Finding the Storyteller Again

When the Storm Becomes the Voice

Storytelling is in my bones. That is not a metaphor I use lightly. It is something I have felt in my marrow, in the rhythm of my breath, in the way silence gathers around me before a tale begins. For over fourteen years, I have travelled the world telling stories, old stories, living stories, stories borrowed and stories earned. I have stood in castles and community halls, in theatres and taverns, under open skies and low ceilings, watching faces soften, eyes sharpen, and shoulders drop as people step together into a shared imaginative space.

And yet, somewhere along the road, something shifted.

I used to believe that a storyteller’s role was to be the calm in the storm: a steady presence through which the chaos of the world could be briefly ordered, made meaningful, or at least made bearable. Now I fear I have become the storm itself. Loud. Brash. Self-aware. Demanding attention not for the story, but for myself.

This is not an easy thing to admit, especially for someone whose work depends on confidence, charisma, and the ability to hold a room. But honesty is the first obligation of any true storyteller, and so this blog begins with confession.

Yes, I still tell stories. I know the structures. I know the beats. I know how to land a laugh, how to let the pause breathe and how to ride an audience’s energy like a wave. But instead of letting the story be told, I interrupt it. I add quips. I comment on my own telling. I wink at the audience, pull them out of the world we are building together, and remind them again and again, that this is a performance, that I am here, that I am clever, funny, entertaining.

I have started to feel, at times, less of a storyteller and more of an entertainer. Worse still, not a good entertainer, more akin to a snake-oil merchant and a failed comedian: afraid of silence, addicted to responses, desperate to be liked.  All show, flash and flair with very little substance. To coin a Glaswegian expression about Edinburgh, “All fur coats and nae Knickers”.

This is the story of how I drifted from the true meaning of storytelling, and how I intend to find my way back.

The Old Fire

When I first began, storytelling was not about me. Or rather, it was about me only in the sense that I was the vessel. The fire mattered more than the torch.

I remember those early days vividly. I remember sitting surrounded by a wealth of knowledge and experience, listening more than speaking. I remember learning that a story is not something you do to an audience; it is something you enter with them, it is a gift to be given. The teller does not stand above the tale but beside it, sometimes even behind it, allowing it to unfold in its own time.

Back then, humour emerged naturally, like sparks from a fire. It was not forced. It was not there to reassure me or to prove my worth. It arose because the story required it, because life, even in its darkest moments, carries absurdity.

Silence was not an enemy. Silence was fertile ground.

I trusted the story. I trusted the audience. And perhaps most importantly, I trusted myself enough to get out of the way.

There is a particular kind of listening that happens in true storytelling. You feel it when a room breathes together. When no one shifts in their seat. When the space between words becomes as meaningful as the words themselves. That listening is not passive; it is active, almost muscular. It takes effort to hold, but it gives back tenfold.

That is the listening I miss.

The Slow Drift

No one wakes up one morning and decides to abandon the soul of their craft. The drift is slow. Incremental. Reasonable, even.

You tell a story and notice that a joke gets a bigger reaction than a quiet moment. You repeat it. Then you add another. You discover that audiences laugh sooner if you guide them, reassure them, and soften the edges. You learn that producers like energy, punch, and clarity. You learn that social media rewards immediacy, wit, and constant engagement.

You adapt.

And adaptation is not inherently bad. Storytelling has always evolved. Oral tradition survives precisely because it bends without breaking. But there is a difference between adaptation and erosion.

Somewhere along the way, I began to fear stillness. A pause felt dangerous. A long breath felt like a risk. What if they got bored? What if they drifted? What if they didn’t like me?

So, I filled the gaps.

I narrated my own process. I undercut emotion before it could settle. I made jokes not because the story asked for them, but because I did. I turned the audience into accomplices in my performance rather than fellow travellers in the tale.

The irony is that this often worked. People laughed. They applauded. They told me how entertaining I was.

And yet, something essential was missing.

Ego at the Door

Ego is not the villain we often make it out to be. Without ego, we would not step onto a stage at all. We would not believe our voice worth hearing. The ego gives us the courage to begin.

But ego, when unchecked, becomes noise.

In storytelling, ego whispers dangerous things:

“They are here for you.”

“You must hold them at all costs.”

“If they stop reacting, you are failing.”

And so, the teller starts to perform at the audience instead of with them. The story becomes a vehicle for validation. The teller becomes the main event.

This is where I recognise myself now, uncomfortably so.

I interrupt the flow of the tale to insert my personality. I comment on the absurdity of a moment instead of trusting the audience to find it themselves. I break the spell before it can fully form.

In doing so, I rob the story of its power and the audience of their agency.

A true story does not need constant explanation or apology. It does not need to be propped up by cleverness. It asks for trust.

And trust, once broken, is hard to rebuild.

The Cost of Constant Cleverness

There is a particular exhaustion that comes from always being “on.” From feeling responsible not just for the story, but for every emotional beat in the room.

When humour becomes a reflex rather than a choice, it loses its teeth. It becomes defensive. It becomes armour.

I have begun to realise that much of my constant joking is not generosity, it is fear. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of being earnest. Fear of letting a moment land and discovering that it does not land the way I hoped.

But storytelling is not safe work. It never was.

The old tales survive because they dare to sit with discomfort. They trust that meaning emerges not from distraction, but from attention.

By jolting the audience out of the story with silly humour, I deny them the chance to feel fully. I deny myself the chance to feel with them.

I become louder and lonelier.

Remembering the Circle

At its heart, storytelling is communal. It comes from the circle, not the stage.

The circle does not elevate the teller above the listeners; it places everyone within the same field of attention. The teller listens as much as they speak. They respond to breath, posture, energy. They allow the story to breathe differently each time.

Somewhere along the line, I traded the circle for the spotlight.

This is not just a technical shift, it is a spiritual one.

The spotlight demands certainty. The circle invites curiosity.

The spotlight rewards performance. The circle rewards presence.

And to find my way back, I must remember that the story does not belong to me. I belong to the story.

Letting the Story Be Told

There is a humility in stepping aside. In trusting that the tale knows where it is going.

This does not mean becoming dull or lifeless. Quite the opposite. True storytelling is alive precisely because it is responsive, not controlled.

To let the story be told means:

• Allowing silence without rushing to fill it

• Trusting the audience to make meaning

• Choosing humour deliberately, not compulsively

• Accepting that not every moment needs commentary

It means relinquishing the need to be liked in favour of the willingness to be honest.

And honesty, in storytelling, often sounds quieter than we expect.

The Path Back

So how do I find my way back? How do I rediscover the storyteller within, beneath the habits, the armour, the applause?

Not through reinvention, but through remembering.

Below is my plan. Not a promise of perfection, but a commitment to practice.

A Plan to Find the Storyteller Within

1. Return to Listening

The first lesson I was taught was: a storyteller needs to learn to listen. I need to get back to listening, to stories and to life. Not to steal techniques, not to compare myself, but to remember what it feels like to be carried by a tale and to be a better human.

2. Rehearse Without Jokes

Anyone who knows me knows I like to be spontaneous and less rehearsed with my tales. That ends. In rehearsal, I will tell stories straight. No asides. No commentary. I will let the discomfort surface and sit with it.

3. Reclaim Silence

I will practice pausing, deliberately, bravely. I will learn the difference between dead air and living silence.

4. Tell Stories in Small Circles

I will seek out intimate settings where presence matters more than performance. Where I can feel breath and eye contact again. I realised I have avoided this, always waiting for the larger show, where has that teller gone who was delighted to do a walking tour for 2 people?

5. Ask Better Questions of Myself

Before adding humour, I will ask: Does the story need this, or do I?

6. Remember the Why

I will remind myself, again and again, why I began. Not to be applauded, but to connect. To hold meaning. To offer a moment of shared humanity. Remember the Fringe show, remember the tears, remember the shock of being able to create those emotions in an audience.

7. Accept the Ongoing Journey

I will stop pretending this is a problem to be solved once and for all. Storytelling is a relationship. It requires tending.

Closing the Circle

I am not done. I am not lost beyond return. The storyteller is still here, waiting patiently beneath the noise. I have had my doubts, I have considered quitting and trying a normal life, the easy path (as I type that I shudder at the mere thought of it).

Stories have always known how to forgive those who stray, so long as we are willing to listen again.

And I intend to listen.