Best 965 quotes in «storytelling quotes» category

She closed her eyes. Said the four most comforting words she knew: "Once upon a time." An incantation.

She never claimed to be a writer, she simply described herself as a typist of stories waiting to come alive.

Signs don’t shout; they whisper.

Şimdi ben sana yalnız şunu söyleyebilirim: Çocuk kalbinin,çocuk ruhunun bağdaşmadığı her şeyi reddettin.İşte beni teselli eden de budur.Bir şimşek gibi yaşadın sen.Bir defa çaktın ve söndün.Şimşeği çaktıran göktür.Ve gök ebedidir.İşte budur beni teselli eden.Bir başka tezim daha var: İnsandaki çocuk vicdanı,tohumdaki öz gibidir.Ve o öz olmadan tohum filizlenmez,gelişmez.Yeryüzünde bizi neler beklerse beklesin,insanoğlu doğdukça ve öldükçe,insanoğlu yaşadıkça,haç ve doğruluk denen şey de var olacaktır.

Simplicity is efficient.

So (and this would have happened earlier, but I am only remembering it now): I am visiting her one afternoon.

Some days you live in pajamas, and your hair kind-of has that Albert Einstein look.

Sometimes you just have to have a can-do fuck you attitude.

Sometimes you just have to hold each other’s hands and walk through it all.

Son el irresponsable juego de un tímido que se animó a escribir cuentos y que se distrajo en falsear y tergiversar (sin justificación estética alguna vez) ajenas historias.

So there’s a freeing up that happens when I can go into that storytelling mode...It isn’t about how much sense you make, it is about how compelling you are. (interview)

So they went out for a walk. They went through narrow, lightless lanes, where houses that were silent but gave out smells of fish and boiled rice stood on either side of the road. There was not a single tree in sight; no breeze and no sound but the vaguely musical humming of mosquitoes. Once, an ancient taxi wheezed past, taking a short-cut through the lane into the main road, like a comic vintage car passing through a film-set showing the Twenties into the film-set of the present, passing from black and white into colour. But why did these houses – for instance, that one with the tall, ornate iron gates and a watchman dozing on a stool, which gave the impression that the family had valuables locked away inside, or that other one with the small porch and the painted door, which gave the impression that whenever there was a feast or a wedding all the relatives would be invited, and there would be so many relatives that some of them, probably the young men and women, would be sitting bunched together on the cramped porch because there would be no more space inside, talking eloquently about something that didn’t really require eloquence, laughing uproariously at a joke that wasn’t really very funny, or this next house with an old man relaxing in his easy-chair on the verandah, fanning himself with a local Sunday newspaper, or this small, shabby house with the girl Sandeep glimpsed through a window, sitting in a bare, ill-furnished room, memorising a text by candlelight, repeating suffixes and prefixes from a Bengali grammar over and over to herself – why did these houses seem to suggest that an infinitely interesting story might be woven around them? And yet the story would never be a satisfying one, because the writer, like Sandeep, would be too caught up in jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that make up lives, and the life of a city, rather than a good story – till the reader would shout "Come to the point!" – and there would be no point, except the girl memorising the rules of grammar, the old man in the easy-chair fanning himself, and the house with the small, empty porch which was crowded, paradoxically, with many memories and possibilities. The "real" story, with its beginning, middle and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist.

Start telling the stories that only you can tell. Because there will always be better writers than you, and there will always be smarter writers than you, and there will always be, you know, people who are much better at doing this or doing that, but you are the only you.

Still, truth is how I remember it now. In a way, I am changing the past from my desk here in the future as I write. It always happens like this. This is how we all tell our story.

Stories are like snapshots, pictures snatched out of time, with clean hard edges. But this was life, and life always begins and ends in a bloody muddle, womb to tomb, just one big mess, a can of worms left to rot in the sun.

Stories are our gifts to a world that doesn't see us.

Stories connect us at a human level that factual statements and logical arguments can't possibly match.

Stories continue in all directions to include even the retelling of the stories themselves, as legend is informed by interpretation, and interpretation is informed by time. And so I tell my story to you, as the Mariner told his: he, standing outside the wedding party, snatching at a passing wrist, paralyzing his victim with his gaze; I, standing with my family at the edge of this immortal forest. I tell this story because telling this story is what I must do.

Stories have a job to do. They can't just lie around like lazybone dogs. They have to teach you something.

Stories help us remember what we never want to forget.

Stories matter. They shape our lives, expectations, and dreams. They are the warp and weave of our human existence, binding us into a fabric far stronger than any individual element

Story = Character + Predicament + Attempted Extrication

Storytellers think they're writing for the audience. They're writing, in a way, to hurt the audience.

Storytelling? God started that. Discovery. Lust. Murder. Revenge. Power. Sin. Redemption. Forgiveness. Miracles. We simply retell the stories in the language of our generation.

Storytelling instead of info dumping is a fairly well-known life hack, but there are still very few people who tell stories instead of facts.

Storytelling is among the oldest forms of communication. Storytelling is the commonality of all human beings, in all places, in all times.

Storytelling is not something we do. Storytelling is who we are.

Stories. Character. Dialouge. Entire worlds created on the page. Worlds that could sweep you away or frighten you, make you laugh or cry. Worlds that allowed you to escape to another country or time. Worlds built piece by piece of ink and punctuation.

Stories nowadays are put in to squares, just like everything else. Stories are ever changing. They are like rivers that flow, but mankind is busy trying to dam them up and as a result, they become stagnant. They divert the water into square swimming pools, and then add chemicals to it in order to keep it sterile.

Stories themselves have spirit and being, and they have a way of communicating on different levels. The story itself communicates with us regardless of what language it is told in. Of course stories are always funnier and more vivid when they are told in their original language by a good storyteller. But what I love about stories is they can survive and continue in some form or other resembling themselves regardless of how good or how bad the storyteller is, no matter what language they are told or written in. This is because the human brain favors stories or the narrative form as a primary means of organizing and relating human experience. Stories contain large amounts of valuable information even when they storyteller forgets or invents details.

Stories weren't just make believe, all Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose. I saw a circle: first life, then death. Spring, summer, fall, winter. Blue sky and storms and quilts of cold clouds occupy the same space but at different times. Memories and stories help you rebuild. Things most precious to you may be gone, lost to the wicked wind, but you remember what had been, and you move on.

Storytellers are master manipulators transforming non-reality (grounded in reality) into vicarious experience.

Storytellers calmed fears of the unknown and unknowable while shamans and healers dipped into the same well to cool ailments of the human body and spirit, ameliorating opposing forces and wills, stilling the quavering of life's delicate balance.

Storytelling is a dangerous vocation, for the fairies punish those who return to tell their secrets.

Story-telling is a lot like making love. There are rules, yet there are no rules. You must keep your lover engaged; keep pressing the right buttons. Make the reader look forward to your next move with bated breath. Build up the tension and let it explode in the climax. (Anurag Shourie)

Storytelling is inherently dangerous. Consider a traumatic event in your life. Think about how you experienced it. Now think about how you told it to someone a year later. Now think about how you told it for the hundredth time. It's not the same thing. Most people think perspective is a good thing: you can figure out characters' arcs, you can apply a moral, you can tell it with understanding and context. But this perspective is a misrepresentation: it's a reconstruction with meaning, and as such bears little resemblance to the event.

Storytelling--that's not the future. The future, I'm afraid, is flashes and impulses. It's mode up of moments and fragments, and stories won't survive.

Style jazzes up your canvas.

Surround yourself with those conducive to you being your highest self.

Take a deep breath. Inhale peace. Exhale happiness.

Take your ego out of your story.

Talent and work ethic are nothing without belief.

Tell me half a cup’s worth of story and we’ll call it a night.

Tell a story in fewer and simpler words.

Tellers of stories with ink on paper, not that they matter anymore, have been either swoopers or bashers. Swoopers write a story quickly, higgledy-piggledy, crinkum-crankum, any which way. Then they go over it again painstakingly, fixing everything that is just plain awful or doesn't work. Bashers go one sentence at a time, getting it exactly right before they go on to the next one. When they're done they're done. [...] Writers who are swoopers, it seems to me, find it wonderful that people are funny or tragic or whatever, worth reporting, without wondering why or how people are alive in the first place. Bashers, while ostensibly making sentence after sentence as efficient as possible, may actually be breaking down seeming doors and fences, cutting their ways through seeming barbed-wire entanglements, under fire and in an atmosphere of mustard gas, in search of answers to these eternal questions: "What in heck should we be doing? What in heck is really going on?

That guy in the corner. Never tells the truth, as a matter of principle. Why answer a question, he says, if you can tell a good story instead?

That is the power of a good story. It can encourage you, it can make you laugh, it can bring you joy. It will make you think, it will tap innto your hidden emotions, and it can make you cry. The power of a story can also bring about healing, give you peace, and change your life!" (p.15)

The best stories are like the best burgers: big, juicy, and messy.

The best writing is embarrassing; that’s all there is to it.

The Bible provocatively evokes desire.