I fear that I may have passed a bad gene down to my kids. No, not my thick thighs, stubborn streak or lack of rhythm … although both do have a wicked willfulness at times. I’m talking about my poor storytelling skills.
Storytelling is an art. It’s detailed and succinct at the same time. It’s informative and entertaining all at once. If done well, it draws people in and captures their attention. If not done well, it can be painful to endure — like Chinese water torture or a little league baseball game.
I am not an artful storyteller. Detailed, yes. Succinct, no. I can spin a decent tale on paper/screen thanks to time and editing. I can even handle prepared speeches well enough. But everyday, off-the-cuff, oral tales are where I fall short. I’m often scattered and repetitive. I lose focus and ramble. I go off on a tangent or two (or three), which reminds me … just kidding.
While I admit that my skills need to be refined, I like to think that my haphazard style has a direct correlation to my intelligence and imagination. By my way of thinking, I am a creative genius. Of course, I cannot scientifically prove my theory, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.
I do realize that my inability to get to the point (a request that I hear often from my husband) is frustrating. I know this not because I’ve been told, but because I am on the receiving end of this experience with my kids. Much to my chagrin, it seems that both my boys have acquired my lame storytelling skills. They are long-winded and redundant, verbose and unorganized, repetitive and … wait, didn’t I just say that?
My boys are just like me and I love them anyway. I just wish they’d get to the point already.
– LJDT
