In spite of what you might think as a result of witnessing motivational speakers at work, you don’t inspire people by jumping up and down excitedly, thumping your chest, and passionately proclaiming a slogan from a Successories™ poster.
You inspire people, not by being louder and more animated than you normally are, but by engaging their deepest values and most authentic emotions.
Inspiration means, literally, to “breathe into.” In this case, to breathe life and vitality into your audience. You do that not by giving them step-by-step instructions but by giving them a motive, a desire to act.
You give people the hope that they can achieve what they want and be the best self they can imagine.
First, you influence people. You shape how they look at their situation, how they envision it, how they think and feel about it. Then you show them what they can do about it.
1. Leaders speak to influence and inspire audiences. Leaders aren’t primarily concerned with communicating information. They speak to promote a vision, a direction, or a passion. They want to change not just what people know, but how people think and feel and act.
2. Leaders speak when a lot is at stake. In times of crisis, change, or opportunity — when expectations are high and the consequences may be momentous — people turn to leaders for words of insight, reassurance, or direction. Leaders speak to make a difference, and unsettled times are when their words can have the greatest impact.
I love stories. I love telling stories. I love listening to them.
And I believe that there’s no better way to influence or inspire an audience than to tell a story. So I’m always on the lookout for a good story, well told. Here’s one I recently came upon of Noah St. John winning an event on the Snap Judgment stage.
Here’s what he did right.
1. He pauses at the beginning.
He walks to his place on the stage deliberately and without hurry. He plants his feet. He breathes. He looks at his audience and lets them look him over. And he takes a second breath. It’s a nervy, courageous, powerful way to start a story or, for that matter, to start any speech.
2. He leaps right into his story.
He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t say, “I’d like to tell a story…” He simply begins his story, “When my mommas fight…” (See “How to Start a Speech” for more tips.)
3. He sets the stage
In the first minute of a five minute story (0:45 to 1:45), he orients us. He introduces the three main characters of the story: his two mommas (Robin who shuts herself in the bedroom when she’s mad, and Maria who makes toast), and himself (the anxious teenager who takes it all in “like a radio antenna”). He introduces the setting, which in this case is the car, a CRV that is “big-boned practical” and that is as much a part of the family as anyone. And he introduces the central conflict of the story: the fights that Robin and Maria have.
He doesn’t explain. He shows us all these things — the characters, the setting, and the conflict — the way a good storyteller does…with just the right amount of specific details.
4. He introduces conflict.
With only three words, “Last Tuesday night,” (1:46) he transitions from the the setting/background to the main action of the story. The “precipitating event” (Maria asks Robin and Noah to take a ride with her) isn’t momentous, but it plays on Noah’s (our our) fears. Their hearts (our hearts) are “thudding in off-beat unison.” What does she want? What is she going to tell them?
5. He intensifies the conflict.
Noah knows — or thinks he knows — what is happening: Maria is going to announce the end, a divorce. And for over a minute (2:24 to 3:30) Noah sits in the back seat playing out in his mind exactly what is ending, what is being lost. Notice how many times he says that he imagines, or wonders, or remembers, or thinks, or fears. Again, he doesn’t explain why he hurts. He shows us in briefly detailed, but telling images. And in doing so, we feel his pain.
6. He resolves the conflict by upending our expectations.
Maria hasn’t brought them together to announce a divorce, but to celebrate, telling them “The reason we took this ride is so that we can all be there to reach 100,000 miles together as the people who matter.” The audience laughs, both in relief and in appreciation of being cleverly surprised.
7. He shares his insight.
He comes to the realization (4:08) that “This isn’t a break-up ride. This is a stay-together ride.” (Notice the parallel structure of those two short sentences, and the juxtaposition of “break-up” with “stay-together.) And just as he spent a minute imagining the break-up, he spends another minute imagining their stay-together future. “In this moment we are one family, constructing road as we go, burning bridges behind us, adding miles like graceful aging, driving in our CRV towards moonlight.”
8. He stops talking.
He doesn’t say, “Thank you.” He trusts the story, his telling of it, and the audience, and he accepts their applause.
9. He makes his story, our story.
A good story is both personal (this story happened to Noah and his moms, not to anyone else) and universal (this story resonates with anyone whose family has gone through tough times and come out stronger).
I also like his use of a metaphor — the CRV standing in for their family, the 100,000 plus miles representing what they’ve been through. I appreciate how well written the story is. (The best way to tell a story well is to write it out and commit it to memory.) And I love how he started slow (even though he was nervous), picked up speed and energy, and ended on a high.
What do you think of his story? What do you think he did well?