I am a paradox. Here I am, a girl who loves writing and storytelling but can’t tell a good story if her life depended on it. It’s become an inside joke between my friends and family who think my arsenal contains 3 mediocre stories-on a good day. In a real life situation, that’d set me up for about 15 minutes of first date conversation until I’m completely dry.
The overthinker that I am has spent many car rides and mid math class dazes pondering about what it is that makes my stories so terrible. Through simple trial and error I’ve calculated that my three biggest flaws in story telling are: unimportant details, over explained endings and an immediate admit of defeat after I finish. I always start off strong with the attention still twinkling in the eyes of my audience but as soon as I see them darting off as I explain the color of socks I was wearing or type of smoothie I had on the morning of that particular day, I give up and ruin my story with a unfulfilling ending. My go to end-of-story tag line is, “Wow I told that story awfully, I’m so sorry.”
I like to think that I inherited this quality from my great aunt Maisy who was as bad at telling stories as she was at telling jokes like: “I’ve been with the same man for 40 years…I hope my husband doesn’t find out about him.” However, I’m no Aunt Maisy. I can’t pull off the look of the charmingly gullible and ditzy old lady, any more than I can pull off the outrageous costume jewelry she used to adorn herself with. I’m just not cute enough. Seeing that I can’t miraculously convert into a charming old lady or a podcast superstar, I guess my only choice is to keep writing and telling stories, however unbearably boring they are, until I get the hang of this thing. Hopefully in a short time my tag line will be “Wow I told that story only slightly awfully, you’re welcome.”