I’m in an odd place right now.

There’s a very easy joke to make here about geography. I’m currently in the town I grew up in, Hornsea, in East Yorkshire. It is indeed an odd place, but these days I’m more sanguine about its backwater charms than I was a decade and a half ago, desperate to escape it at any cost. It’s a sleepy, somewhat neglected seaside resort and when it’s a fine day, you can have a fine day out here. Just don’t go waving your phone around. Or…books. Bad idea, wouldn’t end well. It’s that kind of place.

(You see how easy it is for me).

The odd place I currently occupy also isn’t my childhood home, which is a somewhat dog-ravaged semi-detached house on the top of a hill that my Mum has occupied since 1982. (The house, not the hill – she’s not quite that entrenched).  It’s good to be home, as I’ve been away enough to find it bearable again, and when my Mum’s dogs aren’t flinging themselves through the air in an attempt to eat my face, it’s a pleasant place to hole up and get work done.

Because that’s the odd place. My work. What I do.

I’m newly back from attending and speaking at the Travel Bloggers Unite conference in Umbria, Italy, following which I was lucky enough to join one of 6 blog-trips (tours of the region) organised by TBU and Umbria On The Blog. I’ve never been on a blog-trip before, and since they’re a source of contention in some professional circles, alongside press trips, I wanted to make my own mind up. I also wanted to experience a little more of Umbria than the (admittedly gorgeous) conference centre at Valle di Assisi. That also felt like an odd place to be, at the time, because it’s located outside Assisi proper with a magnificent view of the town and the surrounding hills – and like during my visit to Giulianova in 2006, deep in another rural Italian heartland, the sight of those rolling hills brought out the probably suicidal amateur walker in me, brought him out yelling for his walking boots and a rucksack of Kendal mint cake.

And I was speaking. My first piece of public speaking since a lacklustre performance at the end of my Archaeology degree in 2000. This time, I was speaking about storytelling and why it matters beyond the confines of fiction. Why it’s in everything. So, I ranted and strode back and forth and read off a script that I’d put together like I was writing a blog post for this very website, and I said sarcastic things. And fun was had. (I think)

(Fortunately for both of us, there’s no video – but I’m currently reworking it into a PDF handout that I will be releasing over social media and through this blog. Want a copy? Either leave me a comment below or check back later when it’s available – or do both, which will make me feel really loved).

Then, around Umbria with the blogtrip. And then into the north of Umbria, staying with a friend (where the top picture was taken). All incredible. Umbria seriously won me over. I will be writing about everything I saw and ate and drank over the next few weeks when I’ve processed these things properly (yes, I think I’m still full from the food), but it’s an extraordinarily lovely part of Italy and at every turn, we were met with kindness, enthusiasm and a wealth of hospitality. Blog trips in general? Interesting topic, and I’m still processing. TBU’s blog trips and Umbria? Really wonderful experiences.

And now, sometime, I want to walk Italy, top to bottom, with a backpack.

You heard me.

After all, what could go wrong?

(That’s what I usually say just before things go massively wrong, which they almost always do. If you’re a betting person and you’re running a book on me, use that as a marker. And hey, I’ll put a tenner on the idiot getting into trouble within 24 hours).

But I wasn’t myself in Italy. Not really. I was exhausted. Fried. I’d just left York, just quit my job to become a fulltime writer, and I’d just moved house, with everything that entails in terms of 10 years of possessions. I’m not currently a location-independent ‘digital nomad’, but I’m also not not one, either.

In short, I’m in an odd place. Poised between two worlds, with my head in both.

Next? Building freelance work, tripping abroad as often as time & income allow, trying to work with people I’ve always wanted to work with, and catching up on everything that fell by the roadside when I was squeezing my writing into my post-dayjob evenings, over in York. But more than that – I’ll be throwing myself into storytelling. Because that’s my thing, and it goes in two directions. My talk at TBU is the start of some big plans regarding writing about the craft of storytelling, and I’ll be announcing those in here when they’re finalised. I want to get people thinking about this stuff, not just with regards to travel-writing but in the wider sense, for anyone who wants to learn how to put something in someone else’s head in a way that stays with them forever. Does that sound powerful? That’s what stories can do, like nothing else. Stick with me, and I’ll prove it to you.

But more than that, I’d be a pretty poor evangelist for storytelling if I wasn’t doing it myself, so I’ll be stringing many a yarn for all sorts of markets. Some will be fantastical (because I love fantastical things). Others will sound fantastical but will, tragically, be completely true. And in between, you’ll find the usual mix of travel and geekery and withering sarcasm, right here in huge, unpalatable bursts. That’s how I roll.

So, a lot will be going on.

I’m just in an odd place right now, getting my breath back.

Images: Mike Sowden.

So, Game of Thrones.

Politics, sex, treachery, violence, more sex, more politics, urinating off the edge of the world, intrigue, betrayal, Sean Bean dead yet again, yet more sex, and then a lovely sexual torture scene to round things off. (Look, are you sure there was this much sex in the books, because…? Well, yeah).

HBO’s Game Of Thrones, from the bestselling novels by George RR Martin, is a massive hit. It’s also aimed at adults (even if, disturbingly, it featured a lot of children) – and at the heart of its massive appeal is the fact that that it doesn’t pander to toothless faux-medieval escapist fantasies, the kind that had ’80s teenagers LARPing around woodlands shouting “Have at ye with my Triple-Bladed Claymore of +3 Chafing”, pretending the world (in the form of Destiny or some kind of prophecy) revolved around them. The world of Game Of Thrones world is very different. It doesn’t give a toss about its inhabitants. If you were in it, you’d probably die. (Or worse). Destiny is no protection, and neither is innate goodness, honour or benevolence. In fact, they’d probably get you killed quicker. This isn’t escapist fiction – it’s escape-from-ist.

Part of the reason Game of Thrones is proving so popular is that the public doesn’t expect this level of bleak, messy unfairness from fantasy novels. Fantasy is, in the words of the holy script laid down by Tolkien in 1954, all about Evil that cannot possibly win, Good that will eventually triumph, and short people in helmets quaffing tankards of ale and singing about gold. It’s formulaic. It’s meant to make you feel safe. And Tolkien Did It Best.

Putting aside the fact that JRR Tolkien, like JK Rowling, took a whole bunch of traditional narratives and wove them (brilliantly) into the mother of all mongrel stories that too many people subsequently assumed was original….putting that aside, let’s turn to real-world history. Game of Thrones is brutal and savage and says some miserably pessimistic things about human beings – and yet it’s probably a fairly accurate metaphor for, say, the Renaissance Wars of Italy or the battle for Stalingrad. In this respect, it probably doesn’t go anywhere near far enough.

Adult fantasy literature more accurately reflects what real human beings are really like. And that’s why it gets a wider readership – because people want to read about real people.

So why the recent shift towards “realer” fantasy? It’s not just Game of Thrones, although that’s a big part of it (but even GoT is pandering to a niche market – in the case of the TV series, it’s acting as a flagship for the HBO philosophy of pushing the boundaries of good taste to enhance the storytelling. Arguably, that’s going a little awry right now). Is fantasy fiction finally “growing up”. That’s either unfair or just plain wrong. If you looked in the right places, it has been this challenging, edgy and unchildish for decades. But it is, arguably, mainstreaming into something that the average well-adjusted adult can read in a public place without feeling like they’re opening a Spiderman comic in a board meeting.

So when you’ve caught up with events in Westeros, try out the work of the following three authors. They write about real imaginary people.

Robin Hobb

We left. Walking uphill and into the wind. That suddenly seemed a metaphor for my whole life.

- Fitz, Assassin’s Apprentice

Fitz is a bastard. Hence his nickname. In full, he is FitzChivalry Farseer, illegitimate son of the King in Waiting. Fitz is unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep of his father’s brother, Prince Verity, and transferred into the keep of Chivalry’s stableman. True to his name, Chivalry is a man of honour, and upon hearing of his son’s appearance he abdicates the throne, leaving a power vacuum that will plague the royal court and draw Fitz into intrigue, treachery and a new role as a royalty-endorsed assassin…

I came to Robin Hobb’s Farseer trilogy at a time of enormous disillusionment with fantasy fiction. I’d just thrown myself at the first of the Terry Goodkind Sword of Truth novels, and after 100 pages ended up throwing the book instead.  (I can still see the mark on my bedroom wall in my Mum’s house. I must have been furious). I’d had my third and second-to-last attempt to enjoy The Belgariad by David Eddings, and I was at the stage where the merest hint of wizardry would send me into a rage.

So much of the genre baffled me. I didn’t get why it took 10 pages for someone to remove one of their shoes and shake a stone out. I couldn’t understand why it was all so…civilized. And there was so much mashing of the reset button. One moment the stalwart heroes were hewing at Evil and skirting chasms with no clear way out, and the next, everyone was sat round a fire, having the swords & sorcery equivalent of a nice cup of tea and a biscuit, and laughing the chapter out, Naked Gun style. It felt like some authors were so in love with both Moria and Hobbiton that they kept flip-flopping from one to the other, from Dire Peril to Cup Of Tea. Sometimes this literary rinse-cycle would take entire books to get everyone back to square 1…

One thing that Tolkien really nailed was that adventures take their toll. They hasten old age, they accelerate the progression to a wiser, more cynical state of mind, and they monkey with a character’s sense of self. They change people. JK Rowling did a great job of evolving Harry Potter into a Voldemort-vanquishing machine but she did it at his cost, leaving him weary and damaged. Tolkien did the same with Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. In the words of Kurt Vonnegut:

Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them-in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

 - Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips On How To Write A Great Story

Robin Hobb is awful to her lead characters.

She clearly loves them. Even the twisted ones that you want to slap senseless. She loves everyone she conjures up. But she’s fearlessly awful to them. Like George RR Martin, she’s making the point that when the stakes are high, people tend to suffer – and since real life isn’t always fair, good people suffer just as easily as bad. That’s what “high stakes” really means. It’s the risk everyone takes when they pretend to be heroes, and when an author denies the reality of that risk, we can tell. The story feels fake. It’s why the Game Of Thrones series feels so deliciously (or horribly) real. Because shit happens.

WHERE TO START…

Assassin’s Apprentice (1995)

Kindle (Amazon)                                    Paperback (Amazon)

ALTERNATELY…

Ship of Magic (1998)

Kindle (Amazon)                                      Paperback (Amazon)

Gene Wolfe

Thus I knew nothing, as the coin dropped into my pocket, of the dogmas of the movement Vodalus led, but I soon learned them all, for they were in the air. With him I hated the Autarchy, though I had no notion of what might replace it. With him I despised the exultants who failed to rise against the Autarch and bound the fairest of their daughters to him in ceremonial concubinage. With him I detested the people for their lack of discipline and a common purpose. Of those values that Master Malrubius (who had been master of apprentices when I was a boy) had tried to teach me, and that Master Palaemon  still tried to impart, I accepted only one: loyalty of the guild. In that I was quite correct – it was, as I sensed, perfectly feasible for me to serve Vodalus and remain a torturer. It was in this fashion that I began the long journey by which I have backed into the throne.

Severian, The Shadow Of The Torturer

He’s the finest living male American writer of SF and fantasy – possibly the finest living American writer. Most people haven’t heard of him. And that doesn’t bother Gene in the slightest. He just gets on with writing the next book.

Neil Gaiman

Most narrators are believable. It doesn’t matter how fantastical the setting or how outlandish they might behave – and it doesn’t matter how much you believe in the story itself. You trust the narrator, whether it’s the author or a character the author is using to tell the story. They tell you something, and that’s just how it is. After all, how baffling would it be if they lied to you?

Gene Wolfe wants to baffle you, and he will tell you lies. His protagonists are like real people. They obfuscate, omit, distort and tell flat-out porkies to make themselves sound good, or at least sympathetic. They cannot be trusted. Much of the time, you don’t get the story from their words – you get it between their words, noting inconsistencies, the things they’re not saying, your knowledge of how people really work. It’s demanding. It will demand much from you.

But the payoff is spectacular.

You know that moment in really good mystery novels where everything unlocks and what really happened unfolds in your mind, and your jaw drops and a shiver goes right through you because hell, it’s so damn perfect? And that delicious feeling of being right on the cusp of that kind of revelation – almost like your subconscious knows but is sitting back with a smug expression and a “go on, keep reading” air about it?

That’s what reading Gene Wolfe is like.

It’s exasperating. It’s confusing. It’s hard on the mind. It often requires repeat reading. It’s so wildly unconventional that you will sometimes have no clue – really, no clue – what will happen next. And occasionally, no clue what just happened. Sometimes you’ll have to keep reading out of sheer faith that that author has a plan for explaining all this madness.

And yet it does indeed fit together. It’s like Lost should have been. Everything fits, even the really, really loopy stuff – you might not get it first go, but it’s there. And it’s all so beautifully written that  the writing will tug you through an apparently impenetrable fog of confusion to where everything starts to clear and you can see your feet again.

I may have let slip by now that I’m a fan. Consider me a compromised source. Pour scorn. Whatever. Just as long as you read something by Gene Wolfe and let it bounce around inside you, working its strange, gnarly magic on your mind and on your heart.

But be warned: you may never want to read a reliably narrated story again.

WHERE TO START…

The Shadow Of The Torturer (1980)

  Kindle (Amazon)                                Paperback (Amazon)

ALTERNATELY…

The Knight (2004)

 Kindle (Amazon)                                 Paperback (Amazon)

Ursula K. LeGuin

When it rained Ogion would not even say the spell that every weather-worker knows, to send the storm aside. In a land where sorcerers come thick, like Gont or the Enlades, you may see a raincloud blundering slowly from side to side and place to place as one spell shunts it on to the next, till at last it is buffeted out over the sea where it can rain in peace. But Ogion let the rain fall where it would. Ged crouched among the dripping bushes wet and sullen, and wondered what was the use of having power if you were too wise to use it.

- A Wizard of Earthsea

I’ve always hated cheap magic.

Grandunclewilf the Sorcerer turned to face his foe.

And lo! they were many! Hordes of Orc, ranks of Troll, phalanxes of Were-Triffids and one massive Frost Gerbil, 80 feet across, venting steam and crackling with eldritch energies that cannot be wot of. Behind him, Conancules the Barbarian turned white and made the sign of the Reluctant Eunuch. “Forsooth, I can never beat such odds, even wielding Manhood-Slicer and chanting all 27 of the Power Words Of Old Sod. Yea, I can split a boulder in twain with my face, yet I cannot surmount all that I see arrayed to meet us.”

Beside him Handy Jack McJack, Weapons Master, Pirate Captain and Mighty Lover Of Women And Horses, shrugged. “Avast, this is beyond even I. Splice me, I could bring down one hundred, maybe two hundred, but yank my barnacles, lads, sheer numbers would eventually overcome me and I would be forced to switch sides, betraying you all and dispassionately watching you die gratuitously violent deaths. A-harr! That it’d be.”

Behind them all stood Tanglearsed Bungo the Halfling, ready to deflect any lazy jokes aimed at short people and to thieve from his friends in an instantly forgivable manner. Absent-mindedly rifling through Jack’s trenchcoat pockets, he squeaked “oh DEAR, oi be thinking oi be no use ere, ‘Massurs” and started picking his nose in panic.

Clearly, this was the end of their quest.

Or….was it?

Grandunclewilf turned and, with a smooth motion belying his advancing years, pointed a finger at the enemy, from which blossomed a fireball that immediately swelled until it was 7 miles across. It crashed into serried ranks with the force of ten million enraged quarterbacks. Then the wizard gestured lazily with his other hand, and everything still standing on the battlefield turned into a tulip.

“Fools”, he railed at his companions. “Do you still not understand my infinite power?”

Unpublished (and let’s hope it stays that way) – Mike Sowden

Magic is a dangerous thing to wield. Not just as a magic-user, but as a storyteller.

As soon as wizardry comes along, that gritty, tangible medieval world that’s so deliciously awful to imagine is under threat. Wizards can make mountains explode. (I remember this from a Michael Moorcock novel). Wizards are the equivalent of the USS Nick Of Time, popping out of nowhere when all seems lost to open a can of all-powerful whupass on the enemy. Wizards are usually so powerful that their continued presence in a story would nullify all the tension – which is why Gandalf is Away On Wizarding Business so much in Tolkien’s novels. Wizards so very easily unbalance a story. Get two magic-users in opposition and it’s easy for everything to devolve into an escalating series of boss-fights that don’t feel like anything to do with, you know, human beings. Wizards are superheroes. And too many fantasy writers are more Tim Kring than Joss Whedon.

But there’s another thing.

Magic should hurt.

When it’s easy and painless, when the author yawns and presses a button and everyone turns into tulips, it’s deus ex machina – the literary device where everything is neatly, conveniently fixed by something invented right then, just for that purpose. (Yes, Star Trek, I’m looking right at you, dude). It devalues everything the reader has put into the story. It’s borderline cheating. And if there isn’t a massive, massive cost to the person performing this miracle, it is cheating.

No fantasy writer knows this better than Ursula LeGuin. She’s spent a good slice of her career exploring the pain and misery that magic can bring. Her Earthsea series begins with A Wizard Of Earthsea, in which a young magic-user spends all his time trying to correct a blunder that nearly tore him to pieces and by book’s end threatens to consume him and split the world in two. It’s also a story about dread, about how that shadow in the corner of the room might indeed be everything you fear in the world – and it’s about how rebellious teenagers should shut the hell up and listen for a change. But most of all, it’s about how dangerous wizards are. How utterly ruinous to the health of the world they can be.

It helps that LeGuin is of the caliber of writer who can handle sentimentality and joy without collapsing into schmaltz, and uses a razor-sharp wit to stitch her dark, painful tales together.

A Wizard of Earthsea was the first post-Tolkien work of fantasy that I could take serious. It’s still one of my favourite books. And I’m appalled that it’s still only available in paper format.

(Best you avoid the 2004 TV series Earthsea, which LeGuin famously washed her hands of - and Miyazaki’s Tales from Earthsea wasn’t an enormous improvement. It seems Earthsea is still waiting for its Peter Jackson).

WHERE TO START / ALTERNATELY…

A Wizard of Earthsea (1968) is the starting point for LeGuin’s most famous piece of worldbuilding, and she’s still spinning yarns in and around it today. The Left Hand Of Darkness (1969) is a very different kettle of fish – it’s science fiction (the start of another cycle of stories), but of the deeply human, political, planet-bound kind – and it tackles sexuality in a far more interesting and meaningful way than George RR Martin ever could. Imagine a world where there are no men, or women, just sexless, genderless citizens – except for the mating season, one month a year…

Paperback (Amazon)                                   Paperback (Amazon)

Images: 1, 2, Szymon Sokół/Wikimedia Commons, Ultan’s Tumblr, NESFA Press, Clarkesworld Books, Writing On A Limb, ADWD Reread Project and mechtild.

Right now, I’m lost in time.

I’m stood on a hillside. Heat hisses, in a way I remember from my Cypriot childhood (aha! I’m in the Mediterranean). Everything smells fresh in a way household cleaning products never could.

Somebody is picking asparagus – not out of a tin – out the ground.

I’m on an EasyJet flight. We’re heading in for landing – clots of sunlit cloud tumbling past, and we lurch – and I’m on another EasyJet flight, with the rain pulsing against the window like a washing-machine on a rinse cycle. I’m somewhat tense. The floor is moving from side to side, taking us with it. Is it meant to do that? Someone please tell me it’s meant to do that…

Flags.

Moving lazily against a sky so blue it’s obviously fake. Has to be fake.

….it’s fake, right?

Now I’m in front of a lot of people, and I’m pacing back and forth. I have a script in my hand. It’s not in my head, it’s in my hand, and while I kinda hate that right now, I also know it’s an opportunity to say exactly what I meant when I wrote it. I just hope these people aren’t looking to me for, you know, answers. All I have are questions. If they walk away with the same questions, the same curiosity about storytelling that I was feeling when I wrote that script, then I’ll be a very happy…

Drunk.

That’s what I’ll be if you guys keep bringing out this wine. Admittedly, it’s incredibly good wine, and to my surprise I’m starting to notice subtle difference and tones in each sample (me! I know!) – but things are getting pretty warm and fuzzy in here. Give me a minute, ‘kay?

What…what are you saying?

You’re “Oregonian“?

Isn’t that some kind of herb?

Rumble rumble rumble clank goes the funicular, dragging us higher and higher. I look back. It’s like the credits of Doctor Who being played backwards. (Slowly). There’s a lot of people in this car, nearly all of them carrying cameras. One of them has a particularly large camera – I decide he’s some kind of leader. Or massive show-off.

The car straightens out, we slow down and…

I’m not in England, am I? It’s the little signs. For example, the availability of actual food, out in the open, unashamedly.

Oh. What? For….for me?

There’s something really interesting going on here, and it’s this – simplicity. I’m tasting individual ingredients. My palate isn’t being pounded into submission by a broadside of flavours. It’s just A, and B, with a little bit of C to provide contrast. And it works because A, B and C are themselves incredibly complicated tastes.

My brain is having problems with this. It’s like opening a wardrobe and finding Narnia.

Oh!

Now I’m in Narnia.

HEY. What, do I look stupid? OK, don’t answer that, but my point is – I’m not drinking that.

I’m not drinking that because the bottle is surrounded by cork. This is one of Mother Nature’s Warning Signs, like yellow & black strips, or a microphone in front of Sarah Palin. It signifies a clear & present danger to the fabric of the universe.

I’m not going anywhere near that sucker.

Well…maybe just a bit.

Well, she seems very happy, whoever she is.

Now there’s some kind of massive party going on, and I’m covered in stickers. Kate, what does it all mean? I put my drink down and…

You know, I could get used to it round here.

**********

I’m back in East Yorkshire, planning my next move, catching up on work and getting used to the fact that I don’t really live anywhere anymore. I’m feeling unanchored. Let loose. My mind is skipping back and forth, unable to process everything in order, grabbing handfuls.

The last 2 weeks have been intense, and I’m sorting them through.

I can’t be sure right now, not until I’ve written everything up properly – but it seems I had an incredible time.

All photos: Mike Sowden.

These are the stories of our lives.

(No, I promise I’m not springing a daytime soap opera on you. Well…not much).

Being able to tell your own story is one of the most powerful lifehacking skills you can learn – and here are 3  reasons for that.

(I’m going to use “you” a lot. Feel free to roll your eyes and disagree – it’s that kind of post).

1. Your Life Isn’t Naturally A Story.

It’s just a whole pile of Stuff, happening one thing after another. Whether you believe in destiny and a Guiding Hand, or if you think everything is just atoms freaking out, is unimportant here. You still need to put that story together yourself, a lot of it retrospectively. You decide the shape of it, to edit its structure based on what you believe or know or believe you know about your place in the world. That’s your unique vision. And it’ll challenge you, in the exciting way where you can feel parts of your brain lighting up. It’ll be fun. (Plus, you get to edit out the boring or really embarrassing bits).

2. Other People Will Try To Shape Your Story For You.

Teachers, parents, career advisors, well-meaning friends, work colleagues, bosses, Job Centre employees, bank managers, politicians, people on TV, anyone who has something to gain by shaping your development. It could be that they have some great plot ideas. They’re always worth listening to. But since those ideas are being shaped by either subtly or radically different types of story, they will change your story in subtle or radical ways – and maybe even mess it up completely. Geeky analogy: see what happened to Stanley Kubrick’s AI (2001) when Steven Spielberg got hold of it and imposed a clearly different sentimentality on the story. Would you like your life summed up like this?

….moments of near-brilliance, but far from a masterpiece.

James Berardinelli

3. If You Know Your Story So Far, You Know What Should Happen Next.

Ever felt profoundly let down when a TV show jumped the shark or when a book crossed your event horizon of Oh, I Don’t Even Want To Finish This? I’m sure there were still some fans of Dallas at the point Bobby Ewing stepped out of the shower and rendered the last 2 years a pointless dream sequence. I’m sure history will look fondly on George Lucas for his cute habit of spending massive amounts of money making dreadful films and remastering good ones until they’re ruined for the next generation of film buffs – but I am one of those people who went to the cinema to watch The Phantom Menace. I know what happened in there. It wasn’t cute.

When stories go awry, it’s a gut-wrenching shame.

When those stories are real lives, it’s a tragedy.

4. If You Know Your Story, You Can Polish It Until It Shines.

This is the core of personal branding. “Have a compelling story”, goes the tagline. Unfortunately, 1) suggests that our stories aren’t compelling until we make them so, and doing that requires an intimate level of knowledge of who you are and what you do. The good news is, when you’ve nailed all that down, you have the power to promote yourself effortlessly without sounding like a self-important jerk. (Unless of course you’re actually one in real life). The more you retell your story pitch-perfectly, the deeper it will sink into the world and define you as Someone To Watch. Your well-rehearsed, beautifully crafted story will compel people to listen.

This doesn’t just apply to celebrities and social media guru-wannabies – it’s for anyone who wants to be know for doing something. Or put another way… it’s for everyone.

That’s all the high altitude, hand-waving theory done with.

If you found it tedious and a little patronising, you’ll get some measure of revenge in the next part, which is all about how rubbish I am at telling my own story.

Here we see the Mike - a shy, awkward animal at the best of times, worryingly nocturnal and notoriously difficult to capture on camera (here we rigged up a shutter-trap with a Battlestar Galactica box-set and a jar of Nutella).

Once Upon A Time…

…there was a bloke called Mike.

Various things happened – we’ll gloss over them, shall we? Great.

Anyway, in 2004 he started maintaining a new type of website called a “blog”, which is short for Boring Long-winded Oratorical Groaning. In this blog, which he called Fevered Mutterings for reasons he forgot around 10 seconds later, he engaged in embarassingly self-conscious essays about The Great Issues Of His Day, such as What He Was Reading, and Why Star Trek Is Often Quite Unrealistic In Places.

Time passed. He kept writing.

It didn’t seem to be getting any easier – but it was so much fun!

Then he switched to using a blogging service called TypePad, and in doing so, something in him said “I want to find a way to make money from writing, so I should take this blogging lark seriously now. No more rubbish like those 50 Achievable Things! No, from now on, I write not for myself, but for The People”. (He meant this in the Marxist sense, not with regards to this bastion of quality journalism).

And from then onwards he hid behind his words, behind a veneer of pseudo-professional journalistic objectivity that meant that even when he was talking about his life…well….it wasn’t really about him.

He worked hard to avoid telling his story. Partly he felt a very English sense of embarrassment about blowing his own trumpet in public (as it were). Partly he felt that in terms of interesting material, what he had to say far, far outweighed who he was – which was a symptom of not being very happy with who he was and where his life seemed to be heading. His own story had gone awry – and so he wrote about other, more interesting ones.

Then his Fairy Godmother waved her wand (this didn’t happen, I’m being figurative, which is to say, I’m making shit up) and he awoke, inside his own head.

“To hell with credibility,” he thought to himself, and started up a new incarnation of his blog. He went back to writing about what he cared about. He found his voice, his true voice, and it was as wry and bumbling and messily constructed as he was. And he started telling his story.

Painfully.

Squirmily.

In a not-terribly-good-at-it sort of way.

A few months after starting to do this, he decided to change everything.

He now believes there’s a connection there.

In a week’s time I’m talking to travel bloggers about the importance of storytelling – but equally important for everyone is story-living. It’s not about ditching all practical sense and reason for a shot at an apparently fairy-tale life you’ve seen someone else living. That’s doomed to failure, because that’s not what living a story is really about. It’s about imposing order on the chaos you already have, weaving the disparate waving strands of your life into a thread that runs backwards and forwards in one (fairly) continuous line – a line of your choosing.

It’s about having a very large glass of wine and sitting down with a blank sheet of paper and a good, good pen and scribbling furiously until you’re facing the whole of your life from Beginning to Now to What If – and then ringing all the things you really care about, and drawing a line between them.

That’s your story.

Me? I’ve been really bad at doing this. No – I’ve been rubbish at it. I’ve uncritically listened to bad advice, I’ve got things wrong inside my head, and I’ve ringed the wrong things, many times. My story has meandered. No wonder it’s been hard to tell it to anyone. Now I think have a much better idea of where this tale is going and why. It’s just a theory, mind – a working draft with plenty of scribbling-out. But for now, that’ll do nicely.

And I fully intend to live Happily Ever After – if it’s the last thing I do.

So – what’s your story?

Images: lovelihood, billaday and Mike Sowden.