Storytelling

My life often feels divided into three equal parts: teaching, parenting, and writing. And the commonality among them is presence of storytelling.

At work, current and prospective students—mostly female—stop by my office to chat about work, school and life. Often, they are there for a specific reason, a question about an assignment or a struggle at the office, but sometimes they are there just to talk. I am always amazed and grateful they share their stories with me. Sometimes it’s the story of a new puppy or a promotion at work; sometimes it’s a darker tale I feel humbled to hear. At home, I have two daughters who do nothing but tell stories. A tall tale about why the lamp is broken. Or a story that is merely the mark of an exploding imagination. And when I sit down to write, I craft my own stories, hoping I share one to which someone else can relate. In all the areas of my life, I am in the presence of women and their stories. And I’ve noticed that often, we as women don’t do the best job as storytellers.

The lives we are living, the experiences we are choosing, are the most important stories we will ever tell. We pick the plot points, we choose the cast of characters. And yet, I find that women spend the least amount of time crafting their own stories. I see them get swept up in other people’s narratives, or playing a secondary character in someone else’s tale, or—even worse—giving up on their own stories.

But if we see our lives as stories, we can use three rules of storytelling to weave tales we are proud to tell.

The first of these rules is: Don’t Just Be the Hero

I constantly hear the phase: Be the hero of your own story. I see it on posters, on memes, on home décor. And that is fine advice. We should be the hero of our own story. But I’ve seen enough Disney movies with my daughters to know that even when the princess is the hero of the story, it’s always narrated by someone else. An omnipresent voice telling us the hero’s journey and, often, how to feel about it.

It’s not enough to be the hero of your story. Be the narrator. Then, write yourself as the hero.

I remember very clearly the first time I lost my narrative. It was right after the birth of my first daughter, who was born in the summer between semesters of my doctoral degree.

When the summer ended and the semester started up, I was able to secure two days of child care. This meant that on Tuesdays and Thursdays I would need to attend class, do any of the work for the university to fulfill my scholarship requirements, as well as schedule any dentist or doctor appointments. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I was at home with my newborn, taking her to story time at the library, Mommy and Me gymnastics class, or to see the elephants at the zoo. While she napped, I worked on my dissertation. When Jim came home from work, I made us dinner and then left to drive an hour away, to another university, where I taught two night classes that lasted until about 11. The next morning, it started all over again. This was my routine for two years.

At the time, when people would ask what I was doing now that the baby had arrived, I enumerated all of that. And most every person I told this to responded in one of three ways: 1) Gasp and express how unbelievably lucky I was to find a man who would support me in all of this, or 2) Bring up the financial ramifications of my choices; many were quick to point out that the expense of graduate school must have put undue pressure on Jim to support us fully on his salary, or 3) Lightly suggest that I could be on the verge of ruining all of it.

The narrative was: here’s a woman being careless, selfish and irresponsible with her family. And after frequently hearing that story told about my own life, I bought into that narrative so completely that it became the story I told. I’d sheepishly say I was in school, but express that it wasn’t a big deal. Or I’d lead by saying how lucky I was to have a husband like Jim who supported my school work. Or I’d undersell how overwhelmed I was because I didn’t want anyone assuming my stress meant stress in our marriage.

One morning in the shower, while scrubbing my hair, I enumerated all I had to do that day—get Jim off to work, feed and change the baby, get her to day care, get to class, go into the office to run data for the grant I was working on, get my hair cut, pick up the baby, get dinner ready, grade papers while we ate, and create my lecture in my head while I drove an hour to class. And it suddenly hit me: the narrative was all wrong.

The true story was this: I was and am lucky to have Jim, sure. But not because of the reasons people kept saying. If the rationale is that I am lucky because my spouse supports me in my personal and professional goals, then Jim is damn lucky, too. I was also not a financial burden at all. I was caring for our child nearly full time (saving us thousands of dollars), I was on full scholarship for school (again, several thousands of dollars), and I was bringing in money from adjunct teaching (let’s not get into the monetary value on this one). Further, I wasn’t on the verge of ruining my marriage with all my stress. I actually handle stress really well. And it was insulting to imply I wouldn’t be aware of it if I were.

Wasn’t any of my journey impressive? Wasn’t anything I was doing worthy of admiration, or respect? Why was it that everyone only saw my story as it related to my poor, put upon, stressed-out, financially struggling husband?

How had he become the hero of my story?

It was because I had let go of the narrative.

So after that shower, when I was good and steamed, I took back my narrative. Sometimes in overt ways—like writing about it—but often it was just in how I responded to people who asked about my life. I stopped downplaying it, or hiding it, for fear I seemed selfish and reckless. I was proud of my story, and I took pride in the narrative. Which I know made me preform better in school and at home.

I reveled in my story because I realized I was the hero.

I see a lot of women who let their narratives go to someone else, be it a parent, a child, a spouse, even strangers. And the problem with that is that no one else is ever going to write you as the hero.

Recently, a young woman who had just graduated college asked to meet with me. She was interested in applying to the graduate program I help administer. She told me that she absolutely wanted to do the program, she just didn’t know when. Her problem was she was waiting to see where her boyfriend got a job. Then she would probably move with him, as they were probably going to get married and then she could make a decision about starting graduate school.

I have no problem with women embarking on an adventure for—or because of—love. But in that conversation, she was talking more about her boyfriend’s career, opportunities, and desires than her own. She had given him the narrative and was living as a secondary character in his story. And if she gave over the narrative that time, making the boyfriend the hero, she’s more likely to do it again. And again.

Life is about compromise, sure. But that doesn’t mean giving over your narrative. Be the hero of your own story. But more importantly, be the one telling your story. Be the narrator. Be the main character. And dare to write yourself as heroically as you can.

The second rule is: Don’t Put Plot Before Character

The most interesting and compelling stories are made up of characters you can relate to, fall in love with, and root for. The stuff that happens to them is just plot. And it only matters because of who the character is.

If you ask someone about Harry Potter, they don’t say, “Oh, I love all that stuff that happens to Harry Potter.” No, they say, “I love Harry Potter.” At that point, it’s best to walk away because they are about to tell you all the many reasons why they do, and you do not have that kind of time.

I find that people—especially women—focus on the plot way more than the character.

I met with a prospective student last summer. I knew her only by her sterling reputation, so I was beyond excited when she reached out to me about the graduate program.

She started our meeting with a disclaimer—she was going to have a baby. I was thrilled for this stranger, congratulating her for the good news, and, of course, reminding her not to give her narrative away to the baby or her husband. She promptly corrected me by saying she wasn’t actually pregnant yet, but she wanted me to know her frame of mind to give our conversation context.

Now, this isn’t unusual. Many of the women I talk to mention this right up front. I think it’s great to voice our desires. And, as their potential advisor, it helps me know what kind of life they are striving for—which is helpful when it comes to career counseling and course selection.

But the reason for mentioning her interest in having a child was because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to take the program I help administer—which is a traditional in-person program—or one offered at another university online.

Again, that isn’t an unusual conflict, and I’ve heard many potential students express it. She thought that an online degree would offer more flexibility, which would be helpful whenever a child came to be.

Now, there’s a lot of data that suggests online programs are actually more time consuming, but I could tell that wasn’t really the direction our conversation needed to go, or the real root of her dilemma.

So I asked her: “Which one do you want to do?”

She laughed and said she would much rather take the program in person. She loved having conversations with her classmates, getting to interact with the professors, the camaraderie of school, etc.

So her conflict wasn’t between an online program and a traditional one. Her conflict was between plot and character. She clearly had a preference. And the reality was, her preference wasn’t detrimental to her other plot points—her future kid won’t know the difference.

But women continually jump to the plot point before they’ve thought about the character.

And one of the biggest lines of bullshit that women get fed is that the major plot point of parenting immediately comes with sacrifice. That motherhood equals martyrdom.

So we start sacrificing before we are ever asked to. I’m not saying parenting doesn’t come with some sacrifice; it absolutely does. And you never know what issues or challenges will come with each child. But by and large, my kids aren’t the ones asking me to sacrifice. The sacrifice my daughters ask me to make is to get off the couch and get them goldfish crackers; they do not ask me to give up on my hopes and dreams.

Yet when women are ready for motherhood, we start clearing our life of all the things we really want in preparation for all the sacrificing.

I kept putting off getting pregnant with our second child, trying to accommodate a possible job opening at the university--the position I now occupy. After months of waiting, I gave up on the plot point and listened to my character. I wanted another kid. And the university patiently waited until after I gave birth to that kid to interview me.

If we think about character first, then logical plot lines flow from there. The prospective student can choose to do the program she wants and make the arrangements with the baby around that. But if she jumps to plot first, picking a program she is less excited about just because she thinks the plot dictates that, then she is not only putting plot before character, but she’s handing over her narrative.

So, if you’ve got a hold of your narrative, and you’re writing yourself as the hero, then accept the plot points that make sense from the point of view of your main character. Which is you. Remember? The hero.

The final rule is: Don’t Recycle Plot Lines

My husband and I stream a lot of Netflix. And Hulu, and Amazon Prime. We’ve instituted two minutes of eye contact between episodes, so it’s fine. Sometimes, a few minutes into a new show, we’ll turn to each other and say, “Have we seen this? This seems familiar.” Now, whether or not we have seen it before, the familiarity has already weakened our interest.

Our own plot lines should be compelling. Unique. And keep us on the edge of our seats as we progress in the story. If it feels familiar, you’re gonna be bored.

And yet we often get caught up in the common plot points we’ve heard about. I’m not talking about big major life milestones, like school, marriage, kids, and the like. I’m talking about the small points of plot we think are necessary for our character to experience.

For the first two years recruiting for our graduate program I got the exact same question from every prospective student: “What can I do with this degree?” For two years I showed them statistics on what other students had gone on to do. I showed them income reporting from alumni across the region. I showed them the most common jobs that look for someone with this degree. But after two years, I had a young woman in my office who asked that same question and I snapped (I apologized, we’re good) and said: “What can’t you do with this degree?” I was just so tired of recycling plot lines to students.

Look, I get that people don’t want to take unnecessary risks. But there’s also a point at which we have to stop thinking everything is an equal input-to-output exchange. That if we follow the same path as someone else, it will result in the same outcome. Or that we can only get to point B if we go through point A. I’m guessing going through C is way more fun anyway. Very few things in life have a replication model of success. Would we encourage our youth to drop out of college because look how it worked out for Bill Gates? No. And we shouldn’t be doing that with our own points of plot. There is not going to be a direct path to anything. Or a guarantee on anything that looks like a direct path.

But I see my students, especially my female students, get caught up in the tiniest points of plot when they don’t follow the prescribed order.

I recently had a student in my office upset that she wasn’t going to be able to fulfill the requirements in our program for a “concentration,” which is three courses in a specialized area. She bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t realized there was a concentration option until she had already taken all of her electives. She was very worried this would impact her success on the job market. I asked her why she picked the electives she did, and she said it was because they sounded the most interesting to her, and lo and behold, they were among her favorite classes in the program.

So I explained to her that her experience in school is her very own. There will not be a hiring manager who has her resume sitting next to someone else’s identical resume. Rarely, if ever, is a single line on a resume (in this case, a concentration) going to make or break the candidate. My student laughed when I phrased it this way. I reminded her that she is more than just tiny plot points that other people have already experienced (concentrations, degrees, trainings). She’s a character, and a narrator. And she can easily get into an interview and tell her own story of why she’s the best candidate. Very rarely, if ever, does a transcript or a resume do that.

Don’t get swept up in recycled plot points. They are what they are, simply experiences other people have used in their story. And if you insist they have to be in your story, you’re going to get that sinking feeling of familiarity that causes people to stop streaming.

The story of your life can be as dramatic, or mysterious, or romantic, or adventurous, or as funny as you choose to make it. You own your story. You pick the plot points; you choose the cast of characters. The only thing standing between you and a great story is simply your own ability to narrate it.

So tell it well.





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