Confessions of a Travelling Storyteller (Part 2): I Was Once a Timid Wee Beastie

An ill fated attempt at busking stories on the Royal Mile

If you had met me as a young boy and suggested that one day I would stand in front of crowds for a living, I would probably have laughed.

Actually, no. I would have been far too nervous to laugh. I would have stared at my shoes, mumbled something you could not understand, and quietly looked for the nearest escape route.

These days, people see me standing on stages, wandering through festivals with a microphone, leading a crowd through a story, or speaking to a room full of strangers as though I have known them all my life. I have been told that I have a natural stage presence, that I look comfortable in front of an audience, that I must have been doing this sort of thing forever.

But there was a time when the thought of standing in front of my classmates was enough to make me feel physically sick.

I was once a timid wee beastie, and school presentations were my own personal nightmare.

I would stand there with my notes clutched in my hands, my heart hammering away like a drummer who had been given far too much caffeine, and try desperately to remember what I was supposed to say. The words would be there somewhere, buried beneath the panic, but getting them from my brain to my mouth was another matter entirely.

There was one presentation in particular that has stayed with me. I had watched Memphis Belle and become fascinated by the aircraft and the stories surrounding them. I decided to do a presentation about bombers, including the B-52, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea at the time.

What I had not accounted for was the terrifying business of actually standing up and speaking.

At one point I tried to say “Big Bertha.” Which was one the names of a B-52 bomber.

What came out of my mouth was “Big Boobies.”

Now, I cannot tell you whether I shared anything particularly insightful about the aircraft that day. I may have done. I would like to think I did. But I am fairly certain that any carefully researched facts were lost the moment I announced “Big Boobies” to a classroom full of children.

I fumbled. I bumbled. I stumbled over my words, and there were times when the fear became so overwhelming that I broke down altogether.

The other children probably forgot about it long before I did. That is the thing about embarrassment. It has a habit of setting up a wee camp inside your head, lighting a fire, and reminding you of its presence whenever you least need it.

For years afterwards, I avoided being the centre of attention. If there was a way to stay in the background, I would find it. If there was a room full of people, I was quite happy to let somebody else do the talking while I made myself comfortable near the exit.

Eventually, I found myself working in banking. There is a sentence I do not think anybody who knows me now would expect to hear.

I could hide behind the numbers. Numbers were safe. They did not look back at me, waiting for me to say something clever. They did not gather in a crowd, fold their arms, and expect to be entertained.

The trouble was that I hated it.

I could do the work, but it never felt like me. I would sit there, surrounded by numbers and routines, feeling as though some part of myself had been tucked away somewhere and forgotten. I did not know what I wanted to do instead, only that I could not imagine spending the rest of my life hiding behind a desk.

I certainly did not imagine myself becoming a storyteller. At that point, the idea of voluntarily standing in front of a crowd still sounded like the sort of punishment that should be reserved for people who talk loudly during films.

Things began to change when I moved into retail.

I sold alternative clothing, and slowly, almost without noticing, I started to come out of my shell. I was talking to people one at a time, helping them find things, having conversations that did not come with the same pressure as standing in front of a classroom.

Then I moved on to selling swords.

Now, there is a career progression for you. From banking to swords. I am sure there are people who would have found a way to combine the two, but I suspect the bank would have had questions.

I enjoyed the swords themselves, of course, but what interested me just as much were the stories behind them. Who might have carried a weapon like this? Where did it come from? What battles, legends, or people were connected to it?

A sword could be a beautiful object, but once you began to talk about its history, it became something more. It belonged to a time and a place. It had a story, and I found myself enjoying the telling of it.

I did not realise it then, but I was beginning to learn something about holding a person’s attention. I was discovering that when I cared about what I was talking about, and the person in front of me was interested too, I could forget to be afraid for a little while.

The wee beastie was starting to peek out from behind the numbers.

And then before I knew it, I had joined City of the Dead a local Ghost Tour Company. To this day I have no idea how that leap came about. I was still selling swords.....but it would appear I needed something more.

And there the more was, waiting for me, the crowds.

Talking to one person about a sword was one thing. Standing in front of a large group of strangers who were all waiting for me to lead them through the streets and tell them stories was something else entirely.

I was terrified.

I remember shaking with nerves, convinced that everyone could see it. My heart would be thundering away, my stomach would be doing things no stomach should reasonably be expected to do, and I would look at all those faces and wonder what on earth I had got myself into.

I worried about forgetting the stories. I worried about saying the wrong thing. I worried that the crowd would realise I had no business standing in front of them and wander off to find somebody more interesting.

But the tour still had to start.

So I took a breath, opened my mouth, and began.

It did not suddenly become easy. I did not deliver one tour, throw my arms into the air, and declare myself cured of a lifetime of stage fright. There were still nerves, still mistakes, and still plenty of moments when I questioned what I was doing.

But I got through it. And then I got through another one.

Little by little, I began to realise that being afraid did not necessarily mean I could not do the thing in front of me. It simply meant that, for the time being, I would have to do it while my knees were considering a life of their own.

The tours woke up a thirst in me, the stories I was telling. I needed more of them, and I wanted to be able to deliver them better. So I started researching, reading everything I could get my hands on. And looking into this strange world of Storytelling I had been subtly introduced to.

Here is a little confession, I was a tour guide taking visitors all over Edinburgh, walking up and down the Royal Mile daily and had no idea that what I had been looking, was roughly 500yards from where my tours started. I still call it one of Edinburgh’s best secrets, the Scottish Storytelling Centre.

I met people who understood the power of a story told aloud. People who could take a room full of strangers and, with nothing more than their voice, their presence, and a tale, carry them somewhere else entirely.

I listened, watched, and absorbed as much as I could. Then I took a workshop, then another and another. I spent hour upon hour at this amazing place listening and reading and drinking way too much tea.

And through these workshops I learned some of the practises of the craft, we got to try out stories and receive feedback and immerse ourselves in the world of a storyteller.

Much to my surprise, the one question I constantly was asked was if I had acted before. Apparently, I had a natural stage presence. People noticed that I was using my diaphragm when I spoke, projecting my voice without knowing that was what I was doing.

This was news to me. I had spent much of my life trying not to be noticed, and suddenly people were telling me I had something suited to a stage.

It was difficult to believe. Somewhere inside, I was still the boy standing in front of his class talking about Big Boobies.

Then came my first storytelling experience.

I had chosen a story I wanted to tell, spent time with it, and gathered enough courage to stand up in front of the room. I was nervous, but I had made my choice and was ready to give it a go.

Then I discovered that the guest storyteller that evening was the man who had created the story.

Bob Pegg.

Of all the stories I could have chosen, I had picked one of Bob’s, and there he was, sitting in the room.

Wonderful.

I imagine the colour drained from my face. I could already feel the familiar urge to apologise, find a dark corner, and remain there until everyone had gone home.

But that was not what happened.

Instead, I found myself surrounded by the warmth and camaraderie of the storytelling community. Bob wanted to hear me tell it. The others encouraged me to try. Nobody made me feel foolish for choosing the story, and nobody suggested that I should sit down and leave it to someone more experienced.

They welcomed me.

Bob Pegg was a legend, and his generosity in that moment has stayed with me. When you are new, when you are nervous, and when you are certain you are about to make a fool of yourself, a little kindness can give you the courage to take the next step.

That is not to say every lesson arrived wrapped in soft encouragement.

Some lessons arrived in the form of David Campbell sitting in the front row.

David was firm, knowledgeable, and supportive, and he had a wonderful way of letting you know when something was not quite working.

I was telling a story and pacing back and forth as I did so. I suspect the pacing had less to do with the story and more to do with the fact that I had enough nervous energy to power a small village.

As I passed in front of him, I heard two quiet words from the front row.

“Unnecessary movement.”

That was it. Two words.

I heard them, and I knew exactly what he meant.

I was moving because I was nervous. I was wandering back and forth without really considering what the movement was doing for the story. David had noticed, and once he had said it, I could not help but notice it too.

It was one of those small moments that stays with you for years. I still hear his voice now and again when I catch myself moving about the stage without a reason.

“Unnecessary movement.”

All right, David. I heard you.

I spent hours reading, watching, and listening. I watched storytellers and street performers, paying attention to the way they used their voices, the way they held a crowd, the way they dealt with interruptions and moments that did not go to plan.

The Royal Mile was an education all by itself.

There were experienced street performers who could gather a crowd seemingly out of nowhere. A few people would stop to watch, then a few more would join them, and before long there would be a great circle of people laughing, gasping, and waiting to see what would happen next.

They made it look effortless.

I knew it was not effortless, of course, but when you are standing on the edge of a crowd watching somebody who knows exactly how to hold it, it can feel as though they possess some mysterious gift that you have been unfortunate enough to miss out on.

I tried different things myself. Some worked. Some did not. Some were best filed away under the heading Well, That Was an Experience.

At one point, I tried being a human statue.

I discovered something important about myself during that particular experiment: I cannot stand still.

Anyone who has ever watched a good human statue will know that there is a great deal of skill involved. They can hold a pose while people gather around them, take photographs, wave their hands in front of their faces, and occasionally poke them to see if they are real.

I have a great deal of respect for them.

I am not one of them.

There I was, a man who had already been advised about unnecessary movement, attempting to make a living by not moving at all. It may not have been the best match between performer and profession.

I also tried telling stories on the street, and that introduced me to the particular misery of standing in public, offering a piece of yourself, and watching people walk straight past.

You find a spot, prepare your story, take a breath, and begin. You hope somebody will stop. Perhaps one person glances your way. Perhaps another slows down for half a second before deciding they urgently need to be somewhere else.

And there you are, standing in the middle of it all, feeling very visible and completely invisible at the same time.

It can be miserable. There is no point pretending otherwise.

You question the story, your voice, your choice of location, your clothes, your hair, and every decision you have made since breakfast. You wonder whether you should give up and go back to hiding behind numbers.

But even on the days when nobody stopped, I was learning.

I watched the performers who gathered crowds. I listened to how they began, how they invited people in, how they made a passer-by curious enough to stop and see what was happening. I began to understand that building a crowd was a craft of its own.

It took me years to appreciate just how much I was learning in those moments, including the ones that felt like complete failures.

Later, during a particularly difficult period in my life, I found myself having to start again.

My marriage was ending, and my soon-to-be ex-wife claimed intellectual property rights over the name and website connected to my business. It felt as though the ground was shifting beneath me at a time when I was already struggling to stand.

I was trying to work out what came next, how I was going to continue, and whether I had enough left in me to build something new.

I had my last two hundred pounds.

And I spent it on a sign. (Thanks Tim for that Kick in the ass)

There is a moment after spending your last two hundred pounds on a sign when you look at it and begin to ask yourself some serious questions.

Was this a wise investment?

Will anybody actually come on a tour?

And, if they do not, how tasty do you think a sign might be?

Could I boil it? Roast it? Perhaps add a wee pinch of salt and pretend it was something more appealing? Because if this grand plan failed, that sign was looking increasingly like the only thing I had left to eat.

I rebuilt using my own name. A wee note to anyone starting a business: use your own name. Nobody can steal that.

I am pretty sure, anyway.

I stood there with my sign, my stories, and what remained of my confidence, hoping that somebody would decide to take a chance on me.

Some of those early tours had only four people.

Four people.

When you have spent your last two hundred pounds and are trying to build a business, it is difficult not to look at four people and worry about how you are going to make it all work.

But once we set off, they were the best four people in the world.

They had chosen to come with me. They had decided that spending part of their day wandering through Edinburgh and listening to a large Scottish man telling stories sounded like a worthwhile thing to do. And once the tour began, they deserved every bit of energy and attention I could give them.

Still, the worry was never far away.

There were days when no tour ran at all. I would stand there beside my sign and watch other companies walk past with groups of sixty people. Nearby, a street performer might have hundreds gathered in a great circle around them, laughing and applauding.

And I would stand a little taller, trying to look confident while the questions gathered in my head.

Am I good enough?

What am I going to do?

Why are they all going with that tour?

Does the sign come with any nutritional value?

It is a strange feeling, watching other people succeed while you are frightened that you might not. You can admire them and still feel that wee knot tightening in your stomach.

From where I stood, it was easy to imagine that those performers and guides had always been successful, that crowds had simply appeared for them from the moment they began. I could not see their empty days or the mistakes they had made along the way. I could only see the sixty people following them down the street while I stood there hoping for four.

But slowly, one tour at a time, I built something.

And for all the worry, there was so much joy in it.

There were the tours where everything seemed to come together, where the laughter arrived at just the right moment and a group of strangers began to feel like old friends. There were the unexpected interruptions, the funny wee hiccups, and the moments that could never have been planned but became some of the best memories.

There were guests who invited me for a drink afterwards, wanting to continue the conversation and share a little more time together. There were people who thanked me so warmly that I would walk away wondering whether they understood how much their words meant.

And there were the tips.

I always found that a little awkward at first. Someone would offer me a tip at the end of a tour, and I would feel grateful, surprised, and just a wee bit unsure of what to do with myself.

They had already paid to come on the tour, and now they wanted to give me more because they had enjoyed it?

A small voice inside me would whisper, You know, you might actually be good at this.

Of course, another voice would usually respond, Let us not get carried away.

Then there was the weather.

Edinburgh has a wonderful habit of providing all four seasons in the space of an afternoon, sometimes while you are standing on the same street corner. And if you happen to be wearing a kilt when the wind decides to make its presence known, you can find yourself performing an entirely different kind of balancing act.

There I would be, trying to deliver a dramatic moment in a story while holding down my kilt with one hand, desperately preventing the elements from exposing me to the world.

It is difficult to maintain an air of mystery and historical gravitas when you are also negotiating with several yards of fabric and a determined Scottish wind.

But the show must go on, preferably with everything where it should be.

All the while, I was learning the craft.

I was learning how to guide a crowd, how to feel their energy, how to recognise when they were with me and when their attention was beginning to wander. I learned when to build the energy, when to lower my voice, when to let a moment breathe, and when a little humour was needed to bring everybody back together.

I learned that a scare is more than suddenly shouting at people. Though, to be fair, a well-timed shout does have its uses.

A good scare begins before anything frightening happens. It grows in the pauses, in the atmosphere, in the feeling that something is waiting just beyond the edge of the story. You bring the audience with you, give them just enough to imagine what might be coming, and then, when the moment is right, you let it find them.

And there are other stories that ask for something much quieter.

A change in tone. A little more space between the words. The patience to let the audience feel what the story is offering them.

I learned something about that through a beautiful selkie story.

I was still green at the time, still finding my way, when I looked out at the audience and saw that one of the guests had burst into tears.

I froze.

My first thought was that I had done something wrong. Had I upset her? Had I chosen the wrong story? Had I failed to judge the moment properly?

I did not know what to do. I had spent so long worrying about whether people were enjoying themselves that seeing someone cry felt like a terrible mistake.

Afterwards, a wise old man helped me understand what had happened. He told me that I had done it right. I had created the atmosphere the story needed, and the telling had reached her.

I could not know exactly what the story meant to her, or what memories it might have stirred. But I began to understand that her tears did not necessarily mean I had failed. The story had touched something, and she had felt it deeply.

That stayed with me.

As performers, we love to hear laughter. We enjoy the gasp after a scare and the applause at the end. Those are wonderful moments, and I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy them.

But that day taught me that a quiet tear can be just as powerful.

Sometimes a story reaches into a place that laughter cannot. It finds a memory, a loss, a longing, or something beautiful that a person has been carrying. For a moment, teller and listener share that space, even if neither of them quite knows what the other is feeling.

That is a remarkable thing to be part of.

When I look back now, I think of the boy who could not get through a school presentation, the young man hiding behind numbers, the nervous guide shaking in front of a crowd, and the storyteller standing beside a sign he had spent his last two hundred pounds on.

I also think of the people who helped me along the way.

Bob Pegg, welcoming me to tell a story he had created. David Campbell, with his quiet observation from the front row. The performers I watched on the Royal Mile, the storytellers who shared their knowledge, and the guests who gave me a chance when I was still trying to work out whether I belonged there.

And I think of those four people on an early tour, who may never have known how much it meant that they had chosen to come with me.

Confidence did not arrive all at once. It was built slowly, through the uncomfortable moments, the mistakes, the failed attempts, and the times I stood in front of people with my heart pounding and began anyway.

It was built through kindness too. Through people who encouraged me, corrected me, listened to me, and helped me see something in myself that I had not yet learned to recognise.

I would love to tell you that the timid wee beastie has disappeared completely, but that would not be true.

He is still there. He appears before a new event, or when I am about to try something unfamiliar. He whispers that perhaps I am not good enough, that perhaps this is the day everyone will finally realise I have been making it all up as I go along.

The difference is that I know him now.

I can listen to him, take a breath, and step forward anyway. I know that a mistake does not mean the end of the world. I know that a small crowd can be a wonderful crowd, that a story can reach someone in ways I may never fully understand, and that sometimes the best thing to do is trust what I have learned and begin.

And if I could go back and speak to that frightened boy in the classroom, I think I would tell him that one day he will make people laugh on purpose.

I would tell him that he will find his voice, though it may take him a while to believe it belongs to him. That he will stand on stages, walk through crowds, travel to places he never expected to see, and share stories with people who are glad he came.

I would tell him that he does not have to become fearless.

He just has to keep going.

And then, because I am still me, I would probably remind him to practise saying “Big Bertha” before standing up in front of the class.