I watched someone tell a story years ago, and the whole thing felt… off.
The story itself was good, had real weight, but the delivery felt like they were reading from a teleprompter in their head. Turns out they were trying to sound like this other teller they admired. Which I get, but also no.
Here’s what happens with expressiveness when you’re starting out. You’re already juggling way too much. Remembering what comes next, not passing out from nerves, standing in front of actual humans who are looking at you. And then someone says, “Be more expressive,” like that means anything specific. It doesn’t.
So let’s talk about what actually helps.
You already have a range. Some people are naturally big and physical when they talk. Others are quiet, pull you in close. Both work fine. The problem is when you watch someone you admire and think, “I should tell stories like that.” You shouldn’t. Your audience can tell when you’re doing an impression of someone else, and it’s uncomfortable for everyone.
Learn from other tellers, sure. But don’t borrow their voice.
The room matters more than you think. Telling a story to 400 kids in a gym is a completely different physical job than telling the same story to six people in someone’s kitchen. Big space needs bigger everything. Gestures, vocal range, energy. The kid in the back row needs to feel something, not just technically hear words.
Put that same energy on camera or in a small room, and you look unhinged. Close quarters need subtlety. A tiny shift in your face does more work than flailing your arms around. What reads as expressive on stage reads as trying way too hard on a phone screen.
Before you start, just ask yourself who you’re talking to and how far away they are. That’ll solve half your problems right there.
Your voice is doing most of the work anyway. There’s research on this, been studied forever, and the consensus is that the actual words you choose account for maybe 10% of communication. Possibly less. The rest is how you say them.
Inflection. Pacing. Tone. Silence. A pause in the right spot builds more tension than describing the tension for three sentences. Slowing down tells people something important is coming. Speeding up creates urgency without you having to say “this is urgent.”
New tellers rush. I did it too. Nerves make time compress, and suddenly your ten-minute story is done in six, and you have no idea what happened. Practicing pacing, not just memorizing words, is probably the most useful thing you can do.
Try this.
Pick one short section of whatever story you’re working on. Tell it three ways out loud. Once as big and physical as you can stand without feeling completely ridiculous. Once, as still and quiet as possible. Once in your normal middle ground. Record all three if you can.
You’ll learn something from each version. And at least one of them will surprise you by actually working better than you expected.
Expressiveness isn’t something you add on top of the story like a garnish. It’s how the story breathes in the first place.
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A version of this article first appeared on storyteller.net in May 2003.