Tell Me a Story

"Tell me a story." 

As a child, I loved stories. And not just the kind that existed between the beautifully illustrated covers of a dog-eared book, though there were plenty of those: Ramona and Beezus, the Madeline L'Engle series, Where the Red Fern Grows, Rikki Tikki Tavi and the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales... the list goes on and on. 

I also craved "real, live" stories that were told in person, orally, so that I could feel the reciprocity between teller and listener. I wanted my relatives to tell me stories about my parents and their siblings. I wanted stories from my teachers about what life was really like for the peoples who populated our history books. I tuned into stories told between my parents across the dinner table, in hopes that I might catch some insight into what it felt like to be a grown up living in a grown up world.

There is still nothing quite like a good story, really. Even the rather mundane ones can be illuminating, if I'm listening well. 

There is a revelation that happens between storyteller and listener. It occurs in the lilt of the voice, the selection of which words to stress and which to downplay, the use of pauses and breath. It unfolds in the metaphors and imitations that can bring the story to life, the cadence and rhythm and tone that carry the story's emotions. It emerges in physicality that can enliven and punctuate the narrative with different layers of expression. 

Stories have always been one way in which I make sense of the world and my place in it. The story, the storyteller and the listener all have a distinct and important role to play in the experience of story, and it is my view that once told to another, a story can never be exactly what it was before; something of it becomes overlaid with the experiences, attitudes and ideas of the listener so that when retold, it will have subtle new shadings of meaning and nuance. 

Job interviews are like stories. Of course, we're all telling stories about ourselves all the time, but the interview seems like it might be one of those odd, microcosmic situations that's charged with a bit more poignancy and oomph. 

I don't know that I've heard many people speak of interviews in this way, but for me, it's true. During an interview, one person tells another who they are - where they come from, what they're good at (or not), what is of interest to them, how they are likely to behave in a variety of scenarios. They tell this story from their own perspective, from the perspective of what they've heard or gleaned from others, and perhaps based on more concrete evidence, as well.

When I say, "Tell me about yourself" to a candidate, I think I'm really saying, "Tell me a story. Your story." Secretly, I'm hoping that I won't get a facts-and-data report; I want a compelling glimpse of what our collective story might read like if we end up spending 10 hours a day together.

I'm consciously and unconsciously registering the responses in the same way I listen to any story: Where is the pause, the breath, the lilt? Where is the leaning in and the pulling away across the table? Does the candidate paint pictures in the abstract, with broad, bold strokes? Or are they finely detailed with color and clarity? Where is the quieter tone that draws me in closer, the impassioned exclamation that makes me sit up and take notice? What character does the candidate play in the story of his or her life: unsung or decorated hero, persecuted martyr, humble teacher, spirited cheerleader, tortoise, hare, innovator, risk taker, conformist? 

This is on my mind because I've recently conducted a number of interviews. And the process never gets old for me. I approach each one with the optimism and anticipation of my 5-, 7-, 12-, 42 year old self who can't wait to hear a good story. 

These days, I'm also thinking about my story, and what it might sound like to someone else when it's my turn to tell it. Will it put them to sleep, or keep them intrigued enough to want to hear what comes next? If each stage of my life and career is a chapter, what is the title of each, and how can I color and texturize these periods in ways that my resume alone might not allow? 

How to do I want my story to end? Whether at the close of an interview or at The End, what is the arc of my story moving toward? In my personal epilogue, what are the stories that I might want told about me and how I lived, loved, chose, behaved? 

We're all storytellers, writing the stories of our lives line by line, day by day.

What's yours?