Why has the word STORY entered centre stage? Why is it being used so often now? Is something significant happening? And what does this mean for the meaning of stories?

As my wise friend Lauren Sinreich cautioned recently:

“When someone comes up with a good idea or an interesting way of framing things, we tend to exhaust it until it’s lost its magic. We did it with the word “sustainable,” we’re doing it to “innovation,” and “storytelling” is next.”

What’s the buzz?

I love Lauren’s observation that words can work magic in us. That was definitely my experience with “sustainability”. It’s also been my experience with “stories”.

Two years ago I didn’t use the word story to describe most of my work. My perspective only shifted last year. I was going through a big transition and struggling for direction. Then (as I wrote at the time) a series of signposts with “stories’ popped up to guide me on my way. “Stories”, like “sustainability” connected many pieces together. My mind lit up with a lot of aha’s and I found enormous energy. 

When a word starts conjuring changes in our life or work there are two things that can happen:

1. we can just re-describe what we were doing in a new way, without making major changes (e.g. “We’ve always been committed to sustainability! We just didn’t use that word before”), and/or
2. we can let the word lead us in new directions (e.g. “We’re learning what sustainability means and making changes to our work.”)

Lately I’ve been reflecting on why I became so attracted to “stories”, what I’ve been learning, and why this word still has power in it.
 

Why are so many people talking about stories?

“Story” means different things to different people. Depending on our interests, some of the roots to the growing conversations about stories include:

• the influence of the “linguistic turn” in Western philosophy, as people became more aware of how we make meaning through language and narratives
• a more reflective culture, as people realise that “my story” is not “the story” but only one view of the world
• breakthroughs in neuroscience that show our brains are wired with stories, and how this relates to learning and empathy
• concerns about the “narrative collapse” in societies, as people lose faith in old stories from religions, governments and other authorities (which leads to a search for new meanings)
• the shift from broadcast media (based on one-way communication) to social media (which is more conversational in form)
• an eternal fascination that people have for myths and fictional stories.

But if I could boil down the current interest in stories to one simple statement…

I’d say it’s because stories are humanising.

In a world where so many of our workplaces and technologies treat people like machines, many of us are hungry for more fulfilling experiences.

It’s now easy to exist in a silicon world: gazing at our computer screens, buying stuff on-line, playing with smartphones and using automated checkouts at the supermarket. I used to like saying hello to the bus driver as he clipped my tatty paper ticket. Now I scan my travel card and hear an automated voice.

Many businesses have realised that we prefer to deal with people who we like and trust than with a faceless corporation. So experiences are being personalised through stories about people connected with their business. It gives us a warmer, friendlier experience to see a human touch.

Organisations are also realising that they can bring more life into their workplaces by encouraging people to share their stories. When we step beyond the comfort of our professional personas, people have a remarkable way of connecting with one another. An organisation with lots of life in it is more likely to encourage learning and innovation.
 

Here’s a short story:

This morning I remembered a moment five years ago that led me to leave my last full-time job. I was writing an academic article. One of my managers told me that I couldn’t use the word “I” in the article. I had to say “the author”, as if I was some distant disembodied entity. So “the author” drew a line and regained his humanity.

A few weeks after I left that job I participated in a “climate action hui”. Sixty people from around New Zealand were gathered in a room. We formed a circle and introduced ourselves. As we went around the circle, most people told us their job title. I wasn’t representing anyone in particular, so I just said “I’m Nick. I’m a human being and a concerned citizen.” The room smiled. Some people confessed that they were also human beings. We were all on equal terms.

Funnily enough, the relationships that grew between myself and others at that meeting led to some of the most interesting projects I worked on that year.
 

Stories have lots of pulling power.

I’m curious where this buzz could be taking us. In some ways, I don’t think people want stories per se. We want to feel connected, validated, understood and inspired. Sharing our stories is a natural and powerful way for everyone to experience this.

I’m also very grateful that I re-oriented my work around stories. I’m guilty of re-describing some of my previous work through a “story” frame (because that’s how I re-understood what I’d been doing all along). The difference in my work today is that it’s far less analytical than it used to be. What makes a story more than just a narrative—how we make sense of the world—is that there’s life in it. Working with stories requires embracing the complexity of humans in all our messy, brilliant beauty. We have to muddle through this complexity with as much clarity as we can muster.

“He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running… Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.”
~ Cormac McCarthy, The Road

I’m at the end of the road.

Sunlight fades in the heavy air. The beach is littered with human remains: plastic, polystyrene and dozens of lonely shoes that have been cast away like hermit shells. I prod a pile of waste with a stick and find a bottle of Royal Mirage perfume half-buried in the sand. Its fragrance is long-since spent. The small print says “it’s a mirage that isn’t a fantasy”.

This beach isn’t a fantasy. I’m in Kochi, Kerala, India. I’ve been wandering through crumbling buildings all day. Artworks from around the world are scattered around town for the Indian Biennale exhibition. Art often spills into the dusty streets. The art makes the buildings more beautiful. The buildings accentuate the art. I’m immersed among expressions of what it means to be alive.

This beach isn’t an artwork. It is a kind of statement though. It’s a fragment of the damage that we’re doing to our planet. Life is muted here, like the light. Even the ocean is silent. The air absorbs all sounds apart from the caws of circling crows. It feels like a scene from the story The Road. My eyes sorrow the landscape. An oil tanker glides silently across the horizon.

I sit for a while in a sombre state. The scene becomes imprinted on my mind. Then I stand and turn to leave. I notice some tourists at the end of the beach having a different experience. They’ve made some space among the waste to rest upon their towels. They offer their skin to the sun, wishing for a tan. Or maybe they’re just tired.

A boy approaches me as I stand here. “Where are you from?” he asks me (like hundreds more before him during my travels in India). “New Zealand”, I reply. He tells me he’s from Kochi. “What is your name?”, he asks. We share names. Then he says something that stops my breath: “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

I look into his eyes. He’s serious. I don’t know what to say. I’d just been experiencing this place as a wasteland. But to this person it’s beautiful. I worry it would break his heart if I tell him what I really think.

I face the beach again and gently say to him “Yes.” Then I pause and add—truthfully—“it’s beautiful.” Because he’s right. I can see some of the beauty that he sees in this place. The light is developing a golden glow. It softens the landscape with delicate strokes.

As the boy walks on I’m filled with deeper sorrow and appreciation. I’m sad that his beautiful beach is so polluted. I’m sad that he doesn’t see what I see, because my eyes have been trained in different landscapes. I fear for what happens to people and places when decay becomes beautifully normal.

But this boy also gave me a great reminder. He reminded me that beauty is everywhere, when we make time to see. Many of us are lucky to live in much healthier environments than this beach. How often do we really notice and appreciate the beauty that we easily take for granted?

“Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”  ~ Cormac McCarthy, The Road

I’ve often believed that people are more likely to protect something (or someone or some place) when they recognise its beauty. I still believe this. Noticing beauty in that beach, for example, helped me to see beyond the waste. But there’s also a danger in looking at places with a glazed romantic gaze. Beauty can be pleasing, but it may not lead to strong connecting. We can look at a landscape like TV, as a detached and distant observer. We stay separate from the scenery. Our experience is only skin deep, like sunbathing on a polluted beach.

Loving a place is like loving another person: it requires lots of attention. When we give a place our full attention, our boundaries blur and soften. We see with all of our senses. We feel more of life’s rhythm. And we may also find that some places speak to us—like this beach in Kochi whispering loudly for my care and attention.

I notice some silent creatures as I turn to leave the beach. Somebody has painted faces of people and birds on the rocks. It’s a nice reminder that people can bring more beauty and life to any place. This isn’t the end of The Road. Life has a powerful ability to regenerate, if we let it.

Note: This was a story from my travels in India earlier this year. I’m now settled back in Wellington, New Zealand.

There’s a beautiful passage in the Life of Pi that:

“The world isn’t just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn’t that make life a story?”

I’ve often been curious about the interplay of experiences and stories. So in very few words and images, here’s how I see this “dance”:

Note: If you’re reading this post as an email subscriber, click here to see the slideshow.

My fingers punctuate the silence with each stroke of the keys. The smell of steel and ink mingles with the breath of the sea. My body is cradled by a wooden chair. I exhale and reach for my tea-stained mug. Lifting my eyes to the horizon, I look out the window. A grey sky sinks into a ruffled ocean. I imagine turning myself into a seagull and looking down on this scene from above. My home paints the landscape with a warm glow. Then I come back to Earth and listen to the sounds of words waiting to be formed.

This is a place that I visited twenty years ago.

This was a time before the Internet, social networks and cellphones. My body was slumped at my school desk (embodying a slouch that only bored school kids can master). My mind was daydreaming about where I’d rather be.

Fast forward to the present and I’m re-imagining that scene above the cliffs. Part of me has always been there.  

I remembered this daydream several years ago when I was listening to a podcast by David Whyte. I’d lost my creative spark. I was trying to find the flow again in my work. And wise Mr Whyte offered a simple suggestion: try to remember your daydreams about the future when you were still at school (even if they don’t make sense). I created a quiet space to remember and this image flashed to mind. It felt peaceful and serene.

In some ways that image is still far, far away.

I’m currently sitting on a marble floor in a bedsit in India. I’m typing on a laptop. The air is fragrant with smoke and a slowly fermenting papaya. The volume is stuck on maximum.

In other ways, I’m really living in that place.

I’ve embraced the simplicity that the old typewriter suggests. I savour silence. I know how to find more peace and quiet in my mind, even when there’s a hurricane of noise outside. I’ve scaled some rocky slopes over the last few years. My mug is often stained with tea. And when the world looks rough and grey I turn my attention to that bright warm glow that spreads outwards from  within.

There’s also the obvious aspect to that scene: I’m writing. That’s how I imagined myself many years ago. I had no idea what I was writing in that cabin. It just felt like a place that I’d like to be. Now I’m writing about writing in that imaginary place (which seems a bit like Inception).

So it turned out I’m a writer.

I did not plan for this to happen. It’s just that writing is part of who I am and what I do. I don’t have any aspirations to do any literary writing. I just love working with stories. I enjoy helping other people and organisations to express themselves clearly. Putting words to paper (or on the screen) is only part of this. Mostly it involves listening and observing. I create some silence and the words come out.

Recognising myself a writer came as a surprise to me, as I have a dear friend who writes incredibly well but is wary of calling herself a writer. I used to leave little messages hidden in her books or bag saying “you are a writer”. She didn’t take the bait. And then one day I realised that I am a writer too. So be careful what you call people. It could rebound on you in ways you don’t expect. And if you’re feeling stuck in your life or work: it could be time for new dreams, or possibly some old ones.

The Hobbit was the first “big” story that I remember from my childhood. I fondly remember my parents reading it to me at the tender age of four. I’m still touched by this story, as I discovered while watching Peter Jackson’s latest epic movie. It’s a classic story about courage—and the treasures that await us when we adventure beyond our comfort zones.

My work revolves around real-life stories, but the boundaries between fiction and non-fiction are often blurry (as I’ve mentioned before).

Fictional stories often reveal deep truths about humanity and help us to see different ways of being. Non-fictional stories seem more “true”, but are also made-up explanations of how we currently understand and experience our world.

Meeting The Hobbit again recently was very different to the last time I stepped into the world of JRR Tolkien. This time I could more clearly see myself in the story (and the story in me). It wasn’t the hairy toes. It was the way I could identify with the character of Bilbo Baggins. My mind started reflecting on times in my life when I had heard, or ignored, the call to adventure. I remembered when life had become too comfortable and boring. And I could see that we all have a bit of a hobbit—and a big dose of courage—in each of us.

This led me to reflect on other fictional stories that have left a strong impression on me at formative times in my life.

I wondered how they influenced my own story, by helping to reveal my own character and interests. Rather than create a long list of these stories, I captured the first ten that came to mind. Then, because I was in a creative mood, I threw together a quote from each story in the slideshow below:

Note: The names of each story are listed at the end. If you’ve subscribed to this post by email and you can’t see the slideshow click here.

Many of these stories will be familiar to you. They’re stories that we’ve widely shared in our society.

Reflecting on the stories that have called to us can be a fascinating experience. You might like to try it yourself. What stories have struck a chord with you at various times in your life? What spoke to you most in each story?

It’s not just the “big” stories that help to shape our lives.

All of the stories that we meet—be they personal, political, fantastical or factual—can become woven into our own life’s story. Seeing as it’s the holiday season, which is a great time to dive into more fictional stories, I’ve also collected some quotes from ten stories that have enriched my life in 2012:

May your own story be filled with many more adventures and fantastic experiences in 2013. The year ahead is still an open book.

~ Nick

Then an influential lobbyist attacked Mike Joy for “sabotaging” New Zealand’s tourist industry by challenging our purity. Our Environment Minister followed by claiming “100% Pure… has been used as a stick to beat New Zealand by environmental activists.” Now New Zealand’s Prime Minister has added his view that “100% Pure is a marketing campaign. It’s like … McDonalds’ ‘I’m Lovin It!’ “.

Putting aside the cringe of comparing New Zealand’s high value reputation to something cheap, greasy and nutritionally dubious, these statements reveal a lot about the people who make them. They reflect the stories that different people tell about New Zealand—and the New Zealand that we aspire to create and live in.

“Clean, green New Zealand” has become a story of almost mythical status.

I’m not talking about mythical dragons and hobbits. I mean a widely-shared story about who we are, deep down, as New Zealanders. If the American Dream is largely about freedom, part of the New Zealand Dream is about treasuring our environment.

“Clean and green” is a phrase that many people automatically associate with New Zealand. We didn’t always tell New Zealand’s story this way though. The phrase didn’t enter public consciousness until the 1960s. It emerged as European settlers developed a closer affinity with the landcapes of New Zealand. In the words of one European settler last Century (via this book):

… it’s just dawned on me that I’m a New Zealander, and surely, surely the legends of the mountains, rivers and people that we see about us should mean more to us than the legends of any country on earth.

As David Eggleton puts it, “the eye of the [early European] descendant began to contemplate the landscape around about with a certain intimacy and affection, as delicately as a gecko sipping nectar from a pohutukawa blossom.” The land began to be loved.

Compared to older Maori mythologies, the “clean and green” story is rather skin deep. But the more that people have described New Zealand as “clean, green and pure”, the more power that we’ve given to this story about our country and our natural treasures.

We need to be careful about treading on this story.

It’s easy to dismiss our clean and green image as just another marketing gimmick. But it’s not just a brand. “100 percent pure” is a puffed up version of the story we tell about New Zealand. Marketers didn’t create this story. It emerged from our society over many decades.

As the current whirlwind shows, New Zealand’s economic success is closely tied to this story. Our tourism, food, film and clothing industries rely on it for success.

It’s not just an economic story though. Ask any New Zealander what they love about our country. I am yet to meet a Kiwi who doesn’t mention the environment as a core part of what makes New Zealand special. Our clean and green story forms part of New Zealand’s identity.

Unfortunately the story’s not true.

The clean and green New Zealand story is a great story. But most of us know that it isn’t really true. A story is true when it’s consistent with our actions. And New Zealand is far, far away from being an environmental leader right now. So what are we to do?

Here’s three options:

1. Kill the story: by revealing how hollow it is and not telling it anymore.
2. Pretend the story has substance: by continuing to tell the story without doing anything to make it real.
3. Make the story true: by turning our words into actions.

Options one and two lead to pretty much the same thing. As the furore of the New York Times article highlights, we can’t keep telling an inauthentic story. We’ll keep being exposed for it. Continuing to tell the “100 percent pure New Zealand” story while doing more damage to our environment makes about as much sense as McDonalds marketing their current menu as “100 percent pure and natural.” People don’t keep buying a lie. It gives people a sour and undesirable experience.

I’m going to keep telling the “clean and green” story. 

The way I see it, there’s a lot riding on this story (including many people’s livelihoods). But we need to be honest in what we say. Here’s how I tell the story:

New Zealand has a magnificent environment. We (people) have been given fresh air, clear water, ancient forests, rich soil and a good climate. The light is different in this part of the world. It illuminates the green and shimmers brightly on the seas around us. We can easily step into wild places that rejuvenate our spirits. We make a living from our environment. We always have.

Unfortunately we’ve done lots of damage to our home. We’ve cleared forests, scarred the hills, soiled rivers, destroyed species and harmed many places that we cherish. We’re still doing harm. Some people call this the price of progress. But while some people grow wealthier at the expense of our environment, many of us grow poorer with the loss of these treasures.

We have a lot to learn. We’re learning how to blend with the landscapes we’re part of. We’re learning to live well together. We’re learning how to create enterprises and technologies that protect rather than destroy the environment we’re part of. And in parts of New Zealand our environment is recovering through the great work of many people.

New Zealand is obviously not “100 percent pure.” Our environment is not “untouched” by damage or pollution. We describe ourselves as “clean and green” because that is what we value. And through our actions we can show that our environment can be improved, rather than just diminished, by our human touch.

One was known to be pragmatic, stoic, and soft-spoken. The other was highly ambitious with a strong personality. They chose the former (Neil Armstrong) over the latter (Buzz Aldrin). According to a little-known story, they favoured Armstrong because he would be the “best representative to the world” as a hero and American icon. The man who embodied humanity’s giant leap even described the moment he stepped on to the moon as “anti-climactic.” He was much more excited by the challenges of the journey than finally getting there.

Neil Armstrong passed away yesterday. Obituaries still celebrate him for his “noble character”. In a world that has become much more focused on public personalities (i.e being seen as interesting or popular) over character (i.e. the distinctive “inner” mental and moral qualities that we embody), I wonder if NASA would make the same kind of decision today.

This story about choosing character over public personality is similar to a tension that many of us face:

How can we tell our own stories without “blowing our own trumpet?”

Of course some people love to promote themselves. But if you’re like me you’ll always feel a little uneasy about singing your own song. That’s tricky when it comes to work, as nearly all of us need to do some self-publicity at times (e.g. for a job interview or while pitching for work as a self-employed person like me).

We can learn about telling our own story by learning from others.

We love to talk about characters in fictional stories in films, books and on-stage.

We revel in interpreting each character and discerning their inner motivations, issues and messy human qualities. We do this all the time for the real-life people around us as well. That means that even if we excel at telling great stories about ourself, people are always hunting through our stories to see our inner character. Sometimes we also feel a secret joy when someone is revealed for being someone different than they wanted us to believe (just as we suspected!).

For those of us who care about authenticity, it may seem that the safest option is therefore: say nothing. After all, actions speak louder than words. So why bother with the words?

Here’s why it’s important to share our own stories:

When we tell our own life/work story we often learn something important about ourself that we couldn’t see before. We’re often so busy living our story that we don’t know what it is. Telling our story helps us to gain a wider perspective on our life and to find areas for change and growth.

Sharing our story also helps other people to learn from our experiences. We often see aspects of ourself in other people’s stories. We feel inspired when they reveal something that we highly value too.

So how can we share our own story with the world?

The approach I’ve learned over time is to talk about our experiences and then show what we have learned. This helps to reveal our inner character. This is like going to a job interview and being asked: “Tell me about a time when you made an unwise choice… how did you respond?”.

If we can tell a clear story about ourself (without getting hyped about a dazzling personality) people respond well. If we can’t tell a clear story (in a job interview or any other realm of life), people often feel mystified. Unless we’re oozing trust, because of previous good experience that people have had in our company (or because they’ve heard great stories about us from other people they trust) it often takes a long time to build good rapport.

It also helps to get a little personal with our stories. This used to freak me out. I didn’t want to reveal my inner-world of thoughts and feelings. But the more personal we get with our stories, the more universal they become (i.e. more people can relate with our experiences in life/work). And we don’t need to share everything. We get to decide what’s appropriate for us and other people.

There’s no need to be a stranger

Neil Armstrong was eventually called a “stranger on Earth” because he didn’t like to talk about his story. Apparently he also said “I am, and ever will be, a white-socks, pocket-protector, nerdy engineer.” It took someone else (his biographer) to reveal more of his beautiful character.

Many other astronaughts did find ways to express their experiences. Here are some of their words:

What beauty. I saw clouds and their light shadows on the distant dear earth…. The water looked like darkish, slightly gleaming spots… ~ Yuri Gagarin

As we got further and further away, Earth diminished in size. Finally it shrank to the size of a marble, the most beautiful you can imagine. That beautiful, warm, living object looked so fragile, so delicate… Seeing this has to change a man. ~ James Irwin

A Chinese tale tells of some men sent to harm a young girl who, upon seeing her beauty, become her protectors rather than her violators. That’s how I felt seeing the Earth for the first time. I could not help but love and cherish her. ~ Taylor Wang

It’s tiny out there…it’s inconsequential. It’s ironic that we had come to study the Moon and it was really discovering the Earth. ~ Bill Anders

What would we do without stories like these?

My palms are sweating. I’m struggling to breathe. I rise from my chair. My legs are jelly and it takes all my strength to prevent them from giving way. I’m clenching my whole body to stop trembling. Somehow I make it to the front of the room. I turn to face my audience, acutely aware of the feeling of their gaze directed at me. My face burns. I attempt a deep breathe.

I’m 13 years old. I’m about to give my first public speech. I’ve been dreading this moment for weeks. I tried to ignore the swirling sensations in my belly as the teacher made her way down the list of last names. I’d been praying for a stay of execution for just one more day. Now there’s nowhere to run. I look at my cue cards and open my mouth…

For a shy or introverted child, giving our first public speech is a terrifying experience.

It doesn’t help when we’re being graded on our performance (as we know we’re being judged). According to Susan Cain, in Quiet: The power of introverts in a world that can’t stop talking, negative public speaking experiences in childhood can also leave people with a lifelong terror of the podium.

A third to half our population are “introverts”.

These are people like me who are highly sensitive to our environment (which on the plus side means we often notice things that other people don’t notice). Few of us enjoy public speaking. Yet we’re often required to do this in our education and for our work. So how do we cope?

Fast forward 22 years from that 13 year old version of myself: I’ve given dozens of public presentations, mostly to small groups (my preference) and sometimes to hundreds of people. I’ve often forced myself to speak publicly for my work. The fear has never left, but now it doesn’t affect me so much. And over the last couple of years I’ve noticed a peculiar sensation: sometimes I’ve really enjoyed it.

I still feel for that shy little fella who summoned all of his courage to deliver a speech in front of his classmates. So here’s what I’d tell him to help him get through this, based on my experiences in later years…

1: Speak from the heart

That speech you did at 13 on the subject of “school” wasn’t a great choice of topic. You weren’t really passionate about most of your schooling.

Explore what you really care about in life/work. Public speaking gets much easier when you’re enthusiastic about your subject. You’ll audience will feel this and you’ll feel their response. Then everything flows.

When you’re passionate about something—e.g. a cause or the purpose of your work—your feelings will carry you. You’ll feel compelled to face your fears and stand firmly on your feet. You’ll often forget your inhibitions. You’ll speak strongly for what you value.

2: You don’t need to fake it

If you go to a public speaking workshop and someone implores you to “fake it till you make it” don’t fret. This advice may work for some people, but not if you’re serious about being authentic. Keep being true to yourself. That’s where your real power is. That means you need to know yourself. Explore who you are. When you’re comfortable in your own skin you’re more relaxed in front of others.

Here’s a little tip: as you get older, you’ll realise that people open up if you show a little vulnerability. This may not happen so much at school. But trust me: the people who you want to make strong connections with will admire your honesty and respond really well.

Here’s another tip: don’t worry about “persuading” people (even if you really care what you’re talking about). People won’t change because you want them to change. Instead, spread your inspirations. People are inspired by real-life stories, which will lead them to make their own changes. This is a powerful way to generate change.

3: Tell a story

Remember that any presentation you give is a story. So tell it like a story. That doesn’t mean you should start with “Once upon a time”. It means you should look at how the whole narrative of what you’re saying fits together.

What do you most want to convey? What will your audience relate to? Create a story that brings these parts together.

Use real-life examples and personal experiences (from yourself or other people) to bring out the life in your story. Spice it up with metaphors and imagery. Explore the arc of your story: how it builds from beginning to end (sometimes with a bit of creative tension). Only use facts/data to punctuate your story. And when they invent something called “Powerpoint” don’t write your speech on the slides: think of it like freeze framing images on TV. Use lots of imagery and just a few words per frame.

You’ll enjoy creating and designing your speech as a story. This will also help you to feel well-prepared (which is important for the more introverted among us).

4: You’re really well-supported

Remember that one third to half the people in the room (or more) are a lot like you: they don’t love public speaking. When you see someone else giving a speech and they’re struggling, send them your support. Tell them (silently in your mind, unless you want people to look at you) “it’s OK!”. You know what it’s like to be in their shoes. Send them your compassion and support.

When it’s your turn to speak, remember this. There are people in the room who are sending you lots of support. You may not know who they are but they are there.  Don’t worry about feeling judged. It’s the worry that’s making you feel anxious.

5: It’s all learning

Sometimes you may choke. This can happen to any of us. It may hit you when you least expect it—e.g. giving a presentation you’ve given before that you weren’t at all worried about. You turn to face people and damn, your throat goes dry and your voice starts to wobble.

If this happens slow down. Breathe a little deeper. Press your feet into the floor. And be kind to yourself. Self-judgement doesn’t help. When it’s over, don’t get self-critical. Accept this as a humbling experience and ask yourself: what happened? Is there anything that I could do differently next time? What can I learn from this experience? Could I have prepared differently? Is my heart still in this?

Regardless of how you view yourself, remember that many people probably viewed you much more generously. Some of them might even come up afterwards and whisper in your ear that your story inspired them (despite your inner-ordeal).

Practice, practice, practice.

And importantly…

Put yourself in service of the story that you’re telling. Then the story is the centre of attention, not you. This feels a whole lot better if you don’t like being the centre of attention. You’re just there to communicate the purpose that this story is fulfilling. You’ll understand this more over time.

Back to today:

There are plenty of resources for people who want to improve their experience of public speaking. For example, this short video from Zefrank has some great honest (and hilarious) tips:

For children, it’s also important to create a safe environment for those formative experiences (e.g. by building confidence, practicing with partners or small groups first and not forcing people to speak when they’re clearly terrified).

And in case you’re wondering about that first speech I gave: well, it was awful but I did it. My legs didn’t collapse (much to my surprise). I said everything I had prepared (probably at concord-velocity). My teacher said some kind words. I may have even “passed”. So well done, I say now. I did the best that I could in challenging circumstances and in my book that’s really a success.

I’m currently working with a government agency on four scenarios for the future of New Zealand. A scenario is a plausible story about a possible future.

Many elements make up a good scenario. There needs to be a tension between what’s plausible today and what’s possible tomorrow—to stretch our current thinking and imagination. It needs to make sense, through a coherent series of events. It needs to show the impacts of major forces coming into play. And, like any good story, it needs to help people see what the world could look/feel like (as if we were in it).

A scenario creates a different world.

When we enter a scenario we experience a world that’s very different from our own. We imagine what we’d do there. We wonder how we got there. We may also wonder what we could have done differently if it’s not a place we’d like to be.

All scenarios are fictional. Even if they’re used for real-life (current world) purposes and based on solid facts and research, the future is uncertain. That’s why scenarios are useful. They let us explore different futures. They invite us to ask “What if…”. They encourage us to imagine (as an individual, organisation or community) how we’d respond in different situations.

One technique that I find useful to bring scenarios to life is by using fictional characters. We look at how each character’s life could change over 10, 20 or 50 years in various scenarios. We see the world through their eyes.

A well-crafted scenario really takes us to the future.

What I realised this week is that scenarios are a form of time travel. That’s because our brains mentally simulate the situations we encounter.

Recent research by psychologists and neuroscientists is showing that our brains “mirror” the experiences that we read/hear about through stories. When we’re immersed in a compelling story the same parts of our brain light up as if we were actually experiencing that world ourself. That’s why our heart beats faster during action films or we hold our breath when a character is trying to escape from a tense situation (etc).

As Lisa Cron highlights in Wired for Story: we really do slip into a characters skin in a good story—we experience what they experience in ourself.

In a compelling scenario, or any story about the future, our mind makes a link with a future world. We enter a future possibility. The future enters us. For a moment (and maybe forever) a pathway is formed.

Scenarios can transform us.

“Scenarios are stories. They are works of art, rather than scientific analyses. The reliability of [their content] is less important than the types of conversations and decisions they spark.”

~ Arie de Geus (a pioneer of scenario thinking)

One of the things I love about scenarios is that they invite us to explore how we’d respond in different (and often difficult) situations to reach our goals. We can see the strengths we’d need to develop to thrive in trying times.

Scenarios can follow the pattern of many fictional stories: we create a world for a protagonist (lead character) to confront a major challenge, or a series of challenges. This character needs to overcome these challenges internally (e.g. by resolving something or developing their capabilities). The character is transformed as they go through these challenges and grow in strength/power.

In a scenario we—as an individual, organisation or community—get to be the lead character. We explore how we’d respond. We may also learn what we need to develop or let go of today to reach our goals/purpose more effectively.

Time travelling with scenarios is much more engaging than just stepping into a time machine.

We don’t just visit the future. We make it. That doesn’t mean that we make all of it. It means that we make our experience of the world.

We don’t know what the future will look like (although we can see some hints on the horizon). What we do know is that we can shape ourselves for an ever-changing world. We can grow our strengths and capabilities. And the better shape we’re in, the more powerful we’ll be in shaping a world that we really want to be in.

Many businesses seem to think so.

Next time you’re in a supermarket, count how many products say “made with love”, “made with passion” or have a little love heart on them.

Here’s the catch though: if you’re doing anything just for money, it ain’t love. And people can feel the difference.

A decade ago “LoveMarks” arrived on the scene.

Kevin Roberts (CEO of Saatchi & Saatchi) wrote the book Lovemarks to influence marketing. He suggested that love is the key ingredient to create “loyalty beyond reason” among people and products/brands.

I remember feeling queasy and alarmed when I read this. It seemed like the commercialisation of love.

After Lovemarks came out I noticed many businesses adding some love to their marketing (including the photo at the top of this post). This included car makers, dairy producers, telecommunications giants, clothes stores and burger joints. Even McDonald’s adopted a new slogan: “I’m lovin’ it.”

This love wasn’t even skin-deep.

I mean seriously: do you really expect me to believe that a cheap cheeseburger, slapped together on a greasy grill in under a minute by some poorly-paid students from pre-formulated industrial ingredients is a great expression of love? It’s not even good for the heart.

What Lovemarks didn’t recognise is that love is something that we give with no expectation of anything in return. 

Real love is, and always will be, immune to commercialisation.

As soon as a business becomes motivated primarily by money, the energy feels different. As Anne Michaels puts it beautifully in her most recent novel: “Everything that’s made with love is alive.”

No love = no life = no energy.

There’s an interesting dynamic at play here.

People do respond well when we put our love into something. And money can flow our way as a result of this. It’s just that money needs to be seen as a gift/enabler for doing what we love. We can get ourselves in trouble when money becomes the purpose for what we’re doing.

Alas, money is at the heart of many businesses—particularly large publicly-listed companies that are geared to maximise profits. They don’t love us and we don’t love them. Marketing won’t change that.

Many businesses are based on love though. Think about a local cafe that you love. The people who set it up have probably poured their heart and energy into creating that place. It’s the same story for many other (often small to medium-sized) enterprises.

The current craft boom—with people buying handmade products from people who make beautiful things—also highlights something important. In a high-tech mass-produced era, people value quality, care, attention, a good experience and a human touch more than ever.

Simply put: we highly value life.

Love does lead to wealth.

There’s no guarantee that love can lead to money (that’s the point!).
It does lead to wealth though.

I often haven’t given money much attention in my work. For a couple of years I gave away most of my work time to social/environmental causes. I decided that I would only put my energy into work I really care about. Financially I became a bit reckless. I drained my savings. And it was worth every cent for the experiences I’ve had and the people I’ve met. It’s been a great investment in my future.

It’s difficult to keep going with that kind of approach without giving some attention to money though. This year I’ve been more focused on making enough money to support my life and other people. I’m valuing my own contributions more. I still only do work that I care about, but I’m building a stronger foundation to live/work from.

What I’m discovering is that many people I’ve given energy to over the last few years are now the greatest ambassadors for my work. They’re finding work for me. It’s incredibly touching. I didn’t intend for that to happen. It just is. And I’m enjoying my work more than ever.

Businesses can be based on love and have a healthy relationship with money.

Our finances needs to be well-managed, whether we’re an individual, a family, a cause, business or social enterprise. But when money-making becomes the heart of a business, the life of a business becomes dull. That can’t be fixed by adding the label of “love”.

Some of the businesses that I see adding “love” to their labels really seem genuine. But here’s a little tip for any business that’s made with love: you don’t need to tell me this so explicitly.

When you’re doing what you do with great love, I can feel it. I like it. I want to support you. You can tell me a story about why you do what you do. That shows me your purpose. Just make sure it’s true. Put lots of care and attention into everything you do. Nobody knows what you’ll get in return, but all kinds of goodness will keep flowing your way.