The 112% Storytelling Challenge
Setting off to Laurel Falls for today’s storytelling session, I found myself thinking about something that a wonderful artist named Jonathan VanDyke once told me about being done. He said every fine artist has a % done at which they stop working on a project. Some people stop when they are 80% done, others when they are 112% done. This stops the perfectionists from over-saturating their work and allows the minimalists to take risks without compromising their aesthetic. As a Director, I’m undoubtably a 112%er. As a performer, I’m an 80%er. I decided that today I would challenge my performer brain to stop telling a story only when it was 112% done. This, I recognized, could very quickly become self-indulgent if I was doing it for myself rather the good of the story. Something to keep an eye on.
Little did I know, the biggest challenge of the day would be in not being 112% autonomous. I arrived at the trailhead and was met by one of the volunteers I met at the ice cream social last week. He had volunteered, unbeknownst to me, to help me out on the trail. At first I was grateful for an extra set of hands to help carry my gear up the trail. I was less grateful for his attempts to wrangle people from the path to come chat with me. He’s well intentioned but so overbearing that he chased more people away than he drew in. I assumed the role of advocating for myself and soon had plenty of participants. Probably more to do with the scenery than anything I said:
The result of the % challenge was that today’s stories were more tonally varied, cohesive, and fun to tell than the previous round. Success! I even had to gently kick some people out to make room for new groups on the blankets.
Still, it’s hard for me to grow in public. When I was a kid my parents didn’t know I could crawl, walk, recite the alphabet, read, or write until I was doing them proficiently. I want to be a master of storytelling before doing it in front of a crowd. To put words to ideas before the ideas are fully formed is acres outside of my comfort zone.
Abe Lincoln, my storytelling muse this month, preferred to learn in private, too. Lincoln, who was a phenom of a storyteller, was a source of comfort when the day was over. You see, Lincoln was inherently melancholic. He “told stories so that he might laugh, and in doing so whistle away the sadness.” While the quiz I made up tells me that I am equal parts Abe Lincoln, Mary Todd, and Edward Bates, I felt Lincolnically melancholy as I was packing up this afternoon, trying not to dwell on that fact that, as Ira Glass would say, my abilities are not yet on par with my taste. I wasn’t sad, per se, but I wasn’t satisfied either. The work, even when you’re giving it 112%, is never done, it’s just that sometimes you have to let it out into the world for it to grow.
With thoughts of pride and thoughts of dissatisfaction volleying for my attention, I was grateful to arrive home to a dinner invite from Ben. My mind settled as we ate, drank wine, and chatted about ecology, ethics, and the books that made us who we are. I went to sleep profoundly grateful for a balance of newness, comfort, and bird chirps in my days.
