I was
having coffee one time with the late Marybeth Varcados, who was then the
managing editor of the Santa Cruz Sentinel. Before joining the Sentinel, she
had worked with me at the newspaper in Watsonville, where she was one of the
best human-interest feature writers I’ve known.
Marybeth
was telling me about someone who had come into the newspaper office with a
request that the paper cover some fund-raising event. The person talked to
Marybeth for a quarter of an hour, going into every excruciating detail about
the organization of the fund-raiser, about which almost no newspaper reader
would be interested.
Finally, in
answer to her questions, the visitor explained that the event was to benefit a
person active in the community who had suffered a bizarre accident, lost their
job (and health plan), and was in dire need. That should have been the first
thing the visitor said in making the pitch, but Marybeth had to coax out the
information.
Then she
set down her coffee cup, shook her head, and said, “Isn’t it amazing how many
people just don’t know how to tell a story?”
For Some, It Comes Easy
Being
professional storytellers of long standing, she and I both had a difficult time
understanding how someone could not understand what the key elements of a story
are and pull them together. To us, that comes so naturally, it’s almost done on
autopilot. And certainly, quite a few people who don’t tell stories for a
living have an instinctive feel and talent for it.
Human
beings are in touch with stories all their lives — through books, plays,
movies, TV shows, and jokes told by friends. I used to wonder how, with all
that exposure, the technique never rubs off on some folks. Then it was pointed
out to me that I’ve been driving a car for almost half a century and still have
no more than the most primitive idea of what makes an automobile run. It is
entirely possible to be exposed to something constantly, even enjoy it
considerably, and have no clue as to what makes it tick.
I’m also
reminded of the old joke about the visitor to a prison. He’s walking through
with the warden, when a prisoner yells out, “237!” and the other prisoners all
laugh. Another prisoner shouts, “412” and again everyone laughs. The visitor
asks the warden about it, and is told that the men have been behind bars for so
long that, as a form of shorthand, they’ve numbered the jokes they all know.
One Line, and He Can’t Pull It Off
Then
another prisoner yells out, “298!” and there’s a dead silence. The visitor asks
what happened, and the warden shakes his head.”
“Some guys
just don’t know how to tell a joke,” the warden says.
Sometimes I
wonder how much of the storytelling talent is cultural and familial. My father,
who came from Tennessee, was a great storyteller, and so were some of his
friends. As a kid, I used to have to sit and listen while the adults talked,
and maybe something seeped in. My mother wasn’t much of a storyteller, but
after living with my dad for years, she knew a lot of his stories and told them
after he was gone, which helped keep them alive.
Marybeth
Varcados eventually left the newspaper business, co-authored a mystery novel,
and started her own public relations/freelance business, at which she worked
part-time. She had the best business card since “Have Gun Will Travel.” Aside
from the phone number and e-mail, it read simply, “Let Me Tell Your Story.
Marybeth Varcados.”
