By John Gilstrap

This past weekend, I had the honor of judging the state finals of a national oratorical competition for high schoolers. First of all, cudos to the students–one of them only a 9th grader!–for showing the courage to step before their colleagues, families and us judges to deliver their presentations.

The format required each contestant to deliver a memorized presentation that could be no shorter than eight minutes, and not a second longer than ten minutes. To fall short or run long triggered penalty points. No applause was allowed. No notes, either.

After all of the prepared presentations were finished and scored, each contestant was allowed exactly five minutes to prepare remarks on a topic chosen out of a hat, and then deliver a speech that could be no shorter than three minutes nor longer than five minutes. Again, steep penalties awaited anyone whose remarks fell outside the timed guidelines. The assigned topics were chosen from a list of possible choices of which the contestants were all aware, all of which dealt with some element of the U.S. Constitution. So, they weren’t entirely blind-sided, but they had no idea which one they’d be hit with.

As an aside, I had good success on the debate and forensics teams when I was in high school–back when “public speaking” was the only definition I knew for the word, forensics. I cannot imagine the pressure these kids were under, and I applaud each of them for hanging in there–even during those horrific moments when they lost their place in their speech and the room full of adults bled silently for them while pretending not to notice.

As a judge, of course, I had to notice. I only regret that there was no opportunity to speak to the contestants afterward, and maybe provide some points they could work on. Instead, all they will see is their numerical scores.

We haven’t discussed public speaking much recently in the Killzone Blog . . .

Now that the world is pulling out of pandemic panic–at least my corner of it is–I think the time is near when we will once again speak to people’s eyes instead of just a webcam, I thought it might be a good time to share some of my observations on speaking essentials. Here goes:

Be prepared but don’t overcook.

Professionals–even the ones who don’t get paid–owe it to themselves and their audiences to know what they’re going to talk about before they start. If the presentation is a factual one–driven by statistics and such–it behooves the speaker to have that stuff down flat–or to have quick access to a cheat sheet.

I witnessed a couple of vapor-locks among the student contestants yesterday, and in each case, it was clear to me that the issues were not their problem, but rather that they had forgotten the order of the words they had memorized. In each case, even when they were on track, they were so intent on getting the lyrics of the speech right that they forgot that the audience was there to hear the music, too. They want to watch the speakers make their point in a passionate way, even if the words are flubbed a bit. That happens, and as soon as that spark of panic flashes, the remainder of those eight minutes last for-friggin’-ever, even for the audience.

Tell a story.

Every memorable speech has a narrative attached to it. While statistics are important, and a presentation may collapse in on itself without them, they carry much more weight when they are wrapped within a compelling story. The added advantage of having a story to tell, it’s much harder to forget where you’re going, and the specific words themselves bear less importance.

When I give a formal presentation, the only element that is truly memorized is the ending. I used to memorize the beginning, but I’ve learned that those first words offer a unique opportunity to connect with the specific audience.

Don’t pace, but use the stage.

My preference is to not speak from behind a lectern. I think it’s a barrier between me and the audience, and that is the antithesis of what I’m trying to accomplish. I also prefer a lavalier mic to have access to both hands. The competition this weekend had no lectern and no amplification. That last part was a real disservice to the kids because the acoustics of the room were far from ideal. At least they all had to face an identical challenge.

I will concede that many of the best speakers and performers ply their craft while their feet remain within a three-foot-diameter circle, and that that is probably the most effective approach. I am incapable of doing that. I need to move.

Recognizing my need to fidget, a speaking coach taught me to put the fidgeting to good use and use it as a tool to connect to more of the audience. I generally start downstage center, then move along the apron to the left and then the right and back again.

A couple of the weekend’s contestants–interestingly, the same ones who vapor-locked–paced aimlessly as they tried to squeeze their memories for the words they’d memorized. They looked as the floor, or perhaps as far as the apron of the stage, but they made no effort to make the kind of eye contact that is meaningful.

Own the stage.

In the competition, the introduction for each contestant was the same: “Ladies and gentlemen, Speaker Number One (or two . . .).” Remember, applause was forbidden. The student then entered through a door at the back of the stage and launched themselves. There was no countdown or nod. Their timer started when they uttered their first words. That’s a tough way to begin.

Think about it. When was the last time you watched anyone perform anything without at least a little crowd preparation. That biographical intro at the beginning of a conference presentation is essentially a transition that hands the stage over to the speaker, for which the speaker is rewarded with applause s/he hasn’t even earned yet.

Of the weekend’s contestants, most entered with their eyes cast downward, with every element of body language shouting how nervous they were. Some did better than others, but only one realy nailed it

A high school junior with the poise of someone far older, she entered from that back door with a bright smile. As she walked to her mark in the middle of the stage, she seemed pleased to see everyone whose gaze she met. When she hit her mark, she clasped her hands loosely at her waist, and continued to silently greet the audience as she settled herself. Before she uttered her first word, she had everyone’s attention. From that point on, she did everything right.

It wasn’t till afterward that I realized that she had assumed ownership of the stage from the first second she entered that back door. For all I knew, she could have been petrified with fear, but if she was, she flawlessly performed the first duty of public speaking: she made everyone feel comfortable.

So, TKZ family . . . Any other suggestions to share?

It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous. –Peter Benchley

By PJ Parrish

I wanted to be a ballet dancer. This was way back in grade school, when I was as round as a beachball and rather lost. Watching a ballet pierced me with the deepest ache of envy. So I bugged my dad until he let me enroll in Miss Trudy’s School of Dance and Baton Twirling.

Did I mention I was chubby? Did I mention I had no talent? Neither stopped me. I had a ball trying and to this day, I can remember every step of my first recital dance. I eventually lost the weight but never the desire to dance. So around age 30, I took up lessons again. I did pretty good. Until I got to pointe. You know, the part where you shoe-horn your feet into those pretty pink satin shoes with a hard box at end and then you’re supposed to just rise up on your toes?

It hurts like hell.

So I gave up. Did I mention I had no talent?

Flash forward. I became a dance critic. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, well…

I got to cover the birth of the Miami City Ballet, and became friends with the artistic director Edward Villella. One day, he asked me if I wanted to be in The Nutcracker. In the first act party scene where the parents do a little minuet-type of dance. I accepted. So I danced, in front of 5,400 people. I didn’t screw up. It was one of the most memorable nights of my life. To quote one of my favorite writers, Emily Dickinson:

I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

This is my round-about way of getting to my topic — talent vs technique. See, I had the desire, but I didn’t have the body type, the turn-out of the hip joints. I knew the steps, sure, but I didn’t have that vital muscle memory that comes to all dancers after years and years of learning their craft. I didn’t have the music inside me that separates the mere dancer from the artist.

So it is, I believe, with writers.

Years ago, my friend Reed Farrel Coleman wrote an article in Crime Spree Magazine titled “The Unspoken Word.” It was about his experience as an author-panelist at a writers conference. Reed was upset because he thought the conference emphasized technique to the exclusion of talent.

Reed wrote: “To listen how successful writing was presented [at the SleuthFest conference], one might be led to believe that it was like building a model of a car or a jet plane. It was as if hopeful writers were being told that if everyone had the parts, the decals, the glue, the proper lighting, etc. to build this beautiful model and then all they needed was the instruction manual. Nonsense! Craft can get you pretty damned far, but you have to have talent, too. Writing is no more like building a model than throwing a slider or composing a song.”

At the time, I was the president of the Florida chapter of Mystery Writers of America, and our board decided, after much debate, to purposely steer SleuthFest toward the writers “workshop” conference. We did it because attendees told us they didn’t want any more authors getting up there just flapping their lips telling tired war stories. They wanted authors to pull back the green curtain and show how it is done. They wanted to hear authors talk about how they created memorable characters, how they maintained suspense, how they built a structure, why they chose a particular sub-genre. That’s what we gave them.

But Reed did raise an interesting question in his article — can novel writing really be taught? I think it can and should be. I think unpublished folks can go to workshops, read books, and learn the basics about plotting, character development, the arc of suspense, the constructs of good dialog.

Does that mean they have the stuff they need to be a successful writer? No, it only means they might — if they work hard — have a chance of mastering their craft. And I don’t care how talented you are, you aren’t going anywhere without craft.

Let’s go to the easy metaphor here — sports. A person may be born with a natural ability for basketball. They may be tall, able to shoot hoops with accuracy and be a fast runner. But that’s not enough. There was this guy who played for the Chicago Bulls…I forget his name. He didn’t make his high school’s varsity basketball team until his junior year, and when he got to University of North Carolina, he told the coach he wanted to be the best ever. Yeah, he had talent. But he worked like a dog. He became the best.

When I teach writing workshops, I preface everything with this one statement: I can teach you the elements of craft but I can’t teach you talent. Anyone can learn to hit a baseball. But only a few are going to have Ted Williams’ eye. The rest are going to be the John Oleruds of the world — competent major league role players. And what’s wrong with that if you can at least get to The Bigs, have a healthy backlist and maybe take the kids to Disney World on your royalties?

So where to I come down on the talent question? I agree with Reed. All good writers have some talent. But I also believe you can’t have talent without craft and desire. Peter Benchley’s self-effacing quote to the contrary, his book was a little cheesy, but it was one of the greatest serial killer thrillers ever imagined.

As the great acting coach Stella Adler said, “Technique makes talent possible.”

Back in August, my youngest daughter called. “Hey, Dad, I have something you need to do.” That usually means she needs something repaired at her house, or for us to watch the grand-critters for a while.

“Collin can’t do it?”

“No, I don’t mean work, though I wish you’d come over and tighten up the kids’ playset in the back yard, but this is for you. I saw on TV last night they’re making a movie in Ft. Worth and there’s an open call for extras. It’s a western with Sam Elliott in it and I think you need to see if you can get a part. With that big white mustache, they’ll have to make you a cowboy.”

I wasn’t sure whether to give her grief about referring to my age and white handlebars, or to thank her. I went online and found they were filming 1883, a TV series written by one of my favorite producers and directors, Taylor Sheridan. When I discovered he also wrote the screenplay, I wanted in.

I’ve written a screenplay myself, and found it was one of the hardest writing assignments I’ve ever undertaken. But the real reason I wanted to be on set was to see how the sausage is made. You see, I’m working on a manuscript in which two young men travel from Texas to Arizona in 1971, to meet Steve McQueen and be in a movie that ultimately became Junior Bonner.

I filled out all the requested info, sent in a photo of said mustache with the rest of me somewhat attached, and waited. Two days later the casting director sent an email saying they had two places for me as an extra, but the sad news I wasn’t selected to be a cowboy, which I really, really wanted. Instead they had a place for me as a city dude.

Bummer.

After a barrage of emails, Covid tests, and wardrobe fittings, I found myself in Ft. Worth one morning at 2:00 AM. They tested us yet again, put us on a bus and we arrived on set just as the sun rose on a hot September day. It was my first experience as an extra and moviemaking and I found it was fun at first, then boring…hot and boring.

Texas in early September is a sauna and that day the temperature reached 110 degrees…more inside the a three piece wool suit they had me wearing, not to mention the wool bowler. Now I know why those old folks looked so serious in photos from that time, they were miserable and melting under all those clothes.

But because I took the opportunity that arose at just the right time, I saw behind the scenes at how directors operated on a movie set. Terms I doubt I could find online will find themselves into my manuscript. The boredom, monotony, dirt, dust, and constant resetting of cast and cameras will hopefully give my readers a sense of really being there.

It was research, but on a different level from what I’ve done in the past. This interactive exploration allowed me to brush shoulders with Tim McGraw, say howdy to Sam Elliott (more of a nod, grin, and his comment, “Nice ‘stach,” to which I replied, “Right back atcha.”), and to watch Taylor Sheridan work.

For example, assistant directors and camera operators were there before daylight, setting up equipment, framing shots, and placing wagons, horses, barrels, thousands of props and hundreds of extras. When Sheridan arrived after tweaking that day’s script, he called “roll cameras,” “action,” and watched the scene unfold. Then he went about resetting a couple of cameras, calling for more dust and dirt in the air (more!!!???), re-blocking the scene while issuing orders to both cast and crew.

“Cut! Reset!”

“Original positions!”

“Too many wagons in the way. Reposition the cameras!”

That was our day that ended at 10:00 PM and everyone was back at two the next morning for the next day’s shoot.

Then the months passed until the first episode streamed and I wore the Bride out that night, stopping the program and pointing out where the other cameras were positioned, where I was, regaling her with anecdotes, and telling her that at the end of that street scene there was a sixty-foot blue screen to hide the modern buildings.

We waited for my big moment on screen and missed it. I rewound to the scene I knew I should be in, and we watched it again…and rewound again and again without result until my niece called and said she saw me! Now knowing where to look, I was successful and found I was on for one whole second. If you concentrate on that first scene when McGraw’s character rides into town on his wagon, you’ll find my head popping up over the mule’s rear end just before the scene cuts.

Figures.

But that wasn’t why I was there. It was research, and that’s what writers need to do. I wrote several weeks back about going on location to find out what a particular place looks, sounds, and smells like, instead of simply Googling information. But this is different.

It was hands-on like the time a few years ago when John Gilstrap and I trained with the Florida State SWAT team for several days, even riding along on an arrest warrant and later acting as the “bad guys” in live action shoots. It was invaluable and what I learned that week made its way into some of my novels.

I also learned that you will lose if you go up against any SWAT team.

It might not be possible for authors to immerse themselves in all the scenes or situations they write about, however you can take courses on wilderness survival, or sailing for example. Learn to fly, travel to those places in your manuscript, or ride along with police officers.

Time machines aren’t here yet, so I couldn’t go back to the year 1883, but I experienced a fictional version of what it was like to live in that time. Despite the artificial nature of my experience, I had no idea how dusty and gritty a real old west street could be. I dug dirt out of my ears for two days.

Though I have intimate knowledge of the odors exuded by horses, goats, and mules, I didn’t know what 700 sweaty people would smell like at the end of a two day shoot when our damp clothes couldn’t be washed.

Little details from that shoot will likely appear in a future novel. For example, did you know that oysters were common in those boom towns? Folks gulped them down by the dozens, and where did those shells go? Dumped out in the street where they turned rancid and drew flies. How did I learn that? Because the prop department did their research and brought in fresh oyster shells to rot in the sun and draw more flies to the set, thus adding to the realism they needed.

So if you have the opportunity to live in that region, or location, or to participate in activities that will add to the realism of your novel, grab onto it and hang on!

Today is National Day of Unplugging, from sundown tonight to sundown tomorrow night, a time to unplug from technology, electronics, and social media. So, are you going to unplug? Could you do it? Would you write? And how (charcoal on the wall of a cave, mitten in the snow, quill pen, pencil, fountain pen, ball point, Sharpie)?