PITCHING YOUR STORY
Reeling in the Ears with Stephen Fry
What we can take away from Stephen Fry’s ability to craft a story that’s both palatable to the eyes — and the ears.
The Great Wryley Outrages refer to a series of animal maimings and slashings that occurred in the parish of Great Wryley, Stratfordshire, England, in January 1903. Horses and other livestock were found either maimed or injured so badly that a few of them had to be put down. The prime accused was George Edalji, a man of Indo-Parsi descent and son of the local county vicar, who had already had previous brushes with the law during his childhood, predisposing him to become the most likely suspect in this case.
Arthur & George is a novel by Julian Barnes that outlines this very case, exploring themes such as the law, racism and other related ideas. But the most important thing the novel explores is the relationship between George and a lawyer who takes an interest in his case — who happened to be the very same man who created quite possibly one of the world’s most famous detectives — Sherlock Holmes. That man was none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
This was the story I narrated one gloomy evening in 2020 to about six or seven tired yet curious faces when pitching the idea for a show (Actually, it might be more accurate to call it an informative web series). The concept was a Vox-like series that connected famous personalities with their lesser-known endeavours, like Conan Doyle and his lawyering on this very pertinent case in England.
I could feel the energy shift and see the “aha” moment appear on the six or seven faces the moment the connection was revealed. It was one of the best pitches I’ve ever made.
Although nothing really came of the series, the fascination with what makes a good pitch remains. It’s an essential skill for any entrepreneur, marketer, copywriter, filmmaker — anyone with an idea to be shared, really. But beyond the idea itself comes the question of how to frame it: how to mould it, what verbiage will suit it, and how to coax it out so it seems organic, not forced. Performance and storytelling are deeply linked with how well a pitch goes, and to that point, I’ve found Stephen Fry to be one of my biggest inspirations.
It might be his mellifluous-sounding use of words. Or his biting, acerbic wit. Or perhaps even his legacy in entertainment, as one of the few voices from the pre-internet era that’s still sort of relevant today. Whatever the case may be, there’s something about Stephen, and his stories.
For one, he makes every word count. Every word he chooses, and every sentence he utters seems like it is carefully formulated before being delivered, not a syllable out of place. Of course, he makes it look effortless; his theatrical training and oratory skills have clearly paid off over the years. Just take a look at his interview on The Graham Norton Show about his inspiration for the book on Greek mythology, and you can see the work that goes into making the words flow so smoothly.
What’s important, if you notice, is that he talks like he cares. I’ve sat through innumerable presentations where the person looks so half-convinced of their own ideas, they’re boring themselves to idea-death. Stephen Fry, on the other hand, is undeniably passionate (Or just a very good actor — for which you need passion too, you see?) Take one listen to his podcast, The Seven Deadly Sins, and you’ll hear it echo through your ears. He moulds his tone, pitch and volume to create the best impact — an enviable skill, to be sure.
Perhaps the reason he’s able to care so much is because he brings himself into the stories. In interviews, especially, a lot of his stories are anecdotes, so it’s only natural that he can share a genuine retelling of having lived that particular experience. This is particularly pertinent to pitches I believe, because when you relate the audience to your own experience, they can empathise with you and your vulnerability and openness. But it’s Stephen Fry’s unique touches — his self-deprecating humour, his particular inclination to certain words, and his turn of phrase — make the stories truly, singularly his, and his alone.
Moreover, when he brings other characters into the situation (like he does in another interview on the Graham Norton Show, this time about the then-Prince Charles and Lady Diana), he becomes the characters and performs an imitation of how they might possibly sound. I’ve noticed that most stories — particularly ones laced with humour — always tend to stick better when the storyteller embodies the various characters being portrayed, be it the expressions, tone of voice, pitch, accent or even a change in posture. All of it can work. For instance, my sister always tends to add a nasal, American Valley-girl twang when she regales family or friends with stories involving me. Now that certainly isn’t how I sound, but for the sake of the story, it always seems to work — I come off as the overbearing older sister, and that particular intonation only adds to how much funnier the story sounds.
I’m always looking for ways to tell my stories better, especially verbal ones. Like a lot of us who write, I find it much easier to put words down on paper — there’s linearity and form to follow; it’s disciplined, with capital letters at the beginning and full stops at the end. With storytelling, it’s just air; vocal cords fighting to be heard. And amidst a typhoon of swirling noises, how best can one be listened to? Stephen Fry is one of those diamonds in the rough who can wield his words just as well as he tells them — and I hope, someday, to be able to hold my readers and listeners even half as well as he does.
“Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it’s the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.” ― Stephen Fry
