Good for saving the day in public speaking, making your case for a raise or promotion, closing a new customer, or killing it in a sales presentation.
You were trying to figure out which makes you more uncomfortable: sticking your neck out to break a stranger’s force field or bombing at your attempt to sell, convince, or meet them. While you figure that out, let me tell you a story about storytelling.
One of the best pitches I ever gave involved telling a story to someone I wasn’t even supposed to be talking to. It also didn’t involve pitching but storytelling. It was 2007, I was going through a divorce, and I was in a crappy place mentally and emotionally. One of the only silver linings on my horizon was that Billy Mays and I were about to get a deal on a reality show. We had shot a “sizzle reel” and run it up the chain at Warner Brothers, and they loved it. We got a call from the then head of New Programming Development, Brooke Karzen, who said, “We love you, we love Billy, we love the whole concept for the show. We’ll give you $20,000 an episode and we want to sign you as soon as possible.” This was the show that became Pitchmen.
At the time, I was planning a weeklong getaway at a wellness retreat called the Ashram in Calabasas, California—some time to get my head together. I kicked the contract over to my attorney, who ran down Brooke and told me she was the real deal. The plan was that when I got back to LA, we would sign the deal. I called Billy and told him the good news, and everything was hunky-dory.
I went to the Ashram. It’s a spartan wellness retreat. There were only thirteen other people staying there, and one of the cardinal rules of the place is no business. No networking, no deal making, no handing out business cards. But on day one, at the end of the dining table was a guy I didn’t know. He was a character, talking a million miles an hour about Monster Garage and Deadliest Catch. He was obviously in the cable TV business, but I was not there to do business and neither was he. He was just talking about his life.
But the next day, I couldn’t stop trying to figure out who he was. On the doors of your room, the Ashram only puts your first name and the first initial of your last name and his door read THOM B. I have to find out who this guy is. I used my cell phone (against the rules) and called my assistant in Florida. I said, “Google ‘Monster Garage, Thom B.’ Find out who this guy is.” It turned out that he was Thom Beers, executive producer of Deadliest Catch and Ice Road Truckers, at the time the biggest swinging dick in the cable reality show business.
Now, I’ve got this show that I am about to sell to Warner Brothers. But now I’m thinking that it might be worth having a conversation with Beers about our show. At the same time, I realize that he’s at a wellness yoga retreat, so the last thing he probably wants to hear is a pitch for a TV show. So, I had two challenges for my pitching prowess:
A: Find my moment.
B: When I find my moment, don’t fuck it up.
I decided that before I tried to pitch Beers, I would get to know him (but I wouldn’t tell him who I was). He wasn’t the fittest guy at the Ashram, but I’m fairly fit, so when we did our daily hikes, I was always at the front of the pack. But starting on the third day, I began hanging back with Thom. We did this really steep hill called Bulldog, and I ended up climbing it with him and talking, and I got inside his head. I found out who he was, what he did, and it turned out that the best man at his wedding was my old boss. It was all very serendipitous.
Still, three more days went by and I never brought up the reality show. I was cutting it down to the wire. On the sixth day, I knew I had to make my move. We were both relaxing in the swimming pool and we’d become kind of friendly and—remember the scene in Apocalypse Now where Martin Sheen rises out of the water in his camouflage face paint on the way to kill Marlon Brando? Think about that, minus the machete and camo.
I went underwater and I had a little conversation with myself, gave myself a pep talk. Then I came out of the water at about the same speed as Martin Sheen in that scene, swam over to Thom, took a deep breath, and said, “Thom, I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I feel like I have to tell you this story.” His face took on a weary “here we go” expression, but I pushed on. Sometimes, you just have to be confident and go for it.
I asked if he knew Billy Mays. He said yes. I told him Billy was my partner and we’d put together a sizzle reel for a reality show and that Warner Brothers had offered to pay us $20,000 an episode. “The minute I leave the Ashram,” I said, “the first thing I’m going to do is call my attorney and we’re going to sign a deal for this show. I just figured, based on everything that you do, I had to talk to you to see if we’re making the right move.” The whole thing took thirty seconds.
He looked at me, and if there was ever a moment when he could have walked away and gotten me busted for talking business, that was it. But he didn’t. He said, “What’s the premise of the show?” I gave him a half minute of backstory while he was getting out of the pool. By the time I was done, he had already turned his back on me and I could tell he didn’t want to hear any more about it. I made my case in about half a minute because I knew that’s all I would get. Thom then walked into the Ashram without another word, leaving me with only the hope that I’d made a good impression.
I didn’t dare pitch Thom or he would’ve gotten pissed, shut down, and walked away immediately. I had to tell him a story, and every single world out of my mouth was critical and strategic:
“Billy Mays and I are going to have this show; we don’t know the title yet.”
“Twenty thousand dollars an episode.”
“The minute I leave the Ashram, I’m going to go back and sign a deal.”
I knew exactly what I was going to say and I cut it off at thirty seconds. I knew I had to hook him with the vital details and let him know I was a player, not some wannabe with a script in my room. Every piece of my story had a purpose; I wasn’t just sharing information. But after he left I sat by the pool, thinking, Well, Sully, you fucked that up. He’s pissed off at you.
An hour later, he came back and sat down near me. He didn’t say anything for a second, and then went, “Billy Mays, tell me more about him.” Yes. I’ve got a hook! I started talking about Billy and me and our work together. After a few minutes, I went for it: I asked if he wanted to see the sizzle reel. First, he said no. As I said, the Ashram absolutely forbids doing business—no phones, no computers, and definitely no sizzle reels. Also, there are copyright issues; if he saw our reel, we could accuse him of stealing it if he came up with a similar show on his own. Then he said, “Let’s show the sizzle reel to the whole Ashram.” I ran to get my computer and we played it for everyone there.
Everybody loved it, and Thom was in. The next day, we got out of relaxation mode and went into how we were going to take over the world with this new show. We sat on the floor of the Ashram with a piece of paper, instructing each other about our worlds: him teaching me about reality TV and me teaching him about pitching, inventions, and direct sales. Business, business, business.
The owner of the Ashram, a Swedish woman named Katarina, was furious with us for flouting the “no business” rule over and over. She threatened to kick us out, and then when that didn’t work made us promise that if the show got picked up, we would buy her a car. No problem. We got the show, and eventually we bought Katarina a Mercedes-Benz, as promised.
Thom Beers did not want to be sold. He was at the Ashram to chill out and take a break from business. So I didn’t pitch him. First, I got to know him a little. Then when I made my move, I grabbed him with the story of me, Billy, and our idea. I wove a little sixty-second drama complete with two main characters, a conflict, and something at stake. I didn’t ask him for anything; I just told a story, which is one of the most naturally human activities there is. In fact, it qualifies as a Pitch Power that I call…
Don’t get me wrong; facts are important. But people aren’t as rational as we like to think we are. Research shows that much of the time when we make a decision to buy something like a car, we choose what satisfies our emotions—a $125,000 Tesla roadster, for example—and then use facts to rationalize the choice after the fact. So buying the Tesla becomes all about zero emissions and climate change and has nothing to do with driving a butt rocket that goes zero to sixty in four seconds flat.
Facts, data, and evidence might give someone a reason to say yes, but what gets him to listen to your pitch in the first place and to like you enough to want to do business with you is the stuff that appeals to his curiosity, empathy, sense of humor, and love of a happy ending: storytelling. Facts might convince someone to take a chance on you, but appealing to emotions by telling a great story brings down sales resistance and gets you in the door in the first place.
The trick is, it’s not enough just to drop a story on someone. As you saw with Thom Beers, it has to be the right story at the right time, told the right way. An irrelevant or meandering story might have your listener rolling her eyes and checking her watch, sure signs that you’ve lost your audience. Let’s look at what makes a good story, and how to tell it.
Storytelling is an important part of being human. For most of our history, wisdom was passed on by oral tradition: grandmother to granddaughter, village elder sitting around at a town hall meeting. It wasn’t until we invented writing that we gained the ability to pass on stories to anyone but the one or two generations that were right in front of us. But storytelling is a bit of a lost art today. Everybody’s staring at their phones all the time, texting, and there’s that horrible shorthand “tl;dr,” which means “too long; didn’t read.” Nobody takes the time to interact anymore, which is ironic because there’s such a deep pleasure in sitting down around a campfire and listening to someone tell a great story. It’s a mythical talent. Campfire storytelling. In sales, “Let me tell you a story” normally comes after everyone’s had a couple of drinks, but it’s the same, very human, need.
I’ve been told I’m a great storyteller, and I do think a good story will bail you out of any situation. But it’s not a cure-all. Storytelling is an art form. You’ve got to keep your story on point, close to the sale, and don’t let it turn into a yarn. For me to want to listen to your story, at least one of the following has to be working for you:
1. Relevance. Your story should mean something to me and contain something that relates to my life, my challenges, or something I want. Thom Beers stopped to listen to my pool pitch because in telling him about the TV show Billy and I were on the verge of selling, I was talking about his world. It was relevant to him, and it didn’t hurt that in coming to him with the story, I was also subtly asking for his advice, which is respectful and flattering.
Here’s what I mean. When I pitch my steam cleaner on HSN, I always stop my presentation and say, “Let me tell you a story.” I start talking about when I was eighteen years old, working for $4 an hour at the Vacation Inn on the North Shore of Oahu for this lady named Sharlyn (hi, Shar!). I got paid to clean up after fifty surfers, so I know what it’s like to clean in a pigsty. I say, “If you think you know what it’s like to clean a toilet after boys have used it, imagine cleaning up after fifty surfers who only care about smoking weed, drinking beer, and meeting girls.” I tell viewers that the bleach made all my body hair turn white, but that I got the job done and it was the happiest I’ve ever been in my whole life.
I close by mentioning that I went to see Sharlyn in February of 2016 when I dislocated my shoulder, and she gave me a ration of shit about it. Viewers are thinking, Wow, Sully worked there for four bucks an hour thirty years ago and he keeps up a relationship with this woman? It’s a quick anecdote that’s true, gets people laughing, and builds respect because people know that I’ve cleaned toilets, just like them. That’s such a great story that when I’m on HSN and there’s a lull, the producer will say, “Tell the Hawaii story,” because it works.
2. Humor, especially at your expense. Remember, we all love to laugh. We all love to be entertained, and being funny sometimes matters more than being skilled. If you’ve traveled in any big city, then you’ve probably seen street performers, or “buskers” as they call them in Europe. Great buskers are amazing pitchmen, because while they’re delivering funny lines and commanding the attention of a crowd with charisma and confidence, they’re juggling flaming chainsaws or some such thing! But I see the same pattern with buskers, be they acrobats, musicians, magicians, or what have you: the funny ones get bigger crowds and bigger tips than the technically skilled ones who don’t tell jokes—or worse, go through their routine with a stone-faced expression. We like to laugh, feel like part of a special group, and be entertained.
It’s even better if the humor makes you the butt of the joke. I do this on HSN all the time. Say I’m pitching my steam cleaner. I could tell viewers all about it being a great mop that’ll absorb everything, but it works much better when I tell them about the time (this is true) that my toilet exploded at 4:00 a.m. and I used the mop to clean up all the water that kept welling up out of it. They can picture me in my pajamas, ankle deep in water, and they love it.
3. Universal drama. In August of 2016, I crashed my racing bike going about thirty miles an hour. I went down hard on my left side, and the only reason I didn’t end up with a vicious compound fracture of my arm was that for some reason, I maintained the presence of mind to keep my arm tucked in and take the impact on my shoulder, fracturing my scapula. But as fun as that was, it was an eye opener to go to the ER and see that my Giro bike helmet had completely split open from the impact. In other words, it had done what it was supposed to do: absorb the energy so my head wouldn’t. If I hadn’t been wearing it, I probably would not have written this book.
Because of that experience I could go on air tomorrow and sell bike helmets, because I can tell a real-world story that’s full of drama. Even if they’ve never wiped out on a bike, they’ve had some sort of close call or know somebody who has. They can relate and they have empathy for me. I don’t know when I’ll use that story in a pitch, but I know I will.
4. Likability. Even if a story doesn’t have a ton to do with me, isn’t dramatic, and isn’t very funny, I’ll listen for a long time if I like you. That’s one of the reasons my Hawaii story about cleaning up after surfers resonates. Viewers who only know me as Sully the pitchman who does OxiClean commercials find out that I’ve done crap jobs, lived in a van, and know how to poke fun at myself. They like me. It’s really that simple. I don’t put on airs or distance myself from them; I intentionally paint word pictures where I make myself look ridiculous. I tease my co-hosts and let them tease me. I make it very clear that other than a preternatural ability to talk about mops and vegetable slicers with unnerving enthusiasm, I’m exactly like them. That makes them willing to put up with some storytelling, and you’ll find the same to be true for you.
However, the ability to be an effective storyteller—hold up, what does that mean? Is there a difference between telling a good story and an effective one? You bet there is. A good story is entertaining and captivating, but that’s all it is, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But you’re here to learn to be a pitching superhero, and that means persuasion with a purpose. Telling an effective story means there’s a purpose behind it: breaking the ice, prepping someone to hear your pitch, driving home your experience or knowledge—something. Effective storytelling happens with an outcome in mind.
Where was I? Right, effective storytelling. At the end of the day, it’s about trust. Think about it: why do you spend money on books by your favorite authors? In part, it’s because you trust that the storytelling of John Grisham, Bill Bryson, or whoever won’t waste your money or your time. It is the same when you’re telling a story in person, except that you have maybe thirty seconds to gain your listener’s trust. When your story is detailed, well paced, self-deprecating, concise, and relevant to them, you make deposits to your trust bank account. The more you make, the longer they’ll listen.
The thing is, earning that trust doesn’t happen by accident. Storytellers—especially when the story is a part of an effective pitch—are made, not born. There’s a specific set of tools you need to work with if you’re going to make the transition from someone who might be good at telling funny stories at a party to a pitching superhero who can use stories strategically to persuade people to give you what you want. The first tool is understanding the beats of a story.
You hear the word “beat” used all the time about stage acting and public speaking, but what are they? Beats are those tiny pauses when what’s being said changes from one thing to another. They’re transitions that you can feel. But it’s not enough to know when a transition is coming; you need to know what comes next. Here’s a quick primer on the beats of a great pitching story:
1. The vivid setup. You have to grab the listener’s attention immediately or you’ll lose them. Talk about what’s at stake in the story, the obstacles, tickle their funny bone, or something. But you have to rivet them right away. After you have them at your mercy, transition to the next beat.
2. Characters. They have to know who the players are in your story. Who’s who? What is each person like and why do they do what they do? The story won’t be as meaningful or have as much impact if your audience doesn’t understand the nature, background, or flaws in the people you’re talking about, even if that’s just you.
3. Turning point. At some point, your story has to shift to a moment of truth when the main character either reaches his or her goal, fails to reach it, or experiences something surprising. For me with Thom Beers in the pool, the turning point came when I told him that Billy and I had a TV deal… but we weren’t sure we would accept it.
4. Takeaway. The last beat is when you get to what you want the listener to take away from your story, usually some kind of lesson. The idea here is either to teach the reader something about you or teach them a truth or idea that will make them more receptive to the rest of your pitch.
Learning where these beats fall, how to recognize them, and how to smoothly switch from one to the next takes practice and time, which is why I encourage you not only to work on your own storytelling but to listen to great storytellers whenever you can: salesmen, speakers, even preachers. Hear the cadences and rhythms and note when the speaker switches from one beat to the next—it’s obvious when you’re looking for it, like a train changing tracks.
Framing is about making those beats more effective. Effective pitching isn’t throwing meaningless detail at the listener; that just confuses and irritates them. Instead, you use context and detail to lend reality and depth to the story and to help people see and feel the value in what you’re offering. The more you speak in terms that engage the listener’s other senses—in words they can see, smell, feel, and bite into—the more you keep them engaged in your story. When you do it right, you can completely reframe what your audience hears and how they feel.
That’s what I did with my friend Reno Rollé and his green superfood product, Boku. A few years ago, he came to my company with this product, a blend of superfoods that you’re supposed to blend and drink. Well, there are a million similar products out there, but my job was to make his unique. He had cue cards and more product than you could shake a stick at, and he wanted me to come up with this magical pitch that we could build an infomercial around. Stumped, I said, “Put all your shit on the table and let’s work the problem.”
Days went by and I kept striking out. I was looking for the “hook,” but I couldn’t find it. Meanwhile, Reno was talking about how the Latin root of the word “protein” is protean, which means healthy and vital. Who gives a shit? We needed to hit people where they live. We needed to bypass their logical brain, where sales resistance lives, and get to their reptilian brain, where emotions like fear and disgust set up shop. Engage their emotions.
One night, we were at dinner, sitting around over a bottle of wine and talking about sketches. We got to talking about the famous Bass-O-Matic sketch from Saturday Night Live, in which Dan Ackroyd does a hilarious parody of a TV pitchman selling a blender, pulverizes a real fish in the thing, and then drinks it! It was a disgusting, pants-wetting funny but, and it hit me. I said, “I’ve got it. We’re going to run with this. We’re going to try it. We’re going to get a blender, put everything in it that most people eat for a day, and turn it on. Then we’re going to pour it out and say, ‘You want to know why you feel awful? This is why.’”
The table lit up like a Christmas tree. Everybody started laughing and suggesting things that we could put in the blender: beer, a doughnut, a Pop-Tart, a piece of pizza, a soda, and a hot dog. Any of the typical high-fat, high-sugar, fast-food garbage that the typical American eats. We’d put in there and blend it all into the nastiest sludge imaginable. Boku would be the alternative to the “get fat, feel terrible, die young” diet!
Now we had a great product and a terrific ice breaker. We wrote the script and Reno rehearsed his pitch and the next thing we know, he’s blowing the doors off Evine! He put a bunch of food from the typical American diet in the blender, turned it on… and I’m not kidding you, the smell made us all want to vomit. It nearly made the on-camera talent vomit. You wonder why puke smells the way it smells? It’s the crap most people eat! The smell was so bad it practically shut down taping for a while.
That was magic. That was the connection with the viewer. Then we said, “That’s why you feel terrible. Here’s how we’re going to solve that problem.” The solution, of course, was Boku! It was a fantastic infomercial and the product is still one of the biggest sellers in its category today. That is framing.
But there’s a line here that I don’t want you to cross as you learn to pitch: the line between the interesting storyteller and the windbag uncle who has everybody rolling their eyes and checking their watch. You know, the guy or gal who can’t shut up and decides that everybody in the room has to know every detail about the new car or Cancun vacation. Details can be your best friend or worst enemy depending on how you use them, so here’s the question you should be asking as you prepare your story: what does your audience need to know?
Remember, storytelling in the pitch is strategic. At each beat, you should be sharing facts and figures that serve your audience’s interest. It doesn’t matter what you want them to know. It only matters what they need to know to keep their interest and sway the outcome in your favor. Say you’re in a competitive job interview for a job as a customer service rep, and you launch into a story about your last position. Each example should convey something about you that relates to the job you’re after: you’re patient, good with people, and a terrific problem solver, and so on. Anything else is extra baggage that you can toss over the side.
This is the classic market pitchman’s term for when all this is working. As I said in Chapter 2, having your audience “under the ether” means having them under your spell. I could always tell when I had my home show crowds under the ether, because I could move fifty people with a wave of my hand. They would be so caught up in the pitch and the show I was putting on that if I said, “Everyone take a step forward,” they would all do it instantly, as one. That’s your goal. Captivate and enthrall.
Here’s a simple test to tell whether you’ve got your audience under the ether, one that works for one listener or a room of hundreds: stop talking. Pause and see what happens. An ordinary story is like pulling a sled uphill; when you stop providing the propulsive force, everything stops. You’ll see people blink, check their phones, and look around. But a great story is like rowing a boat across calm water: if you stop rowing, the boat keeps gliding for a while. So pause. If your audience doesn’t move and seems 100 percent with you, waiting breathlessly for the next word, you’ve got them under the ether.
When you do, you finish your story and then before they can recover, invite them to take action: “So, do you think all that makes me a perfect fit for this job or what?”
Other times this Pitch Power is like a power ring and utility belt rolled into one:
• Hitting on somebody. Lines rarely work. Honesty works better. But stories are magic. If you can get someone cute to sit still and listen to a really good story for a while, you’ve gotten past their natural barrier and improved your odds of scoring a number. But don’t lie or exaggerate. It’s more obvious than you think.
• Commission sales. Selling for your supper is rough work because the other party knows your income depends on how much you sell. That means their defenses are high, and a story can bring them down. Storytelling gets around sales resistance by engaging the listener in a narrative, not a sales pitch or list of features and benefits.
• Coaching. You might be coaching a sports team or coaching a team of subordinates at your workplace. You’re still trying to teach people who may or may not want to learn. Rather than say, “Do this, then do that,” share a story about someone who did things the right way and let that inspire your team. A lesson by example is always more effective than a lesson by lecture.
Public speaking might be a situation where superpowered storytelling can enthrall most people. Ramsey Jay Jr. knows that well. A Wall Street–trained finance professional, a Dartmouth College graduate named one of Ebony magazine’s “30 Leaders of the Future” for 2007, and author of Empowering Dreamers to Become Achievers, he’s a fast-rising star in the world of speaking. Among his many public-speaking highlights, in 2016 Ramsey delivered opening remarks at the White House at an evening musical celebration hosted by President Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama honoring the legendary Ray Charles. Additionally, he delivered the commencement address for the 105th graduating class at Dartmouth’s Tuck School of Business, and he says that telling a gripping story is absolutely essential to reaching an audience.
“Storytelling allows me to paint a picture that’s relevant to an audience,” he says. “When you’re speaking to a variety of audiences, you won’t always have a story that’s relevant to that audience but you can always tell a story that makes your point more personal and relatable. You take a concept that’s universal and articulate it in a way that anyone can apply to their situation. Instead of just saying, ‘If you have a dream, make it come true,’ you say, ‘Let me tell you about someone I think you can relate to.’ You pivot from genetic to specific.
“One of my most effective stories, which I use to talk about bouncing back from disappointments, is about Michael Jordan when he was in high school,” Jay continues. “He was a five-foot-nine sophomore and he tried out for the varsity team, and he was the last player cut from varsity. The twelfth player chosen was named Leroy Smith. But Jordan used that failure as his catalyzing fuel to work harder than ever between his sophomore and junior years, and we know the rest of the story. But no one knows who Leroy Smith is.
“When Jordan was inducted into the Hall of Fame, he thanked Phil Jackson, Scottie Pippen, and even coach Dean Smith from the University of North Carolina, but he also spent almost ninety seconds talking about Leroy Smith, who was in the audience,” Jay goes on. “In his speech, Jordan said, ‘The competitive fire that fueled me to work the next twenty years of my career was born out of the image of Leroy Smith that I kept in my mind throughout high school, college and pro career. He’s the guy that lit that competitive fire.’
“You can imagine the impact that story has on all of my audiences, particularly those made up of high school students from disadvantaged backgrounds,” Jay continues. “When I tell that story, they fact-check me on the spot. They go on the Internet then and there on their phones. Later, they’ll email me and tell me they watched the speech on YouTube. I tell them that we all have that Leroy Smith moment, and we can come away from those disappointments in one of three ways: give up, aim lower, or use it to get better. Every time I tell that story, I hear half the audience going, ‘Oh my God, I had my Leroy Smith moment and I didn’t react like MJ.’ That story drives home the truth, which is that while they can’t be the next Jordan, they can rebound from failure like he did. Storytelling makes things like that immediately relatable to anyone.”
My Thom Beers account shows that you don’t need to tell a long story for it to be effective. In fact, extremely short stories can sometimes work to your advantage, because busy people like people who don’t waste their time. Thom was and is a very big deal—not just the creator of Deadliest Catch, Ice Road Truckers, and Ax Men, but at the time the chairman and CEO of FremantleMedia North America—and he didn’t have time for me to waste. Also, in this attention-deficit age, some people simply can’t listen very long. So think of your story as a tweet instead of a post on Medium: tight, succinct, and strategic. However, even with that approach, you’re going to run into some situations where a story is the wrong Pitch Power to roll out:
• Any legal situation. When you’re talking to the police or an attorney, giving a deposition or in court, do not put on your storyteller hat. Any audience in the legal world is going to see a story as “spin.” Take the approach of Sergeant Joe Friday from Dragnet (look it up on YouTube for pity’s sake) and provide “just the facts” and nothing else.
• When you’re following somebody who won’t shut up. It’s not your fault if the speaker who went on before you talked so much that he sucked every molecule of air from the room. But it is your fault if you go on and do the same thing. Being a superhero means being flexible, having long and short versions of your story or speech ready to go so you can adapt to the situation. If you’re speaking or presenting after a chatterbox and you can see the audience is exhausted and irritated, play off it by saying something, like “Well, I’m going to be brief” (you’ll probably get sarcastic, grateful applause) and go right into the pertinent facts. If you gain the audience’s trust you can always take questions at the end and tell your story then.
• When the environment is distrustful. I’ve talked with people in the venture capital world who’ve said that when an entrepreneur comes in to pitch them for money, they assume 90 percent of their story is bullshit. That’s probably not the best environment to rest your pitch on your brilliant storytelling. Go to the facts and figures instead.
• When the facts are overwhelmingly in your favor. Remember, storytelling is all about getting the outcome you want: the sale, the job, the girl, or the standing ovation from folks who turn around and buy your book at the back of the room. But if you don’t need a story, why use it? Let’s say you’re calling your credit card company to dispute a fraudulent charge that they won’t remove from your account. You’ve got dates, times, phone records—massive amounts of data that prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the charge is bogus. Why tell a story that’s just going to waste time? Hit the customer service person with your facts and stick to them, and you’ll probably get the result you want.
All that said, there probably aren’t many situations in which a well-told, wisely edited, strategically constructed story won’t help you in a big way. Do your research and know the environment and audience before you step in the door and adapt.
There are no shortcuts here: telling a great story that sells takes lots of practice. Lots. But not practice in a vacuum. Practice with other people who are willing to give you feedback. Find some good friends who you can torture with your stories in return for food or beer, and then regale them with the time you MacGyvered a winning sales presentation with some quick computer graphics and a paper clip. At the end, ask for comments. Did you go too long? Did the story hold their interest? What were the high points? The weak points? How could you improve it? Obviously, you want people who will give you constructive feedback, not drinking buddies who’ll make sarcastic jokes just to mess with you.
The second thing I recommend is to listen to as many storytellers as you can, good and bad. Check out This American Life on NPR or The Moth for terrific personal storytelling on the radio. View lots of TED talks, where you’ll witness both incredibly compelling storytellers (Brené Brown is a winner) and some of the most pompous, self-indulgent crap on the planet. Go to see speakers in person so you can get a sense of an audience’s body language when they’re under the ether or bored senseless. Use what I’ve taught you to dissect winning speeches and figure out why they worked.
Talk to terrific storytellers and ask for their advice. These could include anyone who can really captivate a room, from college professors to ministers who give great sermons to commissioned salespeople who live and die based on their ability to persuade.
Finally, do your own prep work. What are the best, most interesting stories from your own life and career? How could you use them to get an audience under your spell or get a recruiter to offer you that job? Remember, storytellers are made, not born. Get to work.
SCENARIOS FOR USING THE “FACTS TELL, STORIES SELL” PITCH POWER
Q: You finish telling what you think is an absolute crusher of a story: vivid, brief, and powerful. Then the listener accuses you of making it up. What do you do?
A: That depends. If it is made up, then cop to it. “You got me. But I had you, didn’t I? And if I can hold your attention with something I made up, imagine what I could do for your company!” If the story is real, then be ready for this. Have proof, like someone you can call on the spot to verify the account. That’s a boss move.
Q: You’re in the middle of a story that’s a crucial part of your pitch and the listener interrupts you, telling you to get on with it or something equally rude. Do you drop the story and try to gather your wits, move on with other material but come back to it, or explain that the story has a point and try to keep going?
A: Cut to the chase, but stick to your story. If it’s a critical part of your pitch, say something like “This is important, but I’ll jump to the reason why.”
Q: You’re in mid-story and your mind goes blank. Bluff your way through or own the mistake?
A: Own it. Mistakes aren’t a big deal as long as you can admit them and laugh about them. Blame it on a senior moment or too much Diet-Coke, get everybody laughing at you (and with you), and get back to it.