A Short Course in Storytelling

My background is in technical writing with years of documenting software during my career, then blogging about personal finance during retirement.

When I set out to write my memoir, I knew I could construct sentences efficiently, recount events precisely, and describe scenery accurately.

But, after receiving my first critiques from experienced memoirists and novelists, I realized I was lacking a critical skill for writing fiction or narrative nonfiction: storytelling.

Example

Instead of summarizing like this:

A thin, old woman in jeans walked slowly toward us. She had silver hair and wore a Stetson hat. When I pulled my bike off the trail to let her pass we exchanged pleasantries. She smiled and kept walking. Then Stuart and I looked at each other, impressed by how she moved. Stuart confided that he hoped he could move like that at her age, which wouldn’t be long.

I needed to tell a story like this:

Materializing out of the woods, a thin, fit woman easily in her eighties moves toward us with stately precision. She is in jeans, a heavy button-down shirt, and down vest. Long, straight silver hair emerges from under a Stetson hat.

Stopping at a wide spot, I pull my bike off the trail to let her pass.

“Hello, beautiful day!”

“Indeed,” she says softly.

“Thanks for sharing this place with us.” It feels like hers to me, for some reason.

She radiates a gentle smile and continues down the trail.

When she’s gone, Stuart and I look at each other.

“Hope I can move like that at her age.”

“No kidding, and it won’t be long ‘til I find out!” says Stuart.

Summarizing is about communicating facts. But in storytelling, characters take action and experience consequences within a scene.

The difference between storytelling and summarizing is often summed up as “show don’t tell.” The phrase is a good reminder, but if followed slavishly can result in one-dimensional writing stuffed with description and dialogue. That may not sound natural for every genre.

Description

Description is essential to storytelling because it lets readers visualize your locations and characters.

Give readers all the detail they need to see what you see: colors, shades, and textures:

Above, the tangerine dusk bleeds into a yellow glow which then becomes pale-blue sky.

The sunlight washes over expansive vistas south, as distant peaks corrugate the skyline.

But don’t limit your description to the visual. Engage all the senses.

Hearing:

…raindrops begin splatting against my pack.

…my bamboo staff clicking time on the pavement.

Smell/taste:

My simmering soup gives off a hearty, homey aroma, and tastes like real food. I scrape the bottom of the pot feeling like I’ve just finished Thanksgiving dinner.

I pluck the small red berry and pop it into my mouth. The explosion of sweet, complex flavor is unlike any I’ve ever tasted.

Touch/physical sensations:

I am warm and safe, cradled between my father’s comforting presence and the thick summer air.

The tent fabric plasters against the contours of my face, and I feel the crush of mountain air on the opposite side.

Finally, when it comes to description, minimize “filtering” — observing consciousness or describing the environment through a character. These verbs are a warning sign:

noticed, saw, seemed, wondered, realized, remembered, thought

In first-person memoir, you want to remove yourself from the description of the scene, while letting readers see what you see for themselves.

The trees bent and swayed in the wind.

Not:

I saw the trees bending and swaying in the wind.

 Feelings

For readers to identify with your characters, they must feel some of the same emotions. If you’re writing about yourself, as in memoir, that requires baring your soul. There’s little point in writing memoir if you aren’t going to be open about your feelings. Readers just won’t connect with your experience.

What is your inner conflict before deciding or acting?

What are your private thoughts when a dramatic event arises?

What are your speculations when a question is raised or a puzzle appears?

What are your feelings and emotions when a crisis arises or is resolved?

What are your hopes and fears about the outcome of your efforts?

Dialogue

Writing dialogue is an art that requires time and practice to master.

Less is more. Try to get by with minimal structural aids—dialogue tags—for keeping track of who says what in the conversation or enhancing what they say. The preferred dialogue tags are simply forms of “say” or “ask.”

When using dialogue tags other than variations of say or ask, limit them to physical descriptions of speech that aren’t already indicated by the dialogue itself. For example: “blurt,” “mumble,” “mutter,” “scream,” “shout,” “whisper,” “yell.”

Resist the temptation to reinforce a character’s words with narrative emphasis:

“I can’t wait for the first bite,” he enthused.

While verbs of expression can be effective at describing the physical act of speaking, they’re weak at communicating the emotion or mental state behind the speech.

Use descriptions of character action, known as action beats, instead of dialogue tags when possible. These can move the action forward beyond the dialogue content and can imply a character’s mental state:

“Hi Dad.” I look down at my backpack and swallow. “I’m in Duncannon. Thinking of coming home.”

Use a convention, like italic, to set off internal dialogue. This gives you another “channel” for communicating a character’s innermost thoughts to readers:

…steep gravelly slopes dropping off into the canyon below. A tingle runs up and down my spine. I need to pay attention here. I pace ahead, focused on the stark dirt path before me.