Welcome back to Graphically Minded, a publication about writing and storytelling, relating the lessons I’ve learned in a 20-plus-year career as a comic book writer and author.
Once upon a time there was a man with golden ears. He was born with them, both left and right, solid gold all the way through.
His parents knew their son had been touched by a great gift, but they also worried that he would be treated as an outsider, an oddity. And so they hid his ears, in hats when he was little, and by combing his hair down over them as he grew into a boy.
These ears of his did far more than shine. They gave the boy an incredible sense of hearing. He could hear the air shifting on a calm day, or the wings of dragonflies beating as they flitted overhead.
Above all, the boy loved listening to people speak. He loved their intonations and accents, but most of all he loved their stories. He would sit a ways off and tilt his head just so, and it was as if he was right next to the grown men in the tavern as they traded exploits and legends and comedies.
The boy moved ever so slightly to the flow of the words, the way they sped and sped and sped and stopped, the way they winded around and around, the way they ascended and fell.
Over these years of listening, the boy also came to understand that not all stories were good stories. Some were sloppy and poorly told. Some were nasty and without point. And some simply weren’t stories at all, but rather just things-that-happened with no real order to any of it.
Soon enough, the boy was a man, and it was time for him to have a career and life of his own. His parents sent him off, wishing him well and warning him to keep his ears hidden, no matter what.
And so, the man with the golden ears went out into the world to make his fortune. He decided to become a traveling salesman, and the main reason for this was that it allowed him to go to new cities, which had new taverns, new people, new stories.
At the end of a long day of selling mostly nothing, the man would go to the local tavern and take a seat at a far wall, treating himself to a pint and a crust of bread, or a full plate if he’d had a good day. And then he would tilt his head, and he would listen.
Oh, the stories he heard. They were dashing and terrifying and romantic and impolite and hilarious. Sometimes all in a single tale. These were stories far greater even than the ones he’d heard back home, and he quickly forgot his old favorites and replaced them with new ones.
For two years straight he traveled and listened through those glorious golden ears, and as he did a curious thing happened. The gold of his ears spread along through his nerves and into his brain. He wasn’t just hearing the stories, he was understanding them, dissecting them and studying, parsing out what worked and didn’t, the qualities that make one great and another forgettable.
It was at the end of those two years that a curious thing happened, and this was really the start of the end of things. One night, the man with the golden ears was sitting and listening, as ever, when a stranger sat down at the seat across from him. It was a small table, and so there was no ignoring this intruder.
The stranger explained that the tables were all full, so he’d have to sit here. The man with the golden ears was annoyed at first, but then he thought perhaps this fellow would have a story to tell. Perhaps even a good one.
As it was, the stranger did have a story—every person does, after all—and it was fair to middling. More a sequence of events with a pratfall than a real tale. Once he was done, the stranger said, “What about you? What’s your story?”
The man with the golden ears thought on this. All he’d ever done was listen. Now, he could mention his ears, and that would be quite a story. But his parents’ warning stayed with him. And, otherwise, there really wasn’t a single compelling event in his life to share.
This was the point at which he made a choice that would alter the course of his life. The man with the golden ears realized that he now had a head full of the very best stories. Surely it couldn’t hurt to borrow one and share it as his own?
Tentatively the man set out, telling one of his favorites, the story of the frostbitten toes. But as the stranger smiled and laughed at all the right bits, the man with the golden ears grew more confident shaping the contours of the tale with his voice, even changing it a little here and there where he knew it could be better. Soon, his table mate was hooting and guffawing, and at the end of the story, the stranger yelled out for others to come listen, he had found a true storyteller.
By the end of the night, every patron in the tavern had crowded around as the man trotted out one story after another. He drank and ate well, and paid not a penny for it.
From there, the man with the golden ears continued to the next town, and he tried out some of his stories—he was already thinking of them like this, his stories—and had much the same result. And the next town was just the same. And the next.
As the man with the golden ears told his stories night after night, he grew more confident, sharper. He honed the stories, perfected them, and perfected his delivery.
One morning, brushing his teeth, the man noticed a glint in his mouth. Inspecting it in the mirror, he saw that his tongue had transmuted to gold.
Now, the man with the golden ears and tongue built up quite a reputation, so much so that he was able to leave behind the traveling sales business. Taverns now paid him to come and tell stories, as he was sure to draw a crowd.
The man made a good pile of money that way, but it wasn’t the money that drove him. It was the audience, watching them react, squirming and shouting, as he led them along, controlled them, brought them to each story’s end, and the way they roared at the climax.
This went on for quite some time, and then one night the man had a particularly good showing. He brought out several favorites. The three toads. The mystery of the blood-red water. He ended with a journey out of, and back into, a cave. He loved that one dearest, the way it flips the expected trajectory.
The audience cheered as ever. The man collected his pay. And he set off into the night, a long walk ahead of him to the next town, where he was due the following day. As he walked, suddenly he heard footsteps in the road behind him.
Turning, the man with the golden ears and tongue saw two men approaching. He recognized them from the tavern. The man apologized. As much as he’d love to, he couldn’t possibly tell another story. He had to be on his way.
The two men smiled in a way that wasn’t quite kind.
“Some gift you have there,” said one.
“That golden tongue,” said the other.
The first produced a knife.
“Think we’ll take it from you.”
In a panic, the man with the golden ears and tongue could tell it would do no good to run. They were younger, and he was slowed by years of too much food and drink. He couldn’t bear to let them have his tongue, to never be able to tell a story again…
It was then that an idea came to the man. He said:
“You know, only the very surface of my tongue is gold. It isn’t very much at all. Hardly worth the effort of fishing around inside my mouth and risking getting bitten—or the germs surely inside. But I know you won’t walk away empty handed. So, what about these instead?”
At that moment, the man pulled back the long hair at the sides of his head, revealing his golden ears. He had supposed that he’d heard enough stories and didn’t need any more. He could go on, telling the ones he already had.
“Solid gold,” he said, pointing to his ears.
The robbers whispered something to each other, then nodded. A deal had been struck. They came beside him and it was all over quite quickly—slice, slice—only a little pain and a little more blood.
The man with the golden tongue continued on his way, and by morning he reached the next town, where he tended to his wounds and slept the day away. That night, he went to the tavern and saw grinning faces all around.
He couldn’t hear the clank of glasses, the excited murmurs, but no matter. He could still tell a story. And so he did, starting as he often would with the one about the boy who climbed the flagpole. A simple farce, but a great one to warm up a crowd.
The man finished the story, and suddenly it washed over him. Silence. He saw mouths opening, lips pulling back, eyes twinkling. They were reacting just as he wanted. But it was flat, empty. This didn’t fill him, didn’t sate him the way it always had before.
It was then that he realized the horrible mistake he had made.
What good is it to tell a story after all…if you cannot hear your audience react to it?
If you’d like to learn more about me and my writing, please visit vanjensen.com. You can like and comment on the post below! Till next time…