The Story Within, Part Three

This week I decided to write out the story, to script it and memorize it. I’m glad I did. I have a lot more control over the material. I’m also less likely to leave segments out or bring in segments that I think of in the moment that take the story off into the bushes and make the length balloon up.

I’ve gone in cycles with scripts/no scripts. I used to teach oral interpretation, the reading aloud of literature. Readers were expected to use scripts–after all, we would be reading the words of John Steinbeck or Robert Frost–it was important to read the piece as the author wrote it. The challenge was to read the piece so it would come alive, come off the page and sweep the listener into the world of the story. That’s what I taught. I loved it.

In my next phase, I became a storyteller, telling folktales, fairytales and personal stories. For that, I didn’t want a script, I wanted a greater sense of immediacy, of living the story in the moment. I would study the story, internalize it, then speak extemporaneously, which is closer to real conversation. Sometimes the telling would be really successful, sometimes not so much. It was okay with me to give up some control of the story to get the rush of being in the moment–it felt like working without a net.

Now I’m in a third stage that combines the first two–I’m telling stories from my life and scripting them. I find that I can craft the story in writing until it really sings–funny, touching, whatever, and I know how to make those scripted lines sound as though I’m thinking them in the moment for the first time.

When I was the spiritual leader of a church and spoke every week, I would work from an outline. The speaking was extemporaneous and, I hoped, alive and heartfelt. But this last year, as I do guest speaking in churches, I’ve been writing out the sermons, again, for a greater degree of control over the language, the style. I don’t mind the time it takes to script a talk if I don’t have to come up with one every week.

I don’t enjoy memorization, but I feel my talks and stories are of a higher caliber than when I speak extemporaneously. It’s worth that extra effort, too. (I’ll post the script of this current story next week.)

I’ve given the story a title: Through the Back Door. It’s both a crude reference to the colonoscopy and a reference to my spiritual awakening coming when I wasn’t looking for it or expecting it.

Only one week until performance. There’s still work to do–when I told the story at the workshop a few days ago, I left out two important parts. It doesn’t bother me when that happens because I then take pains to make sure I don’t forget those parts again. It’s also time to work on pauses and movement, facial expression, pacing, and projection (the little theater holds 70–80 people and no mics),

I’m starting to feel excited. Excitement with a touch of nervousness. The thrill of performing. I love it. I’ll be rehearsing the story every day from now until Friday night.

I’ll talk to you next week.