Copywriters, politicians, neuroscientists, teachers, philosophers, podcasters, business leaders and parents of children on the precipice of a bad decision all believe in one thing: the power of storytelling.
Stories influence us. Stories educate us. Stories are the way we understand the world. Without narrative, we’re a bunch of cells walking through space and time, waiting for the next thing to happen.
I’ve heard some pretty good stories in my time. I come from a family of storytellers. My friends weave narrative through our conversations like seedlings sewn into fertile earth. But when I think of the best stories I’ve ever heard, they tend to come from unlikely sources.
When you don’t know the protagonist, the stakes need to be higher for you to invest in the story, beginning, middle and ending.
The story I invested in the most came from a ship captain in Cannes. I cared so much about that story that I spent three days listening to it.
I was 23 years old, au pairing in the south of France. I had an American friend who used to be an au pair too until she realised that her 6-month visa-free stay was coming to a close and thought she’d be able to remain in France if she lived on a boat instead of on dry land (this email does not constitute legal advice; please consult an immigration lawyer if your residency claim boils down to ‘the floor is lava’). She got a job on a small boat that seemed to be constantly moored in Cannes and I would go to visit her.
It was always sunny, always warm and we would sit on the deck (Elizabeth couldn’t get off the boat, you see) and chat. And that’s where I got to know the boat captain, Ahmed. A friendly Egyptian who lived most of his life at sea, he had a wealth of stories about the places he’d been to and the ultra-rich yacht owners he’d worked for. Each story would start with Ahmed emerging from below deck with two bottles of the ship’s rosé in arm, opening both at once.
I look back on it now and laugh, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life that I’d sit on someone else’s boat, drinking free wine (Ahmed’s main responsibility as a captain seemed to be pilfering provisions and fudging the accounts) and coming back day after day to hear the end of Ahmed’s last story. I think I was supposed to be working.
But the me who I was then was enthralled. Ahmed told us about his previous employer, some important man from Dubai, telling us about his unrealistic demands, how he’d pay people to be his friends, how he’d call them day or night to be by his side, how he convinced Ahmed to move to Dubai to be one of his hired companions. How Ahmed eventually capitulated, then realised he’d made a mistake.
Ahmed was then left with a Herculean challenge: how could he leave Dubai and return to his family without offending his employer? One chapter of the story ended here when I looked at the time and realised I should be picking my au pair children up from sports camp.
But I came back the next day because I had to know how Ahmed had got home. And the answer was far stranger than the question: with two baby tigers.
Such was his employer's affection for him, you see, that he organised Ahmed an exit visa as long as Ahmed promised never to return to Dubai. Ahmed packed his bags then and there, accepting a lift to the airport from his boss's driver. At the terminal, the driver told him that his employer had given him a present for each of his children, and they were to be found in the back of the Mercedes. When Ahmed popped the boot open, he saw two sleepy tiger cubs.
Ahmed no longer had a legal right to stay in Dubai, had a flight departing within two hours and was left in charge of two baby tigers. A situation so implausible that I began to tell him that it just wasn’t true, but he knew what he was doing.
From out of his captain's uniform pocket, he pulled a photo. A selfie, showing him standing in the desert, in a suit, the wind blowing through his beard, with a tiger cub in each arm. I howled.
If you want your audience to keep coming back to you, tell them your stories.
~Sarah at CopyHop~
I'm Sarah Hopkinson and I write meaningful emails that help podcasters increase their revenue and build a community around their podcast.
Do you want emails like this for your listeners too?
Book an exploratory call with me to get an email plan for your podcast.
