Give us Fresh Meat: Finding Your Story

I wrote this article for the Professional Speakers Association of Southern Africa. Although it is meant for the speaking fraternity, it can be translated to all of us who are looking to live an authentic life. This might be helpful.

Give Us Fresh Meat

A quote by the Andalusian mystic and Sufi Master, Abu Madyan (1126 – 1198) caught my eye the other day:  “We don’t want tainted meat, give us fresh meat.” Here, he requested his disciples only to elicit thefutûh, the interior illuminations which they themselves experienced, and to refrain from commenting on those of others.

Like me, you’ve probably seen countless keynotes in your time, haven’t you? I don’t know about you, but I feel that quite a number of keynotes miss the mark.

I can’t always put my finger on what exactly the problem is. I just know there’s something missing. These keynotes are one-dimensional, flaccid and dull.

I almost get a sense of deja vu … “haven’t I heard this somewhere before?” And, of course, I have. If you’ve read as much as me (and, I’m sure you have) and heard as many keynotes as I have, then the themes, quotes and attributions become noise because you’ve heard them repeated so often.

They’re ‘tainted meat’. These keynotes are curation and not creation. There’s very little interior illumination and only a sliver of the speaker in the speech. There’s no personal experience.

I think our audiences want fresh meat. They want to hear the personal story and our own hero’s journey, not someone else’s. I think a speaker like Rob Caskie can get away with it quite admirably because he tells stories about historical events.

Who’ll ever forget, Stef du Plessis’s “I thought you had moves” story, or Callie Roos’s “Barbel” Story or Graeme Codrington’s “Hannah’s Rules” story? Once you’ve heard them, they’re indelibly imprinted in your mind.

I don’t have stories

I’ve heard folks say, “But, I don’t have any stories that are of interest to anyone.” But, you know that this is not the truth. Everyone has stories. It is our job as the artists we are to take those stories, no matter how mundane they may seem to us, and craft them into something meaningful.

If you don’t think you have a story, take heart from the next example. Last Wednesday, at Bronwyn Hesketh’s PechaKucha evening as speaker by the name of Shoni Kangala presented his 06:40 keynote. His entire point revolved around a drop of his urine that fell onto a piece of paper and changed his life. How mundane (and, oversharing) can that be? He brought the house down judging by the raucous applause. I’ll never forget that story, nor will I be able to look at a toilet the same way again.

So, if urine can be crafted into something meaningful, what’s stopping you?

An ordinary life

I’ve lived a very ordinary life but even I have found stories that I can craft into something that is worth sharing. If you’ll indulge me for a minute longer, I’ll share some of my universe with you. Then, reflect on your own life and the rich tapestry of stories you can draw from.

Born in St. Joseph’s Hospital, Cape Town. Mother’s milk dries up. Wet-nursed by a farmworker’s wife on the family farm in Loeriesfontein. Did my first professional speaking gig at 3 years old (I read a Noddy book to my mother’s guests and went around with a piggy bank afterwards collecting money). I had two fathers – one absent and one abusive. The absent one was a spy. I wasn’t at either of my fathers’s deathbeds but made my mother’s. I prayed for death every day in my sixth year (I’ll blame it on the ghost in the house and not on what I really saw). My uncle was part of Chris Barnard’s team when they did the first heart transplant. He was a sociopath (my uncle, not Chris Barnard). I’ve had my heart broken more than once. I’ve broken more than one heart. I’ve been disappointed. I’ve been a disappointment. I meditate every day. I journal every day. Writing is a struggle for me. I run 12 km a day, every other day. I catch Bass. I play chess. I think I’ve astral travelled (or it may have been those four Klippies and Coke). I can’t remember if I’ve been abducted by aliens yet (there’s a scar under my chin that my family can’t account for). I’ve been shot at. I’ve shot at (paintball is so dangerous). I broke my nose in a schoolboy fight. I lost most of the hearing in my right ear in a later fight. I’ve felt real fear. The most expensive thing I had on me at my Matric Dance was the Gucci tie … the brown suit was definitely not becoming. I’ve danced with Amore Vittone. Dated a girl from Vetkoek Paleis. I’ve cried watching an SAA advert and pretty much every romcom I’ve seen (Ok, I’m a chunker). I don’t have any superpowers. Well there is one – maybe it is to mess up friendships. I’ve argued and made up with more people than I care to remember – Stef du Plessis, Francois Muscat, Billy Selekane, Michael Jackson and Bronwyn Hesketh (you may know these people) to name a few. I’ve made sublime speeches. I’ve given some real bombs too. I was a plumber’s assistant. Thought about becoming a pastor. Ended up a speaker and writer. Had four midlife crises (luckily there were no affairs. Damn, and no Harley’s or Porsches either). I moved to Australia. Stuffed up and came back with my tail between my legs. Spent a year in a dressing gown, depressed and living with my mother. Besides my family, I’ll only die for three other people (a Jew, a Christian and a Muslim – all speakers, funny enough) because their work is important and it’s not nearly finished yet. My only friends are speakers. I don’t travel well – I’ve been run over in Iran, got laryngitis in Las Vegas, shot at in Italy, got frisked for drugs in Sydney and Mauritius (I’m told when I grow a beard I look like a Columbian drug lord). Italy was benign to me (although I put on four kilograms in two weeks). Animals seem to think I’m possessed and try and kill me: Alsatian (Milnerton) – 15 stiches; Ostrich (Karoo) – cracked rib; Rinkhals (Keland) – spat on my shirt (how rude); Puffadder (Hoedspruit) – crept into my sleeping bag (I’ve had worse); Baboon (Messina) – chased me into an electric fence (it was shocking) and pig (or hog) (Namibia) – too traumatic (watch the video here). My heart caved in on me in 2005. I still worry that it will explode one day. I might die before I write my novel. I’ve never been married. I’m 52.

Enough! I think you get it. You have stories. You can weave any one of your stories into something magical and craft a really compelling keynote. Stop giving your audiences tainted meat and give them fresh meat. Start finding your story.