The Five Foundations of Storytelling (In One Longer Post)
Practical help to tell better stories. This is the previous series as one continuous post.
Before I ever taught a workshop or stepped on a keynote stage, I knew one thing for sure:
I was a storyteller.
Sure, I had done some improv. I’d been a professional actor. I’d been a preacher and a filmmaker and an author. But the throughline was always story.
And I knew—deep in my gut—that storytelling wasn’t just one creative skill among many.
It was the thing.
The core of everything else.
Back in 2012, I co-founded a creative agency and production company called Rebel Pilgrim with two close friends—Brad and Isaac. The original plan was simple: make movies. Feature films, to be specific.
We made a few. Learned a ton. But the economics were changing fast. DVDs were dying. Streaming was exploding. And while the stories were good, the business model wasn’t sustainable.
So we pivoted.
We brought in another close friend, Mark, and shifted from films to client work—videos, commercials, branded content for companies and nonprofits. The one thing we always led with was storytelling. It wasn’t a marketing strategy. It was just… who we were.
And honestly? The first three years were stressful. We were surviving, but not thriving. I had an unstated vision for the company that I don’t recommend:
“Let’s do creative stuff with our friends and all get paid.”
Noble? Maybe.
Scalable? Not really.
But then something started to click.
Companies began to hire us—not just because our videos looked good, but because we “got it.” They’d say: “You understand story. You get our message. You make it mean something.”
That should’ve been our sign.
But we got cute.
We decided that “storytelling” was a buzzword. Too generic. Too overused for SEO. We told ourselves: We’re something more. Something different. We just don’t know what yet.
So we brought in a friend named Chase to do a quick consulting session to help us name our differentiator.
I don’t remember 99% of what he said.
But I’ll never forget this:
“What are you all doing? You’re storytellers. Just be storytellers. That’s your thing. Who cares if everyone else says it too?”
It hit like a lightning bolt.
He was right.
We’d been trying to out-clever ourselves and talk ourselves out of the very thing that made us who we were.
From that moment on, we leaned all the way in.
And here’s the twist: when we stopped trying to be different and just told the truth about who we already were, everything got better. More business. More clarity. More joy.
And for me? It was the moment I finally gave myself permission to say it out loud:
I’m not a CEO who happens to tell stories.
I’m a storyteller who happens to lead.
Eventually, Rebel Pilgrim rebranded as Boonrise and Isaac took the reins. Brad and Mark are still doing beautiful creative work of their own. (Connect with them on LinkedIn if your organization needs world-class creative partners.)
And after 11 years together, we pulled off the greatest feat of all:
We broke up the band—and stayed friends.
Why I’m Telling You This
This story—the identity crisis, the rediscovery, the pivot—isn’t just a personal anecdote.
It’s the origin of something that still shapes how I teach and lead today.
Because once we finally accepted that we were storytellers, we got serious about how to do it well. Not just for ourselves, but for clients, audiences, and teams.
Over time, we developed a framework we called the Five Foundations of Storytelling.
It wasn’t academic. It came from doing the work. Trying and failing. Watching what landed and what didn’t. These five principles became our shared language—and after the band broke up, they still guide my work today.
And just so it’s said clearly: I didn’t create these alone.
They came out of our shared experience.
And when it comes to the actual wordsmithing, that was all Brad Wise—our in-house poet and the one who always knew how to say it just right.
So this week, I’m going to share them with you—one post per day.
Not theory. Not fluff. Just real tools to help you become a better storyteller—in your writing, your speaking, your leadership, your life.
But before we dive into a new series, here are a few things I take from this story itself:
You probably already know who you are.
Be that. Even if it’s not flashy. Even if others are doing it too.Vision matters.
You can get something off the ground without a clear one, but it won’t last. Eventually, you need to know who you are and why it matters.There are many ways to bring your truth into the world.
For us, it wasn’t movies. But it was story. And for me, it still is—just in different forms now. Speaking. Coaching. Writing. Teaching.
Part One: Find the Hook
We’ve all been there.
A conference ballroom. Giant screens. Lanyards. Sponsored coffee. You take your seat. Maybe you’re a little tired, but you’re also kind of hopeful. The keynote speaker steps on stage.
You don’t know who they are. But hey, they must be pretty smart to get this gig, right?
If you’re like me, you’re rooting for them. You want them to crush it. You want to feel something. Maybe even leave inspired.
And then it starts:
“Thank you for having me here today. Mr. Jennings, I really appreciate the opportunity to speak. How we all doing? Having a good conference so far? I haven’t been in Cincinnati for a few years… Nice town.”
Uh oh.
We’re three sentences in and already dying.
Not because they’re a bad person.
Not because they’re not smart.
Not even because the talk will be bad.
It’s because they missed the first—and most important—move a storyteller can make.
They forgot to hook us.
The Purpose of this Series
I’ve written a lot about why storytelling matters—how it shapes identity, builds connection, and helps us find meaning.
But this series? It’s not about why.
It’s about how.
This is the most practical storytelling content I’ve ever done.
Over the next few days, I’ll walk you through the Five Foundations of Storytelling—the exact framework I use to shape every story I tell. I’ll break down the tips, tricks, and hacks I’ve learned over the years to take a story from good to great.
So get your learning caps on, kids.
Let’s get to it.
What Is the Hook?
The hook is the moment at the beginning of a story when we decide if we are going to care… or not.
It’s the opening action in a movie that makes you sit up.
The first paragraph in a novel that makes you keep turning pages.
The first beat in a speech that tells the audience: hold onto your hat, this is going somewhere.
There’s no single right way to do it. But there is a wrong way:
Small talk. Credentials. Context. Gratitude. Logistics. Local weather. A brief history of Ohio.
It’s not that those things don’t matter.
It’s that they don’t belong in the first 30 seconds.
The brain is wired for connection, not ceremony.
If you don’t earn our attention right away, you may never get it back.
Here’s another way to say that: you are exponentially more likely to earn the right to be heard (or read) in the first few moments. After that, you lose your advantage.
So don’t throw away your best shot to reel them in.
How Do You Find the Hook?
You don’t find it by trying to be clever.
You find it by asking better questions—ones that pull you toward honesty, tension, and surprise.
Here are the five questions I ask myself before telling an important story:
If I were hearing this story for the first time, what would I say to get my own attention?
You aren’t the audience, but you know yourself pretty well. So, start with yourself. What would actually make you want to hear this story—if someone else was telling it? What first sentence would make you look up from your phone… and care?What’s the most vulnerable thing I can say right now?
That thing I’d rather avoid? That’s probably the thing they need to hear. Of course, you can be too vulnerable. This isn’t therapy. But most people don’t naturally go too far. We hold back. Don’t hold back.What’s the strangest or most surprising detail in this story?
Specificity builds trust. Weirdness builds intrigue. And chronology is overrated in storytelling. If you have an amazing detail, lead with it.
“The only time I was ever in the back of a police cruiser was the night my wife gave birth to our daughter.”
That’s a much better hook than:
“I was driving my pregnant wife to the hospital.”
What problem are we solving here?
Don’t bury the lead. Let them feel the pain before you offer relief.
Address the problem—but don’t open with a pile of facts and data.
Please, don’t start a story with a statistic.
“Six in ten Americans will have heart disease.”
Not a hook.“My grandfathers were named Max and Roger. They both died of heart attacks when I was thirteen.”
That’s a hook.
What’s something we all think but never say out loud?
Say that. It’s uncomfortable. It’s powerful. And it makes people lean in.You don’t need to be crude, vulgar, or inappropriate. Just say the thing that usually goes unstated. It doesn’t have to be some deep emotional confession—just something real. This is actually what many stand-up comedians do best. We laugh because they say things we’ve thought but never said.
“Can we all stop pretending like we suddenly Brussels sprouts?”
That’s a pretty solid hook.
The Five Reactions Every Great Hook Should Trigger
There are three levels of mindset when it comes to starting a story:
The inexperienced storyteller thinks:
“What do I want to say to start my story?”
They focus on themselves. Their content. Their background. Their agenda. Which usually means the audience checks out immediately.The decent amateur thinks:
“What do I want my audience to know after my intro?”
Better. They’re thinking about their audience now—which is huge.
But it’s still mostly about information, not emotion or connection.The master storyteller thinks:
“What do I want them to say to themselves after my very first sentence?”
I used to just ask, “What do I want them to feel?”
But even that turned out to be too vague.
It wasn’t until I started asking what I wanted them to say—that internal dialogue—that my intros started to land every single time.
When I step on stage for a keynote, I already know what I want them to be saying to themselves after the first 15 seconds.
It’s one of these five statements below. (I will include the first line of stories I tell as examples for each.)
“That would be scary.”
Fear creates instant tension. It raises stakes and gets attention fast.
(“My left arm was going numb every day for no reason.”)“Those things don’t usually go together.”
We’re wired to notice contrast. When you collide two ideas that shouldn’t fit, we lean in.
(“I grew up thinking you had to go on The Price is Right to get a new car.”)“I can’t believe they went there.”
Vulnerability, honesty, or social risk buys trust. Fast.
(“I was a professional actor for eight years, but I was never sure if I was any good at it.”)“Yes—I’ve been there.”
Resonance creates connection. When people see themselves in your story, they stick around.
(“The year that made me who I am was eighth grade. I didn’t have any friends.”)“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
Surprise reframes. When you flip a familiar idea on its head, the audience stays curious.
(“Tommy Boy, Star Wars, and The Godfather are the same movie.”)
If You Forget Everything Else...
Remember this:
The first line of your story is never about you. It’s about them.
Make them feel seen. Make them curious. Make them care.
We’ll get to your background later.
We’ll unpack your wisdom.
We’ll land the plane.
But first?
Find the hook.
Because if they aren’t listening, it doesn’t matter how great your story is.
Part Two: Share the Heart
If Find the Hook is about earning your audience’s attention,
then Share the Heart is why they decide to stay.
Stories are meant to be emotional. That’s the point.
And science backs this up: In our Science of Storytelling series, we explored how stories activate the brain more deeply than facts. They stimulate empathy. They light up the areas responsible for memory and emotional response.
Story + emotion = connection.
That’s what “sharing the heart” really means:
Letting yourself be human.
The Power of Being Real
The most common word people use to describe my storytelling is “authentic.”
For years I thought it was just my personal style. But, after being on stages for over thirty years, I can now say this with all confidence:
People lean in when you stop pretending.
Especially when the story is personal.
We throw around words like “vulnerable” and “raw” and “real”—and yes, those can all be overdone. But here’s the truth:
We listen to stories told by people who show us their heart.
And we eventually lose interest when they don’t.
So how do you actually do that?
Here are four simple ways to share the heart:
1. Say the Emotion Out Loud
I’m a big fan of just announcing your emotions as you felt them, especially the ones we tend to hide.
It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It just has to be honest:
“I was terrified.”
“I felt like an imposter.”
“I was fuming with anger.”
“I was crushed with regret.”
Calling out the emotion, by name, draws people in. It gives your audience permission to feel something too. It signals that this story isn’t just about what happened. It’s about what it meant.
2. Narrate Your Inner Dialogue
One of the most powerful things about telling (or writing) a story is that you can let the audience “hear” what you were thinking in the moment.
Your inner dialogue is where the tension lives.
It’s where we find the humanity—and often, the humor.
Let them hear both the angel and the devil on your shoulders. Let them hear the insecurity, the overthinking, the little lie you almost told but didn’t. Let them hear what you wanted to say but couldn’t.
Be honest about the conflict in your head.
Because here’s the secret:
The more private it feels, the more universal it probably is.
And inner dialogue? It’s often where the comedy lives too.
3. Show the Moment—Don’t Talk About It
When I was learning improv at Second City—long before I was performing regularly—I had a bad habit.
I kept putting the exciting part of the story in the past.
One day in my Level 3 class, I started a scene as a college student walking into a frat house and saying to my scene partner:
“We lost the dean’s cat!”
It felt like a strong opening. High stakes. Clear setup.
But my teacher, Joe Kelly, immediately stopped me.
“Don’t tell me. Take me there.”
We started over.
This time, I began the scene on my hands and knees, crawling on the floor, looking for the cat.
It killed.
The 10 other students watching were rolling. Even Joe let out a few chuckles. Because I wasn’t just talking about the big moment—I was showing it.
That’s what it means to show the heart.
Take us to the emotional moment. Let us sit in it with you.
Don’t say, “I was devastated.”
Show me the room. The silence. The moment.
4. Don’t Rush the Big Moments
It’s human nature to want to rush past uncomfortable emotions—especially in front of other people.
But I’ve learned that silence is a storyteller’s best friend.
In my one-man show, I tell a story about being bullied in 8th grade. There’s a moment when I share what a kid said to me:
“Nobody likes you. You should kill yourself.”
The first time I performed it, I let the line settle for a beat, but then I quickly moved on. Almost to rescue the audience from the uncomfortable moment I created.
Likely because I didn’t want to sit there either.
But now when I get to that part, I don’t rush past it.
I’m sitting in a chair when I say it.
And after I speak the line, I stare at the floor.
For a long time.
The silence speaks its own language.
And when I finally look up? Half the room is crying.
That’s the power of pause.
The moment breathes.
The audience embraces you. And one another.
It works in comedy too. Hold for laughs. Let them breathe.
And it works in writing. Slow your pace in the big moments.
Say the thing. Then stop.
Let it land.
The Heart Builds Trust
We don’t connect through perfection.
We connect through truth, humanity and shared experiences.
And connection creates trust.
And trust is everything.
So don’t just tell us what happened.
Tell us what it cost.
Tell us what it meant.
Share the heart.
Part Three: Weave the Thread
Of all the foundations, this is the one that takes the most time and practice.
The others—Find the Hook, Share the Heart, Cut the Fat, Land the Plane—you can get pretty good at fairly quickly with some focus. But weaving the thread? That’s a different beast.
It’s not a formula.
It’s a feeling.
It’s the difference between a story that’s fine… and one that haunts you, lingers in your chest, and stays in your bones for years.
So what is “the thread”?
It’s a throughline.
It might be a metaphor. Or a symbol. Or a phrase. Or a question. Or an action. Or a sound. Or a look.
It’s more than just “bookending” your story—though great threads often do that. The best ones evolve as the story unfolds. They gain weight. They shift in meaning. They surprise you when they return.
And for me, it all starts with one thing:
Start With the Logline
Every story has a logline—whether you know it or not.
A logline is one sentence that captures the essence of the story. Every movie you’ve ever seen had one. Even if you never heard it.
It’s not the tagline on the poster. It’s not a full synopsis.
It’s a tool used in pitching, scripting, shooting, editing, and marketing. It’s how a producer decides whether to greenlight a film. It’s how a director keeps the story on track. It’s how an editor makes hard choices in the final cut.
A great logline isn’t just a summary. It’s the soul of the story—boiled down to one sentence.
Let’s test this out. Below are ten famous movie loglines. See if you can guess the movie before scrolling down to the answers.
Guess the Movie:
The aging patriarch of an organized crime dynasty transfers control of his empire to his reluctant son.
A police chief with a fear of water must hunt a great white shark to save his town.
A teenager is accidentally sent back in time and must make sure his parents fall in love—or he’ll cease to exist.
When a jealous toy is replaced by a flashy new model, the two must find a way to work together and reunite with their kid.
A small-time boxer gets the chance of a lifetime to fight the world heavyweight champion.
A clueless man-child goes on a road trip with a sarcastic partner to save his family business.
A hacker discovers the world he knows is a simulation and joins a rebellion to free humanity.
A timid clownfish crosses the ocean to rescue his son, discovering courage along the way.
A betrayed Roman general seeks revenge and redemption in the brutal world of the Colosseum.
A troubled boy claims he can see dead people—and one psychologist decides to believe him.
Let’s See How You Did:
The Godfather
Jaws
Back to the Future
Toy Story
Rocky
Tommy Boy
The Matrix
Finding Nemo
Gladiator
The Sixth Sense
How’d you do?
That one-sentence description tells you everything you need to know. It focuses the story. It captures the tension.
And here’s the thing:
The logline isn’t the thread.
But it helps you find it.
The Thread Is the Echo of the Logline
A thread is the thing that symbolizes the logline.
It’s the phrase, object, gesture, or sound that shows up again and again. And when it returns, it lands deeper than before.
If you can find your thread, you’ll create something unforgettable.
You’ll leave your audience with a memory they can’t explain.
And nobody in the universe weaves a thread like Lin-Manuel Miranda.
I genuinely believe he’s the greatest artist of our lifetime.
Let’s look at just one of the many threads in Hamilton.
The Hamilton Example
If Hamilton had a logline, it might be something like this:
A young immigrant seizes his chance to change history—only to discover that the ambition that brings success can also lead to destruction.
But now let’s look at the primary thread:
“I’m not throwing away my shot.”
This line first appears in the song My Shot early in Act One. It’s energetic. Defiant. Bold.
Hamilton is young, gifted, ambitious, and full of passion. He sings about how he’ll never miss his moment—and he rallies others to do the same. The chorus builds and explodes:
“Rise up! I’m not throwing away my shot!”
But here’s where the genius comes in.
His counterpart is Aaron Burr—the man who ultimately kills him.
Burr doesn’t sing about seizing his shot. He says things like:
“Talk less. Smile more. Wait for it.”
Hamilton is fire. Burr is ice.
Hamilton rushes in. Burr plays the long game.
Their tension becomes the tension of the whole musical.
And Hamilton isn’t subtle about it.
Burr literally warns:
“If you talk, you’re gonna get shot.”
Hamilton counters:
“If you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?”
So we’re already wondering—who’s right?
The one who goes for it? Or the one who waits?
By the end of Act One, it seems Hamilton wins.
He gets power. He earns Washington’s trust.
At the end of Act One, he doesn’t throw away his shot to work with Washington and shape a nation. Of course, he goes for it. He’s Alexander Hamilton.
But then comes Act Two.
Now we watch Hamilton’s ambition consume him.
He pushes too hard. Wants too much. Fails morally. Nearly loses his marriage. His son dies in a duel—because of his advice.
And what was that advice?
“Throw away your shot.”
Fire your pistol in the air. Don’t kill. Show him this is all a performance.
And suddenly the phrase means something entirely different.
It’s not about ambition anymore. It’s about surrender.
The same line—“throw away your shot”—comes back. But now it’s tragic.
Eventually, Hamilton must choose between endorsing Burr or Jefferson for president.
He chooses Jefferson.
Burr challenges him to a duel.
And when the duel happens…
Hamilton throws away his shot.
He fires into the air.
And dies.
The final action of his entire life?
Throwing away his shot.
Even the iconic Hamilton poster shows this moment.
It looks like a triumphant revolution pose—until you realize it’s also the gesture of someone surrendering, hand outstretched, weapon released.
So… who won?
Burr won the duel.
Hamilton lost his life.
But Hamilton’s story—and his legacy—lives forever.
That’s the power of a thread.
One phrase becomes the living metaphor to the entire story.
How to Do It
Like I said—threads take time.
You can tell a great story without one. But the best stories usually find it.
Sometimes I stumble into a “just okay” thread and think that’s it. But then, five or six retellings later, the real one reveals itself. Like it was hiding the whole time.
Here are some questions I ask to help it emerge:
1. Is there a natural metaphor?
Every object in your story can take on symbolic meaning.
One of my most-used stories centers around a lawn chair.
At first, it was just a chair. But over time, it became a symbol—for love, humility, community. And it gave me something visual and emotional to come back to again and again.
Your metaphor might be your first car. A watch. A t-shirt. A box of crayons. A hotel key.
Anything can carry meaning—if you let it.
2. Is there irony or juxtaposition?
Great threads often come from a reversal.
A preacher who loses faith.
A teacher who learns the biggest lesson.
A leader who has to follow.
If your story has a twist—lean into it. That’s often your thread.
3. Is there a phrase or question you can repeat?
This is the easiest one to start with.
Is there something you can say at the beginning, the middle, and the end—with different meaning each time?
It creates structure. Rhythm. Resonance.
Even if your audience doesn’t notice the thread consciously, they’ll feel it.
You usually don’t find your thread by sitting around thinking.
You find it by telling your story. Again. And again. And again.
The best stories aren’t told once.
They grow. They evolve. They deepen.
And as you keep telling them… the thread will eventually show itself.
It wants to be found.
It just plays hard to get.
Part Four: Cut the Fat
This might be the most painful part of storytelling.
Because this is where your ego goes to die.
You spent all this time crafting the story, finding your thread, writing the perfect line that made your whole body light up when it hit the page.
But now you have to kill it.
Not because it wasn’t good. But because it wasn’t necessary.
Let’s talk about how to cut the fat from your story.
Half Life
When I was training at The Second City, we learned an improv game called Half Life. It was designed to teach us how to cut the fat in our scenes.
Here’s how it worked:
Two people would improvise a scene based on an audience suggestion. The teacher had a stopwatch and gave them two minutes.
At the two-minute mark, he’d call, "Time!" Then the same performers would do the exact same scene again—in one minute. Then again in 30 seconds. Then 15 seconds. Then 7. Then 3.
By the end, it was total chaos.
But every single time, the best version of the scene was either the one-minute or 30-second version.
Why?
Because the first time through, we were still finding the story. It was too long. Too slow. Too exploratory.
The more we repeated it, the more we instinctively cut out what wasn’t essential.
We were training ourselves to find the meat of the story faster. To skip the fluff. To get to the good stuff.
Here’s what I learned:
There’s always wasted time in the setup. The first 30 seconds of a scene often becomes five seconds in the next version.
You discover the "game." In improv, the game is the recurring pattern, the funny or meaningful thing. It’s the story’s core dynamic. (In a written story, it’s often the thread.)
You find the "Today is the day." You don’t want a normal day on stage. Something has to make this day worth telling. That becomes the center.
When you know the initiation, the game, and why today matters, you can get right into the story.
You can skip the rest.
Hints on Cutting the Fat
Here are three tools to help you:
1. Play Half Life with Yourself
Write your article or record your story out loud. Let’s say it ends up around 2,400 words (that’s 8 minutes spoken or about 5 pages written).
Now immediately do it again.
Try to cut it in half: 1,200 words. Four minutes. 2.5 pages.
I guarantee you won’t miss most of what you cut.
Sure, you’ll lose a few lines you love. But that’s what the next step is for.
2. Kill Your Darlings
In every movie script I’ve ever written, my favorite scene never makes the final cut.
Every time.
And it’s almost always for the same reason: it doesn’t move the story forward.
It was essential for me as a writer, but not necessary for the audience.
That’s the cost of a great story.
"Kill your darlings" doesn’t mean destroy what you love. It means don’t let your love for a particular line or scene keep you from telling the story that needs to be told.
Aaron Sorkin (The West Wing, The Social Network) once said:
“If it doesn’t help the story, it’s a distraction—even if it’s the best thing you’ve ever written.”
Oof. That one stings.
But it’s true.
3. Ask for Focused Feedback
Storytelling is usually a solo effort for me. I write alone. I think alone. I obsess alone.
But when it’s time to edit something really important? I let someone else in.
If you’re working to cut the fat, ask for specific feedback.
Don’t say, "What did you think?"
Say, "This piece is 1,200 words and I want to get it under 1,000. Can you tell me what felt unnecessary or confusing?"
You’ll get better feedback—and protect yourself from vague discouragement.
Same goes for stage work. After a talk, ask someone you trust:
"I’m trying to tighten that story. What would you cut to get in 30 seconds shorter?"
Final Thought: Respect the Attention Span
We live in a short-attention world.
More words don’t make you sound smarter.
They actually just make you sound unprepared.
Unless you’re contractually required to fill 30 minutes, don’t worry about being too short. No one is going to complain. And even if they are expecting 30 minutes, they’ll thank you for going 25. Trust me.
And they won’t be pleased if you go 35. Trust me again.
Cut the fat.
It can hurt a little.
But it’s what keeps your audience in the palm of your hand the whole time.
Part Five: Land the Plane
If, like me, you grew up going to church, you’re very familiar with what happens when someone doesn’t know how to land the plane.
Preachers are notoriously bad at it.
About 20–25 minutes into a good sermon, you’re thinking, This is pretty good. Wrap this puppy up and let’s call it a Sunday.
And then… he just keeps talking. And talking. And talking.
What was a “good sermon” becomes an awkward snoozefest—all because Rev. Bob didn’t land the plane.
When I help people prepare a talk for a stage, a speech, or a TEDx Talk, I always tell them to memorize only two lines: your first sentence and your last.
Between those two, you can work thought-for-thought rather than word-for-word. But your hook and your landing? Those need to be locked in.
There’s a surefire way to know you didn’t stick your landing when giving a speech. I’ve done it more times than I want to admit. I always try to avoid it, but sometimes it still happens.
It’s the dreaded words: “Thank you.”
A “thank you” at the end of a talk means you missed your landing. I had to say it a few months ago at a conference and it hurt my soul. It still happens to the best of us.
But here’s the thing—your audience should know your story is over without you saying it.
“Thank you” is an admission that your landing had to be aborted.
So here are five tips for finding your landing. Honestly, this is often the easiest part if you’ve done your work on the previous four foundations.
1. Bookend It
Look back at your hook. Can you call it back? Can you say nearly the same sentence—or a variation—and have it work for your story?
2. End with the Metaphor
If your story revolved around your grandma’s house, your first date, or whatever image tied it together—leave us with that image again.
3. Call Back the Big Emotion
Were you afraid, angry, or confused? Remind us where you started and where you are now.
4. Moral with a Twist
Give us the takeaway or big learning, but add some irony or juxtaposition so it lands with surprise.
5. End with a Challenge or Question
Something simple, then let it hang:
So the only question is—will you do anything about it?
The bottom line is: if it’s written well, they’ll know it’s the bottom line.
That means you’ve landed the plane.
Enjoy the applause as you walk off the stage without having to say “thank you.”
Such great stuff! And thanks for the compendium post of storytelling. I'm definitely going to bookmark it.
Have you read "Nexus" by Yuval Noah Harari? He talks early in the book on how essential storytelling is to human cohesion (for good and for bad). I thought of you a lot as I listened to the audio version of the book. The rest of the book is compelling also.