A Nagging Sense of Failure

I feel a nagging sense of failure in my gut. After writing and working with kids for years, this summer I finally achieved a fairly prominent success with the publication of How to Tell Stories to Children. You’d think I’d be proud. Happy.

Instead, I find myself disappointed and I’m not entirely sure why. On the surface, that book is about telling fun or interesting stories to kids, but there’s something much deeper running underneath for me. It is about the stories we tell ourselves.

I’m good. I’m bad. I did well because I walked an extra mile and said no to a second beer at dinner. That kind of story. I’d like to shed some light on this - and why that nagging feeling in my gut indicates that I’m not quite living up to my own message.

My deepest desire is to help children, and those children-as-adults, gain perspective on how these interior stories impact our lives. Stories are a whole lot of fun, but I think we miss the point when think of them as a sort of entertainment.

We have an opportunity to see this when we share stories with each other. We see the kinds of stories alive in other humans, how certain people tell certain stories, and others tell different ones. If we pay close attention, you begin to see the person in the story. Much is revealed.

Kids see this in adults who tell stories. Adults see it in kids. And of course we all see it in each other. Over time, we have occasion to see it in ourselves.

It’s not easy, but it can happen. And when it does, it gives us a great deal of power. The power lies in the ability to recognize how stories inform our attitudes, behaviors, and emotions. Slowly, very slowly, we have an opportunity to play with those stories – to change the channel, if you will – and observe how different stories affect our wellbeing.

I have almost no desire to write or tell stories for people. I have a strong desire to help people (including myself) recognize the stories that are already alive in you. So that you have a chance to gain some leverage on them. Shift them. Welcome in the ones that are working, and give a polite goodbye to those that aren’t.

I want people to be happy. I want children to be happy. Statistically, happy children have an easier time growing into mature and capable adults (though, it’s important to remember that unhappy children with difficult lives sometimes blossom into incredible human beings). Still, the statistics inform us. The healthier and more loved our children are, the better chance they stand to grow into mature adults who can handle the political, environmental, and cultural issues that are pressing on our earth. And press they do.

Raising healthy children is a very subtle and difficult thing to do. Duh. Healthy children require a lot, and I don’t wish to overemphasize the importance of stories. Children need food, kindness, and warmth, and all sorts of things. If we think of stories as bedtime stories and Disney movies, they’re sort of novelties. But when I reflect on the stories that fill my mind – the kinds of stories that shape my identity – then I think they are very important indeed.

The stories that are important for me are not necessarily the stories that your child needs, or my own, or your neighbors, or whomever. Even the great stories – like Noah’s Ark or Cinderella – aren’t what anyone really needs. What we need, what our children need, is the ability to recognize the impact a story has within themselves. We need to see how it informs our emotions, our choices, and the way we treat one another and ourselves.

It’s easy to kick a rock. It’s amazing how we treat a diamond with respect. It’s easy to kick ourselves when we’re down. It’s amazing when you see someone hold themselves with grace in the midst of their own failings. The difference is the story.

If I have any chance to shed some useful perspective on this phenomenon, I have to be in integrity with myself. I have to practice constantly. And I believe it’s important for me to be honest. It’s common practice not to allow one’s personal life too much room in one’s professional life. To be a storytelling professional, I have to act like I know what I’m talking about – like I’m an expert. I don’t think I’m an expert. I think I’ve been given good role models, and a modest skill at putting their practices into words. I like to call myself a scribe.

But as I said, I’ve been feeling a nagging sense of failure. A lot of early signs indicated that How to Tell Stories to Children was going to be a huge success, that it was going to lift me out of financial insecurity, and make my work with children easier and more fluid. I tried to remain humble in it, but it is sort of overwhelming when your first attempt at a book gets accolades from people like Jane Goodall and is translated into nineteen different languages. Let me tell you what kinds of stories bounce around in my head!

But as those stories reverberated with reality (sales have been modest, to say the least), I’ve found myself walking around with disappointment. What happened? Where’s the skyrocket to success? Was it all a dream? A story?

It’s vulnerable to talk about this. There is a part of me that feels very foolish, and I mostly wish to keep that foolishness to myself. But there’s something in it that sheds light on the power of storytelling.

The honest truth is that I’ve felt like a bit of a failure ever since the book launched – about two months now. Watching its progress (perhaps a mistake in itself), I’ve been asking myself if I’ve done enough, written well enough, spent enough, talked enough, and on and on. Internally, what’s happening is that my story isn’t matching with reality.

There’s nothing so terrible about this, but here’s the impact – I’m sour. Not all the time, but often enough that it has an impact on my mood, my behaviors, and here’s the kicker – my family, friends, and loved ones. I’m simply not available to them in the way that I’d like to be.

And why? Truly why? Because when I reflect on all that is available to me, the accomplishments I’ve made, the resources I have, the beautiful children and people in my life – I’m astonishingly rich. I want for almost nothing. And yet, here I am walking around with a sour taste on my lips.

Stories. Internal stories. If we think of a story as an entertainment or a way to pass the time, or even as a way to share an important message – I think we sort of miss the point. Stories inform our behavior. They have very real impacts on our psychological and emotional health. And yes, stories like Zombie Apocalypse or Snow White, but perhaps even more important are the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. I’m good. I’m bad. I’m healthy. I’m ugly.

How do we gain perspective on this? How do we learn to shift and mold the internal stories that feed our behaviors and moods? And how can we help our kids do it better?

I believe we have a chance to do that by practicing our oral stories with one another, and especially with kids. By and large, kids call out the best in us. Even the most curmudgeonly person in the world often has a change of heart when speaking with kids.

When we learn to tell stories, we learn how to shape them, and change them. We could be telling any story, whether Paul Bunyan, Adam & Eve, or a story we just made up. As we do, we learn to shift them and change them – first for our kids, and then for ourselves. We see things in a story that maybe we don’t like, so we change it. It might be small, it might be big. It takes a great deal of practice, but I’ve watched a lot of people tell stories and I think I can say that this skill reliably awakens in almost everyone.

I’ve watched people go from having almost no confidence in telling children’s stories, to telling me how much joy and love it’s brought into their lives. Now they do it almost every night. It’s such a pleasure to see this happening, and of course it’s been happening with or without me for millenia. I have very little to do with this. I just have this strange fortune to be at the nexus of communication around the topic.

It’s my hope that the adults out there working with these storytelling skills will slowly reflect on how these skills transcend bedtime stories, and also relate to their internal stories. Am I good parent? Am I good wife/husband/partner? Am I happy? Do I have enough? Stories.

It is an even deeper hope of mine that their children – our children – will recognize those skills in themselves as they age. Perhaps they will have a slightly easier time recognizing the stories alive in themselves and how they impact their emotional and psychological health. Maybe they’ll be able to shift those stories slightly, and improve their relationships, their interactions with the planet, and their ability to feel the simple joys of life.

Sounds really good, right? Then you can see the absurdity in my own internal struggle with the success of this book. It has, at times, caused me to be less happy. Why? Because I’m grasping for a greater share of success. And that reduction in happiness has caused me to be less emotionally present and available to my loved ones – my own daughter even! And also to myself.

It is amazing and subtle what our bodies and minds are capable of. I share this all with humility, with a deep interest in calling myself to be the best person that I can, and with the goal of helping others awaken to the impact storytelling has in our lives. May it be of service, and where I have misspoken, may I be corrected.

I recognize that I will fail sometimes, but it is my eternal goal to recognize that failure and shift the stories that are causing disruption in my life. I wish to be present, engaged, and happy. I don’t so much wish to be successful.

With great respect for this earth, its creatures, and the humans whose feet walk upon it, and with gratitude for the many people who have supported our storytelling work thus far,

Joseph Sarosy