When It Just Doesn't Quite Work

There is a strange silence that follows when something doesn't quite work.

Not failure. Not disaster. Just... not quite right.

It is an odd feeling because, on paper, everything happened exactly as it was meant to. People turned up. The stories were told. The route was walked. The history was shared. There were smiles, laughter, questions and conversations. If someone had asked me at the end whether the tour had been successful, I would probably have answered, "Yes."

And yet, as storytellers often do, we know when something feels different.

We know when the rhythm isn't quite there.

We know when the story isn't breathing the way it should.

Recently I launched a new storytelling tour, one that has occupied my thoughts for months. Like every project I create, it began as an idea scribbled in a notebook before slowly becoming something much bigger. Research led to discoveries. Discoveries led to stories. Stories became routes, and routes became moments where I hoped people would stop, look around, and see familiar places with completely new eyes.

I could picture it long before anyone ever booked a ticket.

That is both the joy and the danger of being a storyteller.

We don't simply create experiences. We live them in our heads dozens of times before they ever become reality.

Every pause has perfect timing.

Every transition feels effortless.

Every laugh arrives exactly where we imagined it would.

Reality, however, has never read our script.

The tour wasn't bad. Far from it.

But somewhere between my imagination and the streets themselves, something shifted.

The flow wasn't what I had hoped.

The pacing felt different.

Certain stories that I thought would naturally lead into one another suddenly felt like they belonged in different conversations.

Instead of one long, flowing river of narrative, it occasionally felt like stepping stones.

Each individual stone was solid.

The river just needed to flow a little better.

Now, years ago, I suspect I would have walked away disappointed. I would have questioned whether the idea was good enough. Whether I was good enough. Whether I should quietly put the whole thing away and pretend it never happened.

Thankfully, storytelling has taught me something far more valuable than how to tell stories.

It has taught me how to rewrite them.

That might sound obvious, but I don't just mean rewriting words on a page. I mean rewriting expectations. Rewriting assumptions. Rewriting the little stories we tell ourselves when life doesn't quite unfold the way we imagined.

Because isn't that what we all do?

One difficult meeting suddenly becomes "I'm terrible at my job." One awkward conversation becomes "I'm hopeless with people." One project that misses the mark becomes "Maybe I shouldn't have tried."

We are remarkably talented storytellers when it comes to our own self-doubt.

The trouble is, those stories are rarely true.

I've often said that stories are living things. They evolve.

Every time they are told, they breathe a little differently. Every audience teaches you something. Every performance reveals a sentence that could disappear or a moment that deserves a little more room to breathe.

No storyteller worth listening to tells a story exactly the same way forever.

Why should our own lives be any different?

Looking back, some of my favourite stories were never written perfectly the first time. Some of the strongest endings only appeared because an earlier version wasn't working. Sometimes a story stubbornly refuses to become what you planned because it wants to become something better.

Perhaps life works the same way.

I've been fortunate to tell stories in museums, community halls, schools, festivals and heritage sites. Every venue has taught me something different.

Some audiences laugh where I expected silence. Others sit in complete silence during moments I thought were amusing. Occasionally someone asks a question that sends me back into my research because I've realised there is another layer waiting to be uncovered.

Those aren't interruptions. They're gifts.

This recent tour reminded me of exactly that. It reminded me that creating isn't about getting everything right first time. It's about listening. Listening to the audience. Listening to the place. Listening to your own instincts.

The beautiful thing about storytelling tours is that they are wonderfully alive. Unlike a printed book, they are never finished. A book leaves the printer and, for the most part, those words remain exactly where they are. A tour changes every single time feet touch the pavement.

Different weather changes people's mood. Different seasons change the landscape. Different conversations change where your attention lingers. Even something as simple as standing two metres further along a street can completely alter the feeling of a story.

So why did I expect perfection?

Perhaps because we all quietly do. We convince ourselves that preparation guarantees

certainty.

If we spend enough hours researching…

If we rehearse enough…

If we polish every sentence…

Surely everything will unfold exactly as planned. Except life has always enjoyed improvisation. And perhaps that's where the real stories are born.

One of the reasons I love oral storytelling is because it asks us to remain present. You can't hide behind the page. You can't press rewind. You notice people shifting their weight. You hear laughter. You sense curiosity. You recognise confusion.

You adapt.

That is not a weakness. That is the craft.

The same applies beyond storytelling.

How often do we convince ourselves that changing course somehow means we failed?

It doesn't.

It means we paid attention.

There is an enormous difference. Failure is refusing to learn. Adaptation is learning in action.

The more I reflected on this recent tour, the more excited I became.

Not because it had gone exactly as planned. Because now I knew what it needed.

I could hear the missing rhythm. I knew where the pauses belonged.

I could see which stories deserved to arrive earlier and which should patiently wait until later.

The framework had always been there. Now it simply needed refining.

Like an old path through the woods that becomes easier to walk each time someone passes along it.

Storytelling has always been about refinement.

Our ancestors didn't gather around fires because someone had memorised a perfect script.

Stories evolved because each telling revealed something new. Someone shortened a section. Someone added humour. Someone remembered another detail. Someone realised that a quieter ending carried greater power than a dramatic one.

Generations shaped stories together. Perhaps that's worth remembering in our own lives.

We are not expected to have every chapter finished before we begin.

We're allowed rough drafts.

We're allowed unfinished ideas.

We're allowed days where the words don't arrive in quite the order we'd hoped.

Social media has made this strangely difficult.

We often see polished endings but rarely the awkward middle.

The finished painting.

The successful business.

The sold-out performance.

The smiling photograph.

Very rarely do we see the notebook full of abandoned ideas.

The rehearsal that fell flat. The event that needed rewriting. The project that quietly whispered, "Not like this."

Yet those moments are where growth lives. Not in perfection. In persistence.

I'm reminded of something I often encounter while researching local history. Communities were rarely built in straight lines. Roads changed direction. Bridges collapsed and were rebuilt. Buildings burned down before stronger ones appeared. Families moved away. Industries disappeared. New opportunities emerged.

History itself is one long tale of adaptation.If our ancestors had abandoned every idea after the first obstacle, very few of the places we treasure today would even exist.

They adjusted.

Improvised.

Learned.

Carried on.

Perhaps we owe ourselves the same kindness. Because kindness matters here. There is enough criticism in the world already. We don't need to become our own harshest audience.

After the tour I found myself mentally replaying every moment, which is something I'm sure many creative people do.

You remember the sentence you wished you'd changed. The transition that felt clumsy. The opportunity you missed.

But after a while another thought arrived.

What if this wasn't evidence of failure?

What if this was simply research?

Because that's exactly what it was.

No amount of planning could have taught me what actually walking that route with people would teach.

Experience filled in the gaps that imagination couldn't. That feels like progress to me.

The truth is, I already know what comes next. I'll rewrite sections. I'll move stories around. I'll experiment with different openings. I'll alter the pace. I'll probably remove things I spent weeks writing. I'll almost certainly discover new stories that deserve a place.

Then I'll walk it again. And it will be better.

Not because I magically became a better storyteller overnight.

Because I allowed myself permission to improve.

There is freedom in that thought.

Imagine if we all treated ourselves the way a craftsman treats a piece of wood.

Patiently.

Carefully.

Understanding that shaping something worthwhile takes time.

Nobody expects a violin maker to carve perfection with the very first cut.

Nobody expects a gardener to plant seeds on Monday and enjoy a flourishing garden by Friday.

Growth has always been gradual.

Why do we imagine we should be different?

Perhaps the greatest lesson this experience gave me had nothing to do with storytelling tours at all.

It reminded me that courage isn't found in getting everything right.

It's found in trying. In sharing something before you're completely certain. In standing in front of people with an idea you've nurtured and saying, "Let's see where this takes us."

Sometimes it takes you exactly where you hoped.

Sometimes it takes you somewhere even better.

Sometimes it simply teaches you where the next step belongs.

All three are worthwhile.

There is an old temptation among storytellers to polish every tale until it shines before letting anyone hear it.

Yet some of the finest stories I've ever told became fine because audiences helped shape them.

They laughed unexpectedly. They asked questions. They made connections I'd never considered. They reminded me that stories don't belong entirely to the storyteller. They belong to everyone listening.

Perhaps life is like that too.

Perhaps we are constantly being shaped by the people we meet, the places we visit, and the moments that don't quite unfold according to plan.

So no, the tour wasn't perfect. I'm rather glad it wasn't.

It gave me something far more valuable than the satisfaction of believing I'd got everything right.

It gave me the opportunity to become better.

That feels like a fair trade.

The next time I walk those trails, the stories will breathe differently. The pauses will feel more natural. The journey will carry people more gently from one place to the next.

Not because the first attempt failed. Because it taught me.

And perhaps that's the story I needed to hear all along.

So if you're reading this after a day where something didn't quite work, whether it's a project, a conversation, a dream you've been quietly building, or simply one of those days where life felt just a little out of step, remember this.

You are not finished.

Neither is your story.

The chapter you've just lived isn't the final one. It is simply the page where the storyteller pauses, smiles to themselves, makes a small note in the margin, and says, "I know how to tell this better next time."

That is not defeat.

That is growth.

And the best stories, the ones that stay with us for years afterwards, have never been about characters who got everything right the first time.

They are about ordinary people who stumbled, adapted, learned, and found the courage to continue.

I rather like the thought that perhaps we're all doing exactly that.

One story at a time.