Nudging the World: Storytelling Lessons from my Dad

When I was in elementary school, sometimes my dad would come for lunch. The rule was that you could choose two friends to join you outside the cafeteria with an adult. My friends fought tooth and nail to be chosen whenever my dad came. Because Dad would tell us stories. 

You might not think that a bunch of kids in the 80s would be interested in stories of my dad growing up in south Philadelphia in the 40s. But my dad had a way of telling his stories that would grab any listener, no matter their age. And the stories themselves were universal. Fighting with his younger brother over a baby blue bicycle. Tricking a neighborhood bully  into holding a baby duck – that then shat all over him. A tattletale kid who left a rotten banana in his desk over break.

He passed away last December. Today he would have been 88. But the things I learned from him about holding an audience, about the rhythm and cadence of stories – about why we tell stories, why they matter, and what they can do – those lessons live on in my writing, and I thought they might be useful to you.

The Stage

Dad was a professor of English and Theater. Most of my childhood was spent at the community theatre my parents ran together for decades. As a kid, I attended rehearsals and watched my dad work with his actors. As a teenager, I often ran the box office, since an independent theater is always one show away from closing, in my experience.

I saw my dad work with each of his actors, and he epitomized Shakespeare’s ‘there are no small parts.’ The care he would take with every part, every word. Trained as a Shakespearean, he taught me to relish words themselves and their power to move and transform. Dad would go from actor to actor, talking through a play from their perspective, as though in that moment they were the only character that mattered. Whenever I sit down to write, I go through every character in my scene, trying to imagine how they’re seeing and reacting to the other characters.

Of course, when I’m on the performance capture stage working with actors, it’s as a writer, not a director. Sometimes, I think writers have a hard time letting go of their work, but unless you’re a novelist, the story you tell is a collaboration, a conversation between the various talented folk who bring that script to life. Before I hit puberty, I’d probably seen a hundred plays or more, Shakespeare to Stoppard to musicals like Pippin. That exposure to live drama tuned my ear for dialogue and ensured that I never forgot that at the end of the day, telling a story isn’t about you, it’s about your audience.

Prison

Before my parents started running the community theater, Dad had a troupe of actors who performed improv as well as short plays. One of the most amazing things he did was go on tour with his actors, performing at prisons throughout Florida. This was before I was born, but I remember him telling me that this audience, prisoners, taught him to look at the stage and the role of drama in a completely different way. When he’d talk about this tour, he’d start with how nervous his actors were, performing Beckett and Pinter and Stoppard for the inmates. A more intimidating audience you couldn’t find, I’m sure. But my dad was fearless on stage.

During the tour, he found that these inmates were one of the most engaged and curious audiences he’d ever performed for. How they’d often blur the line between performers and audience, sometimes even shouting out questions or additions. Clearly these performances were an outlet for the prisoners, an opportunity to escape the drudgery of their lives. My dad loved this interaction. Later, when I became a game writer, we often talked about the similarities between the stage and the game. We even wrote a scholarly article about it that was published in Modern Drama.

When I write, it’s never in a vacuum. I am always thinking about my audience, who they are, what they want. What they’ve experienced before. How to surprise them. Delight them. My dad instilled in me that storytelling isn’t an ivory tower discipline, but a vital part of community. 

The Bone Marrow Unit

When my dad was dying in the hospital, it too was a setting as significant as a prison. The stories he told me and my friends at school were also stories he’d told other children as a volunteer in the bone marrow unit of our local hospital. One of the things people always noticed about my dad was how effortlessly he gave his time to others, but none was more noble than him telling stories to these kids with leukemia awaiting bone marrow transplants. The painful process left these kids exhausted. And my dad told them stories.

His collection of stories, A Fish in the Moonlight, was one of his proudest achievements. I still marvel at how his prose style and his storytelling cadence match each other completely. He told stories effortlessly, with great humanity. My dad did a lot of good during his time on this earth, teaching for almost half a century, running an independent theater, and mentoring generations of students. But nothing was more immediate and personal and rewarding to him, I think, than telling stories in the bone marrow unit.

To say that stories are a way of escaping one’s life, is often meant in the pejorative. But to these kids, many of whom wouldn’t survive the bone marrow unit, I like to think they were a way to experience a normal childhood the only way they could. When my dad told them about sneaking into a neighbor’s house to steal their chocolate — only to get caught — the kids were right there with him. Stories are about connection, about sharing an experience — real or not — with someone else. We see the world through stories, though that are told to us, and the ones we leave behind.

Conclusion

Part of my career has become advocating for storytelling in games because I know how important they are to the people who play them, how important they were to me as a kid. Some people still discount storytelling in games. But my dad never did, even though he never played them. Because my dad was a curious man. Almost childlike. Which is why he could connect with pretty much anyone.

He taught me that curiosity is essential to a storyteller, unless you only want to tell stories about yourself. In the hospital, even in the last weeks of his life, he was asking the nurses about their lives. This curiosity extended to a genuine fascination with videogames, a medium that didn’t exist until he was in his 40s. He saw them as an extension of theater, with the audience as collaborators, taking on a role. This curiosity helped him become a masterful teacher, storyteller, and father, and kept him young until his death.

There’s a quote my dad loved from one of his favorite playwrights, Tom Stoppard. As it would happen, he passed away a few days before my dad. In honor of both, I’ll leave this with you.

I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you might nudge the world a little or make a poem that children will speak for you when you are dead.

– Tom Stoppard

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If you’re interested in my dad’s stories, I’m happy to post them on my substack. Just ask. Otherwise, a few can be found on his website: https://sidneyhoman.com/a-fish-in-the-moonlight/