful to me and pushes me to be a better storyteller.

One of my very favorite ways to develop backstory and therefore deepen my understanding of the story is interviewing. I get together with a trusted friend, one whom I know is interested in helping me be a better artist, and I tell them just a little bit about the story I'm working on. I give them a general outline of events and characters. Then I select one of the characters and invite them to ask me questions as if they were interviewing the character.

I do this only with trusted allies because I need to know I won't be interrupted while I answer and that they will let me think my answers through. The interviewer needs to let the subject remain in charge of the interview.

Once the ground rules are set, we begin. Typical questions might include:

• What is your name? Why were you named that?
• Do you have any siblings?
• Who was your best friend when you were young?
• What do you think of so-and-so (another character from the story)?
• What makes you happy?
• Do you have any career goals?
• etc

Sometimes you'll uncover something that might be a real story-changer or may lead you to a new story entirely, a piece of backstory you didn't expect. My first-person telling of Hansel and Gretel from the witch's perspective came out of one of these exercises. This technique extends far beyond traditional material. Try it with a personal story or something out of the public domain. It can get pretty silly but it just about always yields some kind of new information about the character or story. You may not need to share this information with your audience but it might change how you present a character or a situation. For instance, did you know the Big Bad Wolf used to keep kosher? 

I'd love to know how this works for you. 

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer