Getting ideas for a story

Often aspiring writers will ask the question, “Where do you get your ideas?” As if the most important, difficult part of writing were getting an idea to write about. And many writers, aspiring and otherwise, will say things like, “I have an idea for a story, tell me if you think this is good.” Or “I had an idea for a story, but then someone else stole my idea.” This usually means that someone else produced something similar—not that the idea was literally stolen, but that someone else had a similar enough idea that it seems redundant now. I find this particularly interesting: an idea can be so precious that we think of it as “stolen,” but also so commonplace that two people can have the same idea without ever talking to one another.

Getting a great idea for a story is exciting. It feels precious. And yet you haven’t “gotten” anything—no one comes up with an idea for a story. They just arrive. Sometimes it seems a certain idea’s time has come, and everyone seems to have the same idea at once. In some way, every idea is “stolen,” as all our stories are variations and elaborations on stories we’ve heard or seen told before. A producer once told me, when I asked her what makes a script attractive to her to produce, that you want the idea to be 15% new. The rest should be something we immediately recognize, something familiar.

Two problems I hear from writers, especially aspiring writers, are that either they don’t have any ideas or that they have too many ideas and they don’t know which one to work on. I think these are really the same problem. They don’t know what would be a good idea for a story. First of all, it’s important to say that a good idea for a story is one that grabs you. It’s the idea you keep thinking about. And a good idea for a story probably includes a main character that’s meaningful to you, and you have some idea how it begins and how it ends. Maybe you don’t know how it starts or how it ends but you know a fair amount about the middle. This is great. If you just have an idea for the beginning of the story and you don’t know much about the main character or how it ends, it might not really be a story yet. It might just be an idea, and not all ideas are stories. They can become stories, but stories often start out as an image, or a question, or an idea for an interesting scene. An idea for a scene is not necessarily an idea for a story, but the one can come out of the other.

So it’s important to know the difference between a story and an image, and it’s important to know what grabs you, what makes you want to write. But other than that, we don’t necessarily know in advance what’s a good idea for a story. We often don’t even know after we’re done writing the screenplay. We don’t know even while we’re making a movie. Evidence indicates that while they were making the movie Jaws, their main concern was whether the movie would be acceptable. Not whether it would be the greatest movie of all time. They didn’t want people to think it was ridiculous. They were afraid it would be embarrassing. They were worried they wouldn’t be able even to finish the movie, that they wouldn’t have anything worth showing. They were rewriting the script the whole time they were shooting. One of the actors wrote his own monologue because none of the writers working on the script was doing a good enough job. This was an adaptation of a hit novel—they knew it was a good story, but they still didn’t know whether they would tell it well. Some people consider Jaws one of the greatest films ever made, but they didn’t know that at the time. They just hoped it wouldn’t be a disaster. Telling the story well is easier when you have a good idea, but it’s not guaranteed. Having a good idea for a story is helpful, but it’s just the beginning.

That said, let me offer some guidance in how to find ideas for a story. First, let’s talk about whale watching. If you have ever been whale watching, you know that most of the time you are not watching whales, you are watching the ocean. Then at some point you see a spray as one of the whales comes up to respirate. The boat rushes over, and then you spend the rest of the time waiting to see if the whale comes up again in the same area. Usually it does—sometimes there are a few whales—but there is often a pretty long wait between whale sightings. You’re just looking at the ocean surface. The ocean surface, while ever-changing, is not as exciting as a whale.

As you’re waiting for the whale to resurface, not knowing exactly where it will show up, it is tempting to scour the surface of the water with your eyes, searching for the first sign of a whale. Every wave appears to be the dark shape of a whale surfacing, every bit of sea foam could be the start of a whale spout shooting up. This is exhausting. Your mind becomes fatigued as it searches the ocean for the whale, your attention drifts, and by the time the whale comes back up to the surface, you’re not even looking at the ocean anymore. A much better approach would be to look at the ocean in a relaxed way—after all, looking at the ocean is a famously restful activity—and avoid searching for the whale at all. As it turns out, when a whale appears, it is easy to see. If you are looking in that general direction at all, your eye will naturally be drawn to the sudden spray of white. There’s no need to search the ocean with your eyes. It is more sustainable to simply look out, without directing your attention in any particular way, at the ocean as it is, calm and undisturbed.

What happens when we look for something in the surface of the ocean, is that we stop seeing the ocean itself. We stop seeing what is there, and instead we see an image in our mind of what we’re looking for. We see whales where whales are not, trying to will the whale to appear in one particular spot instead of waiting to discover where the whale actually is. This tension makes it harder for us to wait and harder to see the whale when it actually arrives.

The ocean surface is a chaotic, turbulent visual field, but it’s nothing compared to our own minds. And the ideas for stories that come to us are much more varied and fabulous than even the majestic whales.

Whale watching is a lot easier, it must be said, after you see your first whale. You know what to look for. If you have never written a story (this is unlikely, but I will take your word for it) then the most important thing is to write a story. It doesn’t much matter what the idea is, just grab whatever is at hand. You need to write a story, so that you recognize what an idea for a story looks like. You need to finish the story, even if you aren’t sure how it ends. If you really can’t finish it, then write something else. If you really have trouble finishing stories, take a break. You are starting too soon. If you have trouble starting stories, start before you think you’re ready. But write a story, the next one will be much easier. If all your stories seem terrible to you, try combining them with each other. Maybe when they band together they can convince you to love them. Just write a story.

Once you have a little more experience, you can relax a little. Breathe. That’s what the whales are doing. When we watch whales, we’re watching them breathe. That’s why they come to the surface. They have to. If the whales are there, you will see them. And I promise you, the ideas are there. You’re not going to miss the idea for the story when it comes. It will be unmistakable. It might not be a great idea for a story, or it might be your greatest idea yet. You won’t know in advance, and that’s fine. You will only know if it grabs your attention–and if it does, then it’s time to write.

One of the exercises I have used when trying to generate ideas for a screenplay is to come up with 100 ideas for a screenplay. Write them down, one after another. Each one should be no more than a sentence or two. It can be something simple: Dog turns into a human, falls in love. Sad ending. That’s an idea for a story. The story has a main character with a problem to solve, and I have some idea how it ends. There’s more work to do, certainly, but it’s an idea for a story. Now come up with 99 more. They can be a bit more involved than that example, but the point is to get the ideas down, one after another—not to flesh them out or judge whether they’re any good. For some people this exercise seems impossible, but try it. Maybe you only make it to 20 before you give up. That’s still 20 ideas for a story.

The point of the exercise is to take away the fear and anxiety around getting ideas. There are enough ideas. We aren’t running low. When you finish the exercise, do not go back and search the list of ideas like you are searching the surface of the ocean for a whale. Put the list away. Go to a museum and look at art. Go to a movie. Spend time with people you love. Spend time with people who irritate you. They are the same people. You are surrounded by the stuff stories are made of.

Then wait to see what grabs you. Something will. And start writing.

Why listen?

Why is listening important?

Often we talk about listening as if it was a necessary precursor to speaking. I must listen in order to speak better. If I don’t listen to them, they won’t listen to me. When I listen, it helps me to craft what I have to say more effectively for my audience. But what if listening itself were the goal? Why would we listen if we weren’t preparing to speak?

We’re not talking about merely hearing what is going on around us, listening to the sound of birds in the morning. We’re talking about active listening, asking questions, trying to learn more deeply what someone has to say. It is an interactive art that requires at least two people. When we listen well, we facilitate an exchange in one direction—from you, to me.

Seen that way, listening seems greedy—even selfish! I want all the information for me, I have nothing to say to you except to get you to talk to me more. And yet our culture encourages us to listen so little that in fact most people hunger for someone who listens more than they hunger for more information. We have too much information. The world is loud, and we are overwhelmed.

Listening changes both people involved. When someone actively listens to me, working to call forth everything that I’m experiencing, it changes me. We assume that listening is only a way to gather information, but listening also changes the person who is listened to. It builds a relationship that has nothing to do with information. Listening is a way of showing value for someone else’s experience.

In order to be effective storytellers, we have to listen. We have to listen in order to craft our stories well, but we also need to listen to our audience while we tell our stories. We need to show our audience how much we value them. We need to use our storytelling as an opportunity to build connection, not just relay information.

Otherwise, why tell stories at all?

Bad language

What is the most important tool we have for clear communication? If you’ve read my other posts you might think the answer is EMOTION or EYE CONTACT or NARRATIVE. But actually the answer is words.

We use words to communicate. (I’m doing it right now.) And using words well is one of the best ways to make ourselves more effective communicators. Yet somehow when we get into a professional context, we suddenly forget how to use language. We start using words to obfuscate instead of communicate.

Here are some basic things to avoid. 

Words With Unclear Meaning

Everyone makes fun of corporate buzzwords. But there is actually nothing wrong with the word “synergy.” Synergy is a great word! It sounds cool, and it has almost no synonyms. It’s unique and powerful.

The problem is that no one knows what it means.

If you don’t know what a word means, then stop using it. You don’t even have to look it up! Your vocabulary is big enough already. Go to your grave without learning what “synergy” means.

But let’s say you do know what synergy means. You looked it up, even though I told you not to. You should still probably use another word, unless you want to share the definition with your audience. Because they don’t know what it means. 

Ironically, words that are overused are the ones that most often lose their meaning. Check to see what words you use the most often. Are you using them because they’re the right word, or because it’s an easy filler word?

Are you using complicated multisyllabic words when a simpler word would do? Using buzzwords to make your ideas sound important has the opposite effect. Avoid!

Words that Mean the Opposite of What They Seem to Mean

I say collaborate, but what I mean is I would like you to do this work for me.

I say that we need to partner with our customer, but what I mean is we need to sell them something.

I say that we met some challenges, but what I mean is that we made some mistakes.

This is not just an issue of communication, it’s an issue of integrity and respect. If you’re using euphemisms that intentionally obfuscate meaning, ask yourself: am I doing or saying something that I’m ashamed of.

Am I trying to take credit for someone else’s work? Do I believe that my product has no value? Do I think we make stupid mistakes because we’re bad at our jobs?

In most cases, the answers to these questions are no, no, and no. We use these euphemisms not because we’re trying to hide that we’re doing something wrong, but because we’re trying to be nice. We have somehow convinced ourselves that other people can’t handle the reality of our message.

Being nice and being respectful are often in direct opposition to each other—more often than we’d like to admit. Being nice doesn’t really have anything to do with how we treat other people. Being nice is about is how we would like to be seen.

Consider that it might be more respectful to speak to someone in clear language that describes what’s really going on. They might not like what we have to say, and they might even have an emotional reaction to it. They could tell us that they’re unhappy about this in a variety of ways that might be hard to take in the moment.

But it’s better to face up to a difficult conversation than avoid it with unclear communication. At some point, we will have to deal with the real situation anyway.

Dehumanizing Language

Stop using the word “resources” to refer to people. The same goes for “hires,” which should stay a verb and not a noun. Also, “diverse” is not an adjective to describe a person. Groups can be diverse, but people are Vietnamese, African-American, blind, deaf, and transgender. 

Talking about “diverse hires” or “managing resources” is a way to distance ourselves from the difficult job of dealing with real people who have complex lives and histories.

Compare these two descriptions: 

We don’t have budget to add a new hire. In fact, if we miss our targets again next quarter, we will contract our resources. We need to put more pressure on the department to deliver against our goals.

We don’t have budget to hire someone new. In fact, if the company doesn’t make enough revenue next quarter, we will have to reduce the size of the team. We need to ask people to find ways to be more effective at reaching the goals we set.

These descriptions are very similar. Both use professional language, and both describe the same painful situation. But by trying to talk around the painful situation, the first description actually makes it sound worse—while simultaneously being less clear. The second description could be even more clear by saying “someone will get fired” or “people have to do better at their jobs” but we can use humanizing language without being confrontational. 

When we use language that dehumanizes other people, it often has the added problem of removing our humanity from the situation as well. People use dehumanizing language when they want to avoid taking responsibility for their own participation.

This gets even more important when we start talking about our customers—even in our internal discussions, the conversations our customers never hear. When we talk about our customers as people, it changes the way we think about them. We are more likely to identify with them and see things from their perspective.

Taking control of the narrative

Why is narrative so important? Telling stories seems frivolous. We want to make data-driven decisions. But narrative is actually much more powerful than data, because without narrative, data has no meaning.

Let me say that again, because it’s important. Without narrative, data has no meaning.

What do I mean by that? Let’s take my morning as an example. Here’s the data:

I woke up. It was raining. I got dressed. I meditated for ten minutes. I drank a smoothie. I wrote this blog entry.

Here’s the narrative:

I woke up much too early, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. When I finally got out of bed, it was raining—same as yesterday. I got dressed in all black, same as yesterday. I meditated for ten minutes, but most of the time I was distracted. Worrying about money. Toward the end of the ten minutes my right hip started to bother me from sitting cross-legged. I’m getting old. I drank a smoothie. I’m trying to lose 25 pounds, but so far I’ve only gained four pounds. I wrote this blog entry, which probably no one will ever read.

The data takes on new meaning, does it not? Well, here’s a competing narrative:

I woke up early, already thinking about what I wanted to write for my blog entry today. It started to rain, and I got out of bed. I love the rain. I dressed in black sweatpants and a black sweatshirt. This outfit is comfortable but also makes me feel like a ninja. I meditated for ten minutes. I’m getting back into meditating after a long break, and every day it gets a little easier. I wrote this blog entry, and I think it’s going to be the first one I publish on my new website.

Different narrative, using the same accurate data. Notice that the two narratives start with basic facts, but each version adds additional information to put those facts in context. This is storytelling: details that build up to an emotional effect.

In this case, these are stories I tell myself about myself. This is certainly powerful, as any therapist or life coach will tell you. But I’m not a therapist or a life coach—I’m a storytelling coach. I’m not as concerned with the stories you tell yourself as the stories you tell other people, particularly in a professional context.

As an example, let’s talk about quarterly sales numbers. Here’s the data:

            Q1       Q2       Q3       Q4
            75        12        25        100

Are these 75 million? 75 thousand? 75 dollars? Doesn’t matter. This could be a global corporation or a lemonade stand, but these are the numbers. The first quarter, the number is high. The second quarter, the number is very low. The third quarter, the number is a little higher. The fourth quarter, the number is even higher than the first quarter.

We could add detail to this. We could look at the quarterly figures from last year, and talk about year-over-year numbers. We could break down the numbers weekly, and get 52 numbers instead of four. We could look at other relevant information for the same time period: traffic to our website, our social media engagement, the number of sales reps in the field, the stock market, the weather.

Anyone who cares about these numbers will develop a narrative around them. If they have access to the data, they will form a narrative about that data. They can’t help it. It’s a function of the human mind that when we are presented with data we care about, we begin to form a narrative around that data. Otherwise it’s meaningless, and human beings need our lives to have meaning the same way we need food and water.

We tell ourselves a story about it—whether it’s what we did when we woke up this morning or quarterly sales figures for where we work.

We must become compelling storytellers in order to be effective leaders. We must tell our colleagues a story that is more compelling than the story they are already coming up with on their own. This is not easy.

But storytelling can be taught, it can be learned, and you will get better if you practice.

Notice the stories you tell yourself today, and the stories other people tell you about the data. Which story do you believe? What makes one narrative more compelling than another? How does it change the way you see your work? And your life?

Staying true to your story

We have all heard people say, “Stay true to yourself.” I think this may be good advice, but it’s a bit confusing. What does this mean? I’m a person who is competitive, petty, and lazy sometimes. Why would I want to stay true to that?

I think often when you’re telling a story or doing any kind of creative work, the real trick is to stay true to your story rather than staying true to yourself. The truth is that I want the audience to be pleased by what I make. If I’m telling a story about me, I want them to think well of me. I want to look funny and smart and cool. If I stay true to myself, I might stay true to that sense of vanity and distort my story in order to please my audience and flatter myself.

But audiences don’t like to be pleased. Audiences want to be shocked, frightened, moved, disturbed. They want to have an authentic experience. This is just as true for the audience at a sales conference as it is for the audience in the movie theater. If they were only there to get some information, you could send them the info in an email.

Storytelling is about creating an authentic experience in our imaginations. In order to do that, you might have to betray your vanity. You might have to expose things about yourself that aren’t flattering and leave out the part of the story that seems like it would get an easy laugh. You stay true to the story and sacrifice those things that aren’t necessary. But how?

We get intimate with the story. What kind of story is it? What message is it here to tell? What would happen if this story never got told? What other stories are like it? What does the story want from you, the storyteller? What does it want from the audience?

These might seem impossible questions to answer. But I really believe they’re only impossible if you don’t ask them, or if you don’t really have a story to tell.

Staying true to the story might make you a little uncomfortable. It might make your audience a little uncomfortable. It might lead you somewhere unexpected. But the purpose of a story isn’t to make us comfortable or to show us the things we already know. The purpose of a story is to take us on a journey, so that we see ourselves in a different way. The things we already know take on a new perspective from inside the story. Our lives become a little more exciting, a little more alive, for having taken this imaginary journey.

Stories are memorable because they have something more than everyday experience. They bring in something bigger, something mythic, that uplifts everyday experience. Think of a story that someone told to you that made an impact—a story you remember. How did the storyteller stay true to the story? Did they have to give something up in order to tell it? Did you have to give something up in order to hear it?

When the story isn’t enough

I often focus on authenticity—telling a story in a way that reveals something authentic about your place in the world. So much of our interactions these days seem contrived to provoke a particular response, crafted to manipulate the audience or to disguise the truth in something more palatable. Story gives us a tool to expose the difficult truths while providing a context that allows the audience to integrate those truths into their experience. Story prevents painful realities from becoming trauma.

But what about when you don’t have that kind of perspective? What about when you don’t want to show up at all? Master storyteller Diane Wolkstein tells us that in order to tell a story, we have to know why we’re telling this particular story to this particular audience at this particular moment. What if we just don’t know?

This is a scary moment for a writer or performer. The page is blank, the audience is staring up at us, and we feel like we just don’t have it. But anyone with experience doing creative work has faced this reality.

What do you do?

Most people fake it. You don’t have to acknowledge whatever is getting in the way of you being able to show up. You hide behind the story instead of expressing your vulnerability through it. Most likely, no one will even notice. We have become numb to people in positions of authority faking it.

However, if you’ve been working hard to be more authentic, to really connect with your audience, and you find yourself slipping back into faking it, it can feel terrible. You’re doing the exact thing that you had hoped to give up. It feels like going backwards in the worst way.

There are other options.

Sometimes you just know this is the wrong story. You don’t want to look anyone in the eye. It just feels wrong. This is an opportunity for you to acknowledge the situation.

It might look something like this:

I know that I’m supposed to get up here and tell you all an inspiring story about triumph in the face of adversity. But I’m not feeling that way today. I’m genuinely scared, and I know that you all are too.

Once you say this, there’s no turning back. You’ve acknowledged what’s really going on. You have made an authentic connection with the audience. You have their attention. They want to go with you wherever you take them, if you have a story to tell.

So what story do you tell?

You can find a new story, the story you really want to tell today. It might be the story of getting up in the morning and making it there to talk to them. It might be a smaller story than you had planned to tell.

Or you might find your way back to the same story you had planned to tell from the beginning. Sometimes, once you acknowledge what’s in the way, you’re able to tell the story that seemed empty and worthless before. It suddenly seems full of life and meaning. What you’re really doing is letting the story carry you instead of you carrying the story. You rely on the story to provide what you need. The story will inspire you as well as the audience, and you just get out of the way. This often works, but it’s tricky because it can look just like faking it.

But you know the difference. Are you able to make eye contact? Do you feel any connection to the audience? Rely on the story, and it may take all of you there.

Faking connection can be more painful than never reaching out for connection at all. Loneliness is much worse in a crowded room than at home alone. When you feel yourself going through the motions of storytelling, stop yourself. Consider what it would take to make an authentic connection in that moment.

Telling authentic stories

I was fortunate in my life to meet and work with a master storyteller. Everyone has people in their lives who they consider master storytellers, people who can hold the attention of everyone at the dinner table, people who gather small crowds at cocktail parties as they recount some anecdote from their lives. These are master storytellers, certainly, but Diane Wolkstein was a different kind of storyteller.

            Diane Wolkstein’s first book was Inanna: Queen of Heaven, a translation she wrote in collaboration with archaeologist Samuel Noah Kramer. The book tells of the myth of Inanna, working from a text discovered on ancient Sumerian clay tablets. She then performed that epic poem from 9th century BCE for audiences all over the world, including at the Museum of Natural History in New York. She lived in New York City, and every Saturday in the summer she performed at the statue of Hans Christian Andersen in Central Park for an audience of children who hung on her every word. She was declared the “official storyteller of New York City.” She went on to write over 20 books, including books of folktales from Haiti, stories from the Bible, Chinese legends, and other ancient and modern stories she had gathered through years of research. She was one of the founders of the Storytelling Foundation of North America. She gave workshops on the art form of storytelling.

            She was literally a master storyteller—it was her job. Spending time with her, I understood how to take storytelling seriously, not as an amusement for the dinner table or the cocktail party, but as a foundational element to the human experience.

            She told me that good storytelling is actually quite simple. There are three things to remember when telling a story:

1.      Stand with your feet rooted in the ground.

2.      Make eye contact.

3.      Know why you’re telling this story to these people at this moment in time.

The first two seem simple enough, but it’s surprising how many people can’t do them. The third one is obviously the most important—in fact, if you have the third one then the other two come much more easily.

            But why are these three rules so important? Why not tell a story while staring just over the tops of your audience’s heads?

            Storytelling, at its foundation, is about emotional connection. When Diane Wolkstein tells us to stand with our feet rooted in the ground, she’s telling us to fully inhabit our bodies. She’s asking us to tell from where we actually are in the world, today.

            Let’s say you have to give a presentation for work. Any presentation skills seminar will tell you to stand with both feet on the ground and make eye contact with your audience. They will then give you a series of physical gestures that are intended to project a sense of confidence and power. But what if you don’t feel confident and powerful that day? What if you’re unsure about the way forward, but you have to give the presentation anyway?

            With the spread of ideas from researchers like Brene Brown—who is herself a master storyteller as much as she is a researcher—people are coming to understand the importance of sharing vulnerability, not just in our personal interactions but in every aspect of our lives. The reason why? Authenticity. The contrived gestures learned at a presentation skills seminar will give your audience the sense that you are in charge, that you demand to be listened to. But it won’t communicate the sense that you actually have something to say—because it’s very likely you don’t.

            What if when you stand in front of your team to give that presentation Monday morning, you stand with both feet on the ground and accept how you actually feel that day? I’m unsure of myself. I want to be a strong leader, but the world is an uncertain place. We have no guarantee of success.

            Most leaders in the business world would be horrified to begin the week sharing thoughts and feelings like this with their team. It runs counter to everything we have been taught about what it means to be the boss, why we’re given the privilege of standing in front of a group of people to begin with. Yet if you did begin your talk this way, can you imagine the reaction you would get from those listening? Because unlike most business presentations, they would be listening. They would be hanging on your every word.

            Remember, however, that this is not about how to share your feelings authentically—it’s about how to tell a story. Every good story includes vulnerability, uncertainty, real danger and loss. If a story doesn’t include this, no one will listen. But the function of a story is to integrate these truly frightening experiences into a narrative that teaches us how to live with fear and uncertainty in our own lives. Stories teach us values that help us to deal with the pain and uncertainty in the world.

            You stand on your own two feet and you look them in the eye, not because you were told to by your presentation skills tutor, but because you actually have something to say. You have an authentic human experience you want to share with them. You want to connect on an emotional level. You want to bring your humanity to the story.

            Please keep in mind that this doesn’t mean that the story needs to be autobiographical or deeply revealing of personal details. When Diane Wolkstein told the Haitian story of The Magic Orange Tree, it wasn’t her story. It wasn’t a story from the culture she grew up in. But it was still an authentic story, because she connected to it with her humanity. She made it personal for her and for us. She understood why she wanted to tell that story at that particular moment in time—and if she didn’t want to tell it, she wouldn’t.

            Authenticity is powerful, and it brings real risk with it. It forces you to live consequentially in the moment, and that’s not always comfortable. From that discomfort brings strength. A quote often attributed to Brene Brown: “He or she that has the greatest capacity for discomfort rises the strongest and the fastest.”

            Crafting a story and then delivering that story to an audience in an impactful way is an art form. Diane Wolkstein traveled the world searching out folktales and myths, and then she practiced for hours, honing each element of the performance so that she could communicate these stories with an audience using the only instrument we carry with us at all times, ourselves. We know that storytelling is the most ancient art form not because we have historical records but because it is the historic record. We have never stopped telling stories.

            The next time you find yourself telling an anecdote to connect with an audience, ask yourself: Why am I telling this story to these people, at this particular moment in time? If you know the answer, you may find that it’s easier to stand on your own two feet and look people in the eye.

Creating a memorable character

Character may be the most important element in storytelling. If we don’t care about a character, we don’t care about the story. Yet I think most of what we think we understand about creating characters is wrong.

Consider fairy tales. Why do we care what happens to Hansel and Gretel? Why do we care what happens to Snow White or Cinderella? These characters aren’t psychologically complex. They don’t have detailed back stories. But the stories are still compelling.

This becomes more complicated when we deal with storytelling in a professional setting, because most often we’re telling stories about ourselves. Even for fiction writers, writing a character that is very similar to yourself can often become a trap. The character who it seems you should know the best—you—comes off as flat and one-dimensional, boring and even unrealistic. We should have the most information about ourselves, why would we have such a hard time depicting ourselves in our own stories?

I think we misunderstand what makes people care. We provide information when what people need is connection. Piling up details about someone does not create a compelling character. So what do we need to create a compelling character?

There are three key ingredients: vulnerability, relationships, and problems to solve.

Let’s imagine you’re interviewing for a job. Job interviews largely consist of us telling stories about ourselves. We want those stories to be compelling, memorable, and significant. We want to hold the interviewer’s interest, we want them to remember the story later, and we want the story to make an impact on them—specifically the impact that they will want to hire us.

What do we do? We tell stories about how good we are at our jobs. Everything I did right, all my leadership capabilities, every success in which I was responsible. Unfortunately, since everyone approaches a job interview in this way, this does not make me memorable. We’re providing information but not connection.

A good story connects emotionally. The person making a hiring decision is not a robot, and they won’t make that decision entirely based on data and facts—even if they will pretend to themselves that’s what they’re doing. A wealth of research has proved this.

If I connect emotionally, I have an edge over other applicants—and we know this instinctively. We have a sense of when an interview “went well” based on our ability to create a rapport with the interviewer. Sometimes we create this rapport intentionally, by making small talk, but I can build an emotional connection through storytelling. Specifically by paying attention to how I create the main character of that story: me.

I’m not the only one who is a big fan of Brene Brown’s work on vulnerability—but I think many of us turn away from vulnerability in exactly the situations where it would have the biggest impact. Of course vulnerability is important, of course it’s the source of creativity and connection. Show vulnerability in a job interview? Heavens no.

Intentionally revealing vulnerability doesn’t just feel challenging, it feels embarrassing. It seems like it will make me uncomfortable and make the interviewer uncomfortable too. When we think of vulnerability, we think about crying and sharing deeply personal trauma. This does not seem ideal for a job interview.

Let’s look at some ways to use storytelling in order to reveal our vulnerability in a way that feels professional.

One of the best ways to reveal character in a story is to talk about an important relationship in the character’s life. We care about Hansel and Gretel because Hansel and Gretel care about each other. The story of Snow White doesn’t begin with her being beautiful, it begins with her losing her mother. Think about the most important people in your life. Do they show up in the stories you tell at work?

This doesn’t mean that you tell stories about the most important relationships in your life—the story of Snow White isn’t the story of her mother’s death. It’s the story of the wicked queen who tries to murder her. If you’re a good storyteller, your stories about your past work experience will be full of lots of wicked queens, and you will triumph over them every time. But take a moment to create yourself as a character first.

Remember the three elements needed for a compelling character: vulnerability, relationships, and a problem to solve. The last one is often the easiest—every good story gives someone a problem to solve. The first one is often the hardest. But incorporating an important relationship into the story often brings these together organically. Talking about how you worked closely with a colleague you respect on a big project shows that you knew you couldn’t do it alone—vulnerability—but also raises the stakes on the drama of the story—problem to solve.

Here are some other examples:

I was working on Amazing Project #1, and it was my first time leading a team. Very Important Executive was an important mentor of mine, and I didn’t want to let her down.

I moved to Vancouver ten years ago for a job, and I’ve stayed here ever since. I realized recently that my closest friends are all people that I met through work. Working in this industry is an important part of my life. That’s why I want to find a company where I fit in with the culture.

I really like that this position allows me to work from home. My mother lives with me, and I help to look after her. Working from home makes that easier.

My husband thinks I work too hard. He likes to tell this story about me because he thinks it’s an example of insane behavior. But it’s important to me to go the extra mile for customers.

These are not stories in and of themselves. These are details one can use in order to make a story more compelling. Job interviewers are desperate to get a sense of who you are as a person, to stop you from rehashing your resume, to interrupt your list of leadership qualities. They want to understand who you are, how you think, and what it might be like to work with you. They want to see you as a real person.

Notice the element of vulnerability in each example. I’m afraid of letting someone down. I’m afraid I won’t fit in at your company. I have commitments outside of work that matter to me more than work. My husband thinks I’m insane.

Could someone use these details against me in a job interview? Could someone look at these as weaknesses? Could someone decide another applicant who showed no vulnerability was a better choice? Absolutely.

But do I want to work for that person?

If I show up as my authentic self, I might be rejected. And that might be more painful. It might fill me with questions about whether I’m employable or even socially acceptable. But if I show up as my authentic self, and I’m welcomed? That puts me in a much better position to succeed.

The trouble with waiting to show who you really are until you feel more secure is that the longer you wait, the less secure you feel. Story allows you to share vulnerability in the safe context of a narrative that you control. Reveal the aspects of your character that are important to the story, and then tell a memorable story that makes you stand out from the crowd.

Creating empathy for a population

I recently had the privilege of working with someone during their coming out process as a transgender woman. We are colleagues and friends, and she came out to me before sharing it with the wider organization. I knew she was preparing to send an email where she would announce that she had a new name and new pronouns, and I wanted to support her however I could.

I looked for articles online about coworkers coming out as transgender, in order to have something to share with my team. I found an article in the Harvard Business Review with lots of useful information. It was thorough and well-researched. But it didn’t have quite the emotional impact that I was looking for.

So I decided to write my own post on medium.

In this post, I use storytelling right up front in order to create empathy and emotional connection. This was a bit tricky, as I didn’t want to talk about any specific individual—I didn’t want to put my coworker any more on the spot than she already was. I needed to talk in general about what trans people experience, instead of using her as a specific example.

I create two characters, both anonymous—the anonymous trans person and the anonymous “you.” You might have a coworker who asks you to call them by a different name. You might be feeling uncomfortable about it. You might be unsure how to respond. In order to create this imaginary character, this “you,” I need to know exactly who I am addressing, and exactly what I want them to experience. The story I tell isn’t about a trans person coming out—it’s about you, and why you choose to overcome your own ignorance, discomfort, and confusion in order to support your trans coworker. I need to acknowledge that someone might be resistant in order to tell them a story about how they could overcome that resistance.

I showed my trans coworker the post before I posted it, and she was delighted. Not only that, the company chose to post a link to my medium post on their public-facing blog. Check it out for yourself, and let me know whether you think it’s an effective approach.