What is a Talesman?

An overview of the act of telling and hearing

A Talesman tells tales. A Talesman is a storyteller.

Once upon a time, the Talesman told his tales orally. He sang them, chanted them, spoke them aloud, acted them out, in front of his audience. The audience could see him and he could see them. And if the Talesman knew his business, he could tell when his audience was caught up in the tale, and when they were bored; when they were uncomfortable, when they were disgusted, laughing, scared, dry-mouthed.

They join in a dance, the Talesmen and his audience. The audience feeds upon his tale, and he feeds upon their reactions. They enjoy the tale, and he enjoys their enjoyment, or perhaps he delights as much in his mastery over their enjoyment.

He tells the tale to work upon his audience a certain effect. By their reactions he understands whether he is achieving his desired effect. If so, he gives them more of the same; if not, then he adjusts his tale either in its content or in the way he tells it.

The closest we have to that primal dance now in the commercial world, is the modern filmmaker and his audience. He at least can see the reactions though usually it is too late for him to make any adjustments. (Upon the stage the actors make adjustments too, but they are not the principal talemen of their art.)

“Telling” implies those to whom the tales are told. So we find a triangle consisting of the tale, the teller, and those to whom the tale is told.

Between the teller and the audience lies the tale. When the tale is told in writing, the teller and the audience remain, to a large extent, unknown to each other. But the audience knows a lot more about the teller than the teller knows about his audience. A reader stops in a bookstore, or surfs to a web page. Right there in front of him is everything the teller has chosen to put down. What is given is revealing; so is what is withheld.

In contrast, the teller writes down his tale, and leaves it where someone might find it. He hopes someone will pick it up, read it, and enjoy it. But what does he know about that person?

• The person can read
• The person is interested in reading what he finds on the pages

That much to begin with.

He knows something else, or can assume it, of the person who reads on. The person who doesn’t finish the first sentence, didn’t like what he read there. And the person who doesn’t finish the first page, didn’t like what he read there. And the person who doesn’t like the first chapter…

There is a process any navigator goes through. Along the way toward his destination, he will check to see if he is still headed in the right direction. In this way he becomes part of a self-correcting process.

Something like that happens with any reader and the book, article, web page he reads. The reader is constantly checking with himself, asking himself “Do I like this? Is this worth spending any more of my time on this?” If the answer is no, he will probably stop reading. Or maybe he will make himself a bargain: “If it doesn’t get better soon, then I’ll stop.”

I think, though, the process is a little more complex. What I described above is what is most likely going on during the beginning of the read. When a reader first picks up something to read, he doesn’t know much about it. But he’s curious enough to give it a chance. In the first sentence, page, chapter, he asks himself those questions: “Do I like this? Is it worth reading on?” But if he does like these first chunks, he has his answers — preliminary answers. “Yes, this is good, I like it, this is worth my time.”

For the talesman, this is important. It means:

What he says in the beginning of his tale determines who will be reading the middle of the tale.

And, likewise:

What he says in the middle of his tale determines who will be reading the end of the tale.

The beginning of any story should be nearly its strongest, best material. It should grab the reader by the throat — and not let go. Many have taught this. But with the notion of the “self-correcting audience” in mind, we can add the following to that advice:

• The beginning of any tale should be something that the reader who likes the end of the tale should also like.
• The middle of any tale should be something that the reader who likes the beginning of the tale should also like.
• The end of any tale should be something that the reader who likes the middle of the tale should also like.

What happens is: if the reader likes the beginning, he will go on to the middle. To turn that thought around: if the reader doesn’t like the beginning, he won’t go on to the middle. And if the reader likes the middle, he’ll go on to the end; or, if he doesn’t like the middle, he won’t go on to the end.

With each step of the tale, the talesman is weeding out his audience. And therefore, the talesman, though he never sets eyes on the face of a reader, knows that the reader who is reading the middle of the tale, liked the beginning of the tale. And the reader who is reading the end of the tale, liked the beginning and the middle of the tale.

(Composed on keyboard 21 May 2007; reworked and posted Monday 31 March 2008)