Mom, in the late 70s/80s

My mother said I had the gift of gab. I was a chatty child, in a large family getting a word in edge wise was hard. Somewhere back there it began. In fights I would try and talk my way out rather than just fighting it out. Girls, if they even paid a little attention, rather than making out, I would nervously talk them to death. More out of all other things i can recall these are where my storytelling roots began to slowly grow.

From a very early age I was surrounded by articulate and intelligent siblings, extended family, neighbors, teachers and mom and dad.

Siblings, those people you didn’t pick to be on earth with but without them I’d be lost. They played a key role shaping storytelling skills in me. When on a family trip in the poconos with another family I claimed to encountered a bear an wrestled or fought him off. A tall tale for sure. My brothers verbally bludgeoned me for that then and jab me on it to today. I got some attention, albeit not the kind I thought I would get.

Bears hibernate.

I was making it up for the attention. I think the reason was I felt left out most of the time. Being a storyteller means you could be let in, if only briefly. Tell your story and keep moving. I wanted to be part of the story.

This image represents my own experience exploring the roots of my storytelling ability.
Understanding how some of the roots of storytelling evolved in my own life.

My place in the family. My experience in story telling was and is an evolving thing in my life and career. More on this in some later posts.