This is my 5 year story about becoming a far better storyteller.
Goal: Hold the audience's attention as well as Neil deGrasse Tyson.
I started with podcasting. But, every time I spoke, I sounded like a buffoon.
Why?
Goal: Hold the audience's attention as well as Neil deGrasse Tyson.
I started with podcasting. But, every time I spoke, I sounded like a buffoon.
Why?
While interviewing the best storytellers, something strange became clear:
They could only articulate *some* of the ingredients that make them great.
There was more beneath their explanations that they couldn’t identify when pressed.
This was a puzzle.
They could only articulate *some* of the ingredients that make them great.
There was more beneath their explanations that they couldn’t identify when pressed.
This was a puzzle.
Because these ingredients were hard to identify, I followed a process known as "learning by inversion."
This is where you learn how something works by studying its bad examples. Then you do the opposite.
So I watched a lot of bad storytellers on YouTube.
Thanks, TED.
This is where you learn how something works by studying its bad examples. Then you do the opposite.
So I watched a lot of bad storytellers on YouTube.
Thanks, TED.
I wondered: Is it possible to turn anyone into a storyteller as good as Neil deGrasse Tyson?
I recently got to the bottom of it.
It quickly became clear that there are two ways to tell a story:
1. In whatever way suddenly comes to mind
2. *Strategically*
I recently got to the bottom of it.
It quickly became clear that there are two ways to tell a story:
1. In whatever way suddenly comes to mind
2. *Strategically*
Talented storytellers know something bad storytellers don't:
Storytelling is the art of strategically withholding information.
Before you begin your story, you decide which details to withhold.
Storytelling is the art of strategically withholding information.
Before you begin your story, you decide which details to withhold.
In contrast, *bad* speakers who bore me lack narrative hooks—like you'd find at the beginning of a book or a film.
A hook raises a question without immediately providing the answer. (Withholding information.)
For example, “It was the worst date of my entire life.”
A hook raises a question without immediately providing the answer. (Withholding information.)
For example, “It was the worst date of my entire life.”
Listeners wonder, “Why?”
You're not going to tell them for a while.
You're not going to tell them for a while.
Hooks require premeditation. In fact, Neil deGrasse Tyson told writer David Perell that nearly all of the stories and analogies he shares in interviews are *first written down.*
I noticed that the best storytellers take the hook methodology to an extreme:
I noticed that the best storytellers take the hook methodology to an extreme:
They intersperse many hooks throughout their narrative by continually raising questions without immediately answering them.
When they finally get to the nail-biting answers, they drag out the telling.
*Dragging* is the second lesson:
When they finally get to the nail-biting answers, they drag out the telling.
*Dragging* is the second lesson:
For example, consider how the climax of a blockbuster film is always a drawn-out action scene.
The action is never resolved within seconds—even if that’s how long it would take in real life to play out.
Instead, every detail is magnified. Every punch is slow-motion.
The action is never resolved within seconds—even if that’s how long it would take in real life to play out.
Instead, every detail is magnified. Every punch is slow-motion.
In other words, storytelling is not only the art of strategically withholding information, it’s also the art of time dilation.
So I took to the mic and recorded a test episode of a podcast with my newfound skills.
I still sucked.
I had so much more to learn.
So I took to the mic and recorded a test episode of a podcast with my newfound skills.
I still sucked.
I had so much more to learn.
My stories were clinical. They only resonated intellectually—not emotionally.
I realized that the problem wasn’t the story's content nor structure.
Instead, the *delivery* was off.
I was no Neil deGrasse Tyson.
I was a dude rambling dry words into a microphone.
I realized that the problem wasn’t the story's content nor structure.
Instead, the *delivery* was off.
I was no Neil deGrasse Tyson.
I was a dude rambling dry words into a microphone.
Apple's Siri might as well have been telling the story for me.
So I returned to YouTube. Perhaps learning by inversion wasn’t the right approach.
Let's embark on a different quest:
Find the best spoken storytellers on the planet and mix their techniques together.
So I returned to YouTube. Perhaps learning by inversion wasn’t the right approach.
Let's embark on a different quest:
Find the best spoken storytellers on the planet and mix their techniques together.
I did come across remarkable speakers who could make anyone lean in. Forces of gravity.
The ingredient I noticed each of them employ was *vocal rhythm.* This is the art of varying your:
• Speed
• Volume
• Enthusiasm
• Staccato and rhyme
And most of all…
The ingredient I noticed each of them employ was *vocal rhythm.* This is the art of varying your:
• Speed
• Volume
• Enthusiasm
• Staccato and rhyme
And most of all…
Vocal rhythm is the art of purposeful silence.
Silence is one of the easiest and most powerful ways to play up a moment.
During a moment of silence, listeners can only do two things:
Reflect more on what just happened or greater fear what comes next.
Silence is one of the easiest and most powerful ways to play up a moment.
During a moment of silence, listeners can only do two things:
Reflect more on what just happened or greater fear what comes next.
Below is what variation and silence sound like.
Notice MLK's time dilation—how he stretches out moments and syllables.
And notice his hero’s perspective. He’s made it his story, and in doing so he’s made it personal to the audience who've transferred their identities into him.
Notice MLK's time dilation—how he stretches out moments and syllables.
And notice his hero’s perspective. He’s made it his story, and in doing so he’s made it personal to the audience who've transferred their identities into him.
The more I listened to vocal variation, the clearer it became that spoken storytelling is a form of music.
Without vocal rhythm and pauses, you're just a human wall of text.
So I re-recorded the podcast. I successfully nailed every story beat as planned!
But…
Without vocal rhythm and pauses, you're just a human wall of text.
So I re-recorded the podcast. I successfully nailed every story beat as planned!
But…
There was still something big missing 😢
I was a competent storyteller, but I was nowhere near as captivating as Neil deGrasse Tyson.
Audience reactions were more like "Cool story, bro"—not "holy, that was interesting."
No one's leaning in and binging more.
I was a competent storyteller, but I was nowhere near as captivating as Neil deGrasse Tyson.
Audience reactions were more like "Cool story, bro"—not "holy, that was interesting."
No one's leaning in and binging more.
Does this relate back to the missing ingredient that the great storytellers couldn’t articulate when pressed at the start?
Is the missing ingredient how to project soul and likeability to light up a room?
I think so. I felt I had reverse engineered everything else by now...
Is the missing ingredient how to project soul and likeability to light up a room?
I think so. I felt I had reverse engineered everything else by now...
But if the great storytellers can't articulate how they draw people in so well, how am I going to figure it out?
I don't know.
I paused the podcast.
*** One year later. ***
I don't know.
I paused the podcast.
*** One year later. ***
By the way, in a few tweets from now, it'll seem like the thread is over—but it's not. You'll need to click "Show replies" to keep reading it. Silly Twitter.
Anyway, one of my favorite people is Courtland Allen. He runs a startup community and has a podcast of his own. One day he asked, “Do you want to start a podcast?”
This was one of those opportunities where you don’t say no and you lean into the serendipity.
This was one of those opportunities where you don’t say no and you lean into the serendipity.
This time, I was militantly determined to finish my hunt and find the missing storytelling ingredients.
I remembered that the big thing that helped last time was studying the greats on YouTube. I went back to that.
After a week of wandering, I came across Jason Silva.
I remembered that the big thing that helped last time was studying the greats on YouTube. I went back to that.
After a week of wandering, I came across Jason Silva.
When watching this video of his, it became clear what likeability and charisma are. Jason is a force of gravity:
youtube.com
What's going on here?
Why does Jason feel alive, engaged, and magnetic? What's the difference between he and I?
youtube.com
What's going on here?
Why does Jason feel alive, engaged, and magnetic? What's the difference between he and I?
In paying attention to what was happening beneath the words, I noticed that Jason was using a technique:
He blows his own mind when he recounts his stories.
Blowing your own mind entails being excited at moments of excitement, being shocked at moments of shock...
He blows his own mind when he recounts his stories.
Blowing your own mind entails being excited at moments of excitement, being shocked at moments of shock...
... and being wowed at moments of wonder.
Listeners feed off this like sugar.
This, it turns out, is far more important than vocal rhythm or any other delivery technique.
Because, when you blow your own mind, something mesmerizing happens:
Listeners feed off this like sugar.
This, it turns out, is far more important than vocal rhythm or any other delivery technique.
Because, when you blow your own mind, something mesmerizing happens:
You relive the story and its impact on you in real-time.
People see that reflected on your face and in your authentic emotions.
This is irresistibly infectious for the audience.
Not one great storyteller had articulated this to me before!
People see that reflected on your face and in your authentic emotions.
This is irresistibly infectious for the audience.
Not one great storyteller had articulated this to me before!
I believe this works so well because of the phenomenon of "mirror neurons," as some call it:
When you see a fighter break their ankle, you wince. When you see someone who can’t breathe from laughing, you smile.
And—the classic—when the person next to you yawns, you yawn too.
When you see a fighter break their ankle, you wince. When you see someone who can’t breathe from laughing, you smile.
And—the classic—when the person next to you yawns, you yawn too.
I think we can trace the roots of this phenomenon through years of evolution: picture a hunter-gatherer rushing down from the mountaintop to frantically gather his tribespeople.
He’s exasperated and trying to recount what just happened:
He’s exasperated and trying to recount what just happened:
A pack of starving lions sprinted after him for half a mile! The tribe is glued to his every word because they feel the horror on his face—and they fear that could have been them.
It. Could. Have. Been. Them.
That's the feeling you need to transfer into your audience.
It. Could. Have. Been. Them.
That's the feeling you need to transfer into your audience.
They don't feel it in their bones unless it looks like YOU'RE feeling it first.
This storytelling ingredient—blowing your own mind—made me realize that my treasure hunt was doomed to fail because I was looking for the byproducts of great storytelling. Vocal rhythm and so on.
This storytelling ingredient—blowing your own mind—made me realize that my treasure hunt was doomed to fail because I was looking for the byproducts of great storytelling. Vocal rhythm and so on.
But it turns out that, by reliving experiences, your body captures all the great storytelling ingredients automatically:
It knows how to vary vocal delivery, it knows when to pause, and it knows when to emphasize.
Because when your mind relives emotions, your body reacts.
It knows how to vary vocal delivery, it knows when to pause, and it knows when to emphasize.
Because when your mind relives emotions, your body reacts.
Diving further into Jason's videos, I found more learnings: while blowing his own mind, Jason exudes charisma.
I noticed charisma is the state of projecting three qualities at once: confidence + joy + love for the audience. When you embody all three, you put listeners at ease.
I noticed charisma is the state of projecting three qualities at once: confidence + joy + love for the audience. When you embody all three, you put listeners at ease.
For you to drop your self-consciousness so that a crowd drops theirs, you have to embrace what theater coach Konstantin Stanislavski calls "public solitude," which is the ability to behave like you're alone when you're in front of a room full of people staring at you.
Most importantly, by doing this, you become the best storytelling version of your true self.
Meaning, it is an amplification of who you are, not a mimicking—of Neil deGrasse Tyson or anyone else. That was a flawed goal.
Meaning, it is an amplification of who you are, not a mimicking—of Neil deGrasse Tyson or anyone else. That was a flawed goal.
And so Courtland and I sat down to record our podcast yet again.
I messaged one potential guest who happened to be following me on Twitter.
I asked if he’d be our first-ever guest.
He surprised me by saying yes.
Guess who it was?
Jason Silva.
I messaged one potential guest who happened to be following me on Twitter.
I asked if he’d be our first-ever guest.
He surprised me by saying yes.
Guess who it was?
Jason Silva.
I then went to Tim Urban to ask if he’d co-guest with Jason. Tim Urban is the mind behind Wait But Why.
He too said yes.
Me, Jason, Tim, and Courtland sat down for one hour to talk about a single idea:
Storytelling.
He too said yes.
Me, Jason, Tim, and Courtland sat down for one hour to talk about a single idea:
Storytelling.
Before wrapping, I asked Jason about the concept of "blowing your own mind." I said: "Is this what you've been doing? I think that was the answer to my years-long puzzle."
He said yes.
It turns out he relives the feelings he had for each idea before speaking.
He said yes.
It turns out he relives the feelings he had for each idea before speaking.
He doesn’t hit record until he reaches that emotional place again.
Treasure hunt complete.
Blowing your own mind was the unspoken ingredient no one could articulate.
Treasure hunt complete.
Blowing your own mind was the unspoken ingredient no one could articulate.
During this time, by the way, I also spent years diving into what makes *fiction* (books, TV) great.
That's my next thread. New findings.
If you want to read my future writing early, please fill out this form to provide beta feedback: airtable.com)
That's my next thread. New findings.
If you want to read my future writing early, please fill out this form to provide beta feedback: airtable.com)
Ultimately, how can you find your own life stories worth telling? One way is to identify the significant moments that changed your life:
• Formative moments
• Painful moments
• Moments of triumph/cringe
Which of these stories can end with inspiration, wisdom, or insight?
• Formative moments
• Painful moments
• Moments of triumph/cringe
Which of these stories can end with inspiration, wisdom, or insight?
Throughout, lose yourself in the story and blow your own mind.
Relive it for the audience. Drop your guard. Enter public solitude.
Then we the audience will hang onto your every word. Because this is a rare moment of human authenticity. In a fake society, we starve for it.
Relive it for the audience. Drop your guard. Enter public solitude.
Then we the audience will hang onto your every word. Because this is a rare moment of human authenticity. In a fake society, we starve for it.
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