I am eight days into a cross country move. This is not an easy endeavor with four kids and one dog in tow — and a moving company that has yet to deliver our belongings. So we are living between a hotel and an empty house twenty minutes away.
I am discombobulated and operating on instinct (a post for another time). I am asking lots of questions about everything from where I can find a laundromat to why our garbage cans are an eighth the size they are in the Midwest.
What I've discovered are five words that lead to information, learning, connection and discovery: Tell me More About That.
Conversation by Valerie Kensky
Here's an amazing example of how it's worked this past week:
Me to Woman in Hotel Pool: So what brings you to this hotel?
She: Me and my son are visiting a world-reknown therapist for his autism.
Me: Fascinating. Tell me More about That.
Well. It turns out, the son in our pool was actually Owen Suskind, the central “character” of the new book Life, Animated written by Pulitzer-Prize winning American journalist and best-selling author Ron Suskind (Owen's dad and lovely woman's hubby). Life, Animated is the author's amazing memoir of his family's twenty-year, all-consuming struggle to connect intimately with their autistic son, to communicate with him, to create a meaningful life for him.
A book I now must certainly read!
I could have simply observed this mom and son in our pool and kept reading my newspaper. I also may have initiated a conversation, only to be shut down by a weary mother unwilling to engage. That's a risk we take when we set out to intentionally connect. But more often that not, I am surprised and inspired by people's unique stories and journeys, all which inform our written word artistry in the most delightful of ways.
PRACTICE
For your practice, write a dialogue between two people, ages and gender of your choosing. You decide the setting. Capture the conversation between these two individuals, including somewhere in your story one's Tell Me More About That invitation to the other. Write for fifteen minutes and be sure to critique other's work as well!
This is SO crazy, Marianne. Just TODAY I listened to a podcast of an online marketer I admire, who made well over 7-figures last year. He said when he started out locally and went to those schmooze meetings where everyone shoves their business cards in each others’ faces, he never did that. He just asked folks questions, found out more about them….which boiled down to, “Tell me more about that.” He built genuine connections, helped many along the way and created a business he loves. Too cool.
Thanks for sharing Marcy! I have the externally-interested part down … but apparently not the seven figures!! 🙂
Aaaah, Marianne. If it’s seven-figures you want, then you must remember 5 more very import words after “externally interested.” And that’s, “One day at a time.” 🙂
7/9/14 Dialogue
I was sitting at one of the gazillion bars inside Opryland
having a vodka tonic. Me, at Opryland.
A woman, alone and about my age, came up to sit beside me. She asked, “Is this seat taken?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just waiting for some friends.” I
gestured for her to take the stool.
“Help yourself,” I smiled to her.
“Oh, me too!” she said excitedly. “Is this your first time at Opryland?”
I chuckled and nodded, “Yes, it is.” I took a sip of my
drink.
She seemed amused by my chuckle and asked, “What’s so
funny?”
I shook my head and laughed, “You wouldn’t believe me if I
told you.”
“Tell me more about that,” she said.
Figuring I’d never see this person again and bolstered by
the power of the vodka and excitement about my adventure, I began telling her
why I was there.
“Well,” I began, “about a year ago I started having what I
now know is a mid-life crisis. I have a
job I like most days, a fantastic husband, and two great kids. But I was
anxious. I needed something-creativity, a new challenge, something.”
“Honey, I know all about that,” the lady said. I noticed her southern accent. “I just
celebrated my 43rd birthday and this vacation is a present to me-a
chance to get away and enjoy myself.”
The lady, who by now had a glass of wine, was listening to
my story. She seemed genuinely friendly. This encouraged me to keep talking.
“Wow! I’m almost 43.
Small world, huh? Well, anyway, I
developed an interest in a certain actor, watched all his movies and
interviews, got an anonymous Twitter account so I could fangirl without people
thinking I was crazy, met a small group of friends who were as obsessed as me,
and now we’re all meeting here with the hopes of getting a picture or an
autograph with him.”
“Is he here?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s
filming on location here at Opryland and this trip is just a fun reason to get
out of town and put faces with the names of people I’ve been chatting with for
about a year now.”
“Aren’t you scared of meeting people online?” she asked me.
I nodded my head. “I
was a little and I guess I’m still a little apprehensive, but the more I talked
with these ladies, I found out how much we had in common. Most of them are in our 40s, most with
children, all of us professional women who love books, cats, movies, and this
particular celebrity. I just think it’s
so funny how people are attracted to each other.”
My new friend nodded as if accepting I wasn’t a crazy
person. She laughed and said, “OK, I
have to ask. Who is he?”
Well, it looks like it’s going to be another one of those nerve-wracking writers groups. Why can’t I be in that other group, with the people I know, instead of here with the blue hairs?
OK, that’s uncalled for. I don’t want to sound like a racist against older people. What’s that called, anyway? An agecist?
It’s nothing personal. Some of my favorite people in the world are in their seventies or older. I’m just nervous.
Let me cut to the chase: the material I bring may not be suitable for all audiences. I need one of those green ratings screens to hold up before I begin reading.
My book isn’t dirty or anything. But it deals with a gay teenager and his struggles. Living in Texas, you never know how people are going to take it. Unfortunately, most of the backlash I’ve received has been from the older generation. I can’t blame them: growing up being told something your whole lives could make anyone believe the propaganda.
Granted, most everyone has been amazing. However, one woman walked out in the middle of my reading. Her face wrinkled in disgust as she said, “I’m sorry. I can’t condone this.” In a flurry of arms, she grabbed her stuff and plopped down with another group. She kept her back to me the whole time.
In one motion, she gave me a major insecurity. Funny how that can happen. Suddenly, every writers group with new people is like a game of Russian Roulette, and I don’t know which person might be holding the bullet.
Biting my upper lip, I glance around. The gentleman next to me is about sixty. I lean forward and glance at his left hand. He’s wearing a wedding ring. Could he be the one? Maybe, but it’s the woman next to him who really bothers me. I heard her talking a minute ago, and she has a British accent. She’s about seventy and keeps her hands folded in her lap. She reminds me of the queen.
My thoughts are interrupted by our moderator.
“Since a lot of you don’t know each other today, I thought we’d begin by introducing ourselves.”
“How much do we say,” the guy to my right says. He’s about twenty-five and clutching a fantasy novel to his chest. He doesn’t worry me.
“Just your name and the kind of writing you do.”
I perform one of my patented inward eye rolls. I’m not trying to be rude or anything. I’m just smothering my nerves in sarcasm. I don’t want to start off with, “I’m Mark, and I write books for gay teens.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m passionate about what I do. And I don’t want to be that wuss who backs down in the face of potential criticism. But I’d like to get in a few jokes first, so people can see I’m normal and cool. I want the British queen to think I’m awesome, to crush any misperceptions she might have before I begin reading.
I decide to be noncommittal when my turn comes around. “Hi, I’m Mark, and I write a lot of different things. My current project is a young adult novel.”
I took the easy way out and my face burns in embarrassment. Why should I care?
The older gentleman to my left speaks up and I barely hear him, I’m so consumed in my thoughts.
Now it’s the queen’s turn. My palms are sweating. I’m sad because I’m ashamed.
“Hi, I’m D.B.” she says, “and I write male on male erotica.”
“WHAT?!” I gasp. It’s like watching the big twist in a soap opera. My brain can’t process what she said and my mouth moves without forming words.
She leans forward and, unabashed, says, “I write male on male erotica.”
I realize how rude I sounded. It’s like the roles were reversed and now I’m the judgmental one.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Her bluntness was amazing so, in attempt to stand up for myself and smooth over my coarseness, I add, “That’s hot.”
She laughs and sits back in her chair.
I lean closer to her and say, “Tell me more about that.”
This is awesome! You had me hooked.
Held my attention all the way through. Great job.
So true that showing a little interest can be enlightening. Here’s my practice:
I had treated the Memorial Day weekend, as usual, like any long weekend. I was busy with family, with the to-do list, with relaxing if possible. I really had not even taken time to feel guilty for not remembering the meaning of the holiday – except for the brief
moment when I saw in the local paper a photo of a man, who seemed familiar,
saluting the American flag at some cemetery. That image stuck with me, and on Tuesday morning as I arrived to work and the night janitor was leaving, I realized: that was him.
“Excuse me,” I said as I turned to get his attention. Then I asked about the picture.
“Yes, that was me,” he confirmed, “ I try to remember my buddies whenever I can.”
“Well,” I said, “Tell me some more about that. Did you serve?” And he began his short story. Turns out he had been a driver for military VIP’s in the U.S. during the Viet Nam War.
This explained, I thought to myself, the old station wagon which I had noticed he drove – probably a nicer ride with the long wheel base, like a limo. It did not explain why we as a nation had repaid his military service with a job cleaning bathrooms. Anyway, he never went overseas, but he had lost friends who did, he said. When he finished his story, I wished him a good day, and thanked him for being at the cemetery. I felt a little less guilty after that.
I liked this. Nice down-to-earth story and good use of dialogue.
He sat in the corner with his large arms crossed over his camouflage shirt. His matching ball cap was pulled down so low you couldn’t see his eyes too well. He was a country boy, from the looks of it, who had dressed up in his best pair of blue jeans and cowboy boots.
I hadn’t seen him talk to anyone. I guess most people would just ignore him, since that seemed to be what he wanted, but not me. I saw a challenge. I also saw an opportunity to get a good laugh. City girl meets country boy.
I sat down next to him, “Hey, I’m Lizzy. What’s your name?”
His head flew up and his eyes looked startled under his brim. I saw him blush.
“Elk,” He said and extended his hand for one of the briefest handshakes ever.
“Elk?”
“Yes’m.”
“You don’t have to call me ma’am.” I corrected. He looked to be my age if not a little older, for crying out loud.
“Yes’m.” After realizing he’s said it again, he cast his eyes to the ground.
“So–” I wondered what on earth I could say to start a conversation. This was harder than I’d imagined. I asked him where he lived and a little bit about his family. His answers were short, and interspersed with “yes ma’am.”
“I told you you could stop saying that.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“So what’s something you like to do. You know–a hobby?”
“Trap coons.” He said and smile spread across his face.
I smiled back, “Trapping coons. Hmmm…I can’t say I’ve ever done that before. Tell me about that?
His face brightened up, “Aw. It’s real simple,” he began.
Bingo! That hadn’t been so hard after all.
Joy thanks for this story; it shows that each of us has that one topic that we will open up and talk about to anyone.
Very true. Thanks, Kip.
Great story, Joy. Elk’s character was captured and displayed very well!
Thank you, Hayley.
I genuinely felt a bit nervous for poor Elk, so really well written to be able to evoke that emotion.
Thank you.
The name Elk fit him to a T! Great prose!
Thank you. 🙂
Thank you for the wonderful post Marianne! This practice is inspired by a WiP of mine. Hope you all enjoy it!
———————————————
The girl sat down beside me on the log, nervously twisting the hem of her torn white dress. She kept her eyes fixed on the moon’s reflection in the lake in front of us. There had been silence for only a couple of minutes or so, but it felt as though the two of us had been sitting there, together for months. I couldn’t put my finger on the reason why, at the time. I took a deep breath and decided to take the plunge.
“So, what are you doing all the way out-”
She cut me off before I could finish.
“Please, I can talk about myself any time I want. You’re the first person I’ve met in a very
long time. I’d like to hear a bit about you.”
Then, for the first time that night, she made eye contact with me. To my surprise, her blue eyes seemed warm, welcoming, and slightly familiar. I had no idea what to say or how much to tell, but something told me that those eyes really wouldn’t care about that.
“Well, I’m not really sure what you’d like to hear.”
“How about your name?”
Of course! I felt like such an idiot.
“Oh, it’s Arthur. Arthur Peterson.”
The girl’s eyes widened, as if in disbelief, but she did her best to maintain her composure as she turned to face the moon’s reflection once again. I felt like I had said something wrong, and that I should apologize. But for what? Saying my own name??
“What school do you go to?”
The girl shot out the question as soon as she was no longer facing me. It sounded a bit rehearsed, but I answered anyway.
“Lakeside High,” I replied, automatically. “Do you go th-?”
“Tell me more about that,” she quipped, without missing a beat.
“There’s not much to tell, ” I confessed, “It’s a high school, pretty much like any other, with
lockers,classes, friends, teachers, people who constantly get on your nerves, games,
dances-”
“How was Junior Prom?” she blurted.
“Prom? Who said anything about-”
“It was four weeks ago, right?”
“Yeah, but why does that matter?”
“It doesn’t. At least not to you. Not really. I just use it as a marker. I’ve always had a
horrible sense of time, but out here, it’s only gotten worse. Especially with the changes.”
“‘The changes’? I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m missing something here.”
She let go of the hem of her dress and stood up, causing it to fall back over her knees. The tone in her voice became a bit desperate. She was obviously getting frustrated.
“Why? Why would you feel that way? You’ve only just met me, right?”
Her last question seemed to hang in the air, over our heads. It sounded less like a statement and more like a challenge. I stood up in response. We were now at eye level with each other. And once again, those two blue eyes were welcoming me, despite her fierce tone. We stood there, with our eyes locked for a good five minutes as my mind raced to try to make sense of the situation. Why did I care about this girl? Why did I follow her way out into the middle of nowhere? Why did her eyes seem so familiar to me? But before I could be sure of my answer, I realized that I had yet to ask this girl’s name. So once again, I broke the oppressive silence.
“What’s your name?” I asked gingerly.
“It’s Elizabeth, Arthur.”
Then I was sure.
“You’re Elizabeth Parker…and I’m an idiot.”
Vladimir’s painting stood grand and all-important before me. The woman, the centre of the painting’s affection was poised in a seemingly candid way, one arm hovering by her side, the other brushing the tree branches aside, as she daintily hopped over the moss covered stones at her feet. Marvelous, I thought to myself.
“She’s beautiful, yeah?” A heavily accented voice sounded behind me, abruptly snatching me from my thoughts.
“Um, sorry?” I looked behind me to catch a smartly dressed man, grinning broadly at me.
He laughed and flicked his hair off of his face, “Caterina, in the painting, she’s beautiful. Wouldn’t you say?” He wastall, very tall, at least a foot and a half above my height, Italian looking, quite handsome, probably early thirties. Marvelous, I thought again.
“Yes, very beautiful,” I eventually stammered. The man laughed again and moved to stand beside me. I wasn’t dressed for such an encounter, my hair was in need of a wash, my shoes were practical, not man-meeting worthy, and I hadn’t planned on talking to anybody new today. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to follow up on, so I stayed quiet.
We stood like that for a few minutes, in silence, drinking in the painting and the carefree woman it portrayed. I was acutely aware of his presence, his shifting of weight onto one foot, then the other. I shook off my thoughts and tried to focus on Caterina.
“What do you like most about her?” The tall man spoke gently, not glancing away from the painting.
“Uh, what I like most?” I pondered for a moment before answering, “Probably her whole demeanor, to be honest.” I glanced at him, wondering if it was the answer he was looking for.
The right corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile, and his eyes didn’t leave the painting, “Tell me more about that.”
I shrugged, “Her demeanor, her carefree attitude. She’s wandering through this beautiful garden and it’s like her head is caught up in the clouds Vladimir has captured in the background. She’s barefoot and her hair is falling free from her braid, and she just looks like a Sunday morning.” I laughed lightly and shook my head, “Sorry, I realise that
probably doesn’t make any sense! I guess I just like the way she comes across, all gentle and serene. I know how hard it can be to capture such emotion in a painting.” I looked at my shoes, suddenly feeling childish and nervous. I wished I hadn’t opened my mouth.
The man laughed again and looked at me, “No, I get it. It’s perfect, and I feel the same. She’s lovely, like a Sunday morning.” He offered his hand to me, “Antony.”
I smiled sheepishly and took his hand, “Sabrina, nice to meet you.”
“Sabrina,” he rolled the ‘r’ around in his mouth like it was a butter candy, “nice to meet you. Do you drink coffee, Sabrina?”
Hayley,
I really enjoyed this. The way you told me so much about this one in practical shoes. The picture you painted about the one before them. Liked it.
Thank you, Anne!
Lovely story. I really liked the descriptive text.
Ok, I’m a bit nervous. This is the first thing I’ve ever written outside of school that hasn’t been boring and clinical. Basically, this is my first work of fiction (fantasy is my genre of choice). A short story. Really, I’m terrified. I would love feedback, though! I’m excited to learn how to write and grow into the best writer I can be. (I also went over the 15 minute marker, because I was so into it!) Thanks!!!
“Why am I here?”
“Because you asked for my help.”
The inquiring woman was young and had been through enough difficulties without asking for anything. She had been dying by the time she dreamed of a stranger. A man who asked her if she wanted to live. She was more than a little delirious when she said yes, otherwise shoud would have declined. She prefered death over owing him anything.
She knew who he was. A man – a creature, really – who offered men and women their greatest desire, at the price of their greatest fear. Nobody knew how or why he became this powerful and terrifying being with such great magic. Legend said he began as a human.
“You knew I wasn’t in a position to say no. Tell me. Why?” She asked again.
“Because you fascinate me.” he replied. “I did not offer you what I would for the wicked and selfish who come to me; you are special.”
He said this with no facial expression and little inflection. She wondered how many years he had been in existence. Centuries, according to her grandfather. Perhaps he lost his ability to truly feel and express emotion.
“My own family despises me. I never wished to be like them, to play their little games, their selfishness, cruelty, and hunger for power.” She stopped talking and took a stuttering breath, holding back tears.
“Tell me more.” He looked into her eyes.
“Are you mocking me?” she cried. “You are the harbinger of all that is evil here! You come to people in their dreams and offer whatever they lust after the most, only to cause more grief and pain than any semblance of the “good” you pretend to give! You are the cause of my pain!”
He stood infuriatingly silent for a moment, his face expressionless. Did he feel emotions any more?
At last he took a breath, “You fascinate me as nobody has in my entire existence. I have seen you through your dreams and they are … pure, unlike anything I’ve yet seen in this wicked kingdom. Tell me. Please.”
The “please” surprised her, and drew out a reply, “Since my childhood I’ve known I was different. I don’t care about the things it seems everybody else does, instead I care about finding goodness somewhere in these cursed place. I left my life of luxury and nobility to help those who need it most. You, of course, know how that ended for me: dying in the snow, starving and freezing. That’s when you came to me.”
Cara, this looks great! I love seeing your writing style–I’ve never had a chance to see inside your thoughts before, the pattern of your storytelling, the flow of your sentences. This bodes well for things to come!
Maybe the words weren’t spoken but I heard them clearly just the same.
“Stay on the phone.”
Wrong numbers never thrill me. They are like many things an interruption to my non-busy, often full life. They make me get up for nothing.
Still, when this woman of many years told me she was looking for Pete Peterson, I was curious. My husband used to tell me they called him Pete. Even though everyone knows he’s clearly a Michael.
“They used to call my dad Pete too,” he volunteered one day.
So was the fact she mentioned Pete Peterson the reason I stayed on the phone?
No. I really felt God nudging me to listen, to really listen.
She told me she was looking for Pete, their long lost friend and somehow had lost contact with him.
I wanted to know more. I needed to know more. So I listened.
She explained she was having a surprise birthday party for her husband, who would be 85. She simply wanted to ensure this party would be his best.
But I heard no pretentiousness in this woman’s voice. There was something else I couldn’t put my finger on, but God would.
“Have you done a search on the computer?” I asked quietly. I didn’t want to talk down, I wanted to be alongside, which is possible even on the phone.
“I don’t do well with things like that. My daughter usually helps me and she tried a little but was unsuccessful.”
I knew there was more to her story. Like an iceberg only little shows to the watchful eye, but there’s always more.
“I’ll try and see what I can do,” I heard myself say. I think it surprised her more.
And then came her tears. I didn’t ask for more with words, but she felt like I cared. I did care.
“I just want this party to be special. You see, my husband has cancer.”
I didn’t know her, but cancer I knew. It took my father, my cousin and more recently my brother. Cancer is an intruder.
“May I pray for you?”’ I asked this stranger on the phone.
“Oh yes,” she replied.
And so I did. I prayed a simple prayer letting her know that God cared about her husband, God cared about this lost friendship and yes, God cared about her party.
When I was finished praying she was crying.
“No one ever prayed for me like that before.”
Her statement made me sad. I’m sure God was sad about that too.
I hung up from this conversation and began my search. For two days I searched the internet and prayed about this.
And finally in a conversation with a friend I relayed this story.
“I know a Pete Peterson,” she said.
I asked the spelling of her Pete Peterson and was disappointed when it didn’t match.
But I felt I should ask for his number anyway.
And there I was on the phone with still another stranger, but not to God.
I told him about Shirley and her husband. And he said, “I’m the one you’re looking for.”
And so Shirley gave the party of her husband’s life.
And this all happened all because of one thing. I just let her talk.
Not all wrong numbers are wrong.
Wow. There is such tension and depth to this. What drew me in were the words “Stay on the phone.” Great job.
Really enjoyed your post, and my story is below. Thanks so much.
Ok, I’m never going to learn if I don’t start writing something – anything! So here’s my 15 minute practice
My mother bustled into the café laden down with carrier bags that I knew would contain gifts for her grandson. A wide-open smile spread across his face when he saw her, and he reached fingers, sticky with the debris of his lunch, out towards her.
She gave me a quick hug and sat on the leather couch opposite me and turned towards him, “Hello David! What have you got there? Is it good? Tell granny all about it!”
She listened carefully as he babbled a response, pointing at her now and again to emphasise an unknown point.
“And how are you?”, she asked me over the cup of cappuccino the waitress had just sat clumsily on the table in front of her, sliding it away from David’s inquisitive grasp.
In the brief pause before I responded, I reflected how as mothers we never tire of listening to our children, whether they’re 14 months old and learning to shape their tongue around syllables or are 35 and learning how to bite back the irritability that comes from weariness.
I smiled to show her that, although I probably looked exhausted, I was okay. “I’m doing fine Mum, how are you? What are you up to today?”
“Oh fine, fine. I just have to pick up a few things in the sewing shop when we’re done here. You look tired. How is work going?”
I laughed internally at the rushed dismissal of her own activities, and how quickly she moved back to focus on me. How had I not noticed this before? It’s funny how having your own child opens your eyes to the relationships around you.
Rather than launching into a soliloquy about the trials and tribulations of being a working mother, I tried to play her at her own game. “Work is busy, but good. What are you sewing? Tell me more about that.”
Wow, I really enjoyed reading your piece. It captures so well the relationships between mothers, grandmothers, and children. Your dialogue, especially, is really realistic. Great job!
Thank you 🙂