How to Tell a Story in 30 Seconds

Avast, m’hearties!

I wasn’t all that excited about the eclipse until I walked my dog Monday afternoon, and a group of my neighbors were in the street.

They were sharing a single pair of cardboard eclipse glasses, passing them around like a beer at an underage party, laughing & enjoying the magic of something rare & more permanent than all of us.

I joined them. There we stood: a bunch of grownups, strangers mostly, pausing in the middle of Monday to experience this moment together. It felt a little magical. And rare.

* * *

I shared a version of that story on Threads on Monday afternoon.

It struck a chord.

I have a tiny presence on Threads. Yet 48 hours later, more than 9K people had reacted to it, commented on it, reposted it, direct-messaged me about it.

Not exactly viral. I’m not Ryan Gosling absolutely murdering I’m Just Ken at the Oscars.

But still. The chord = struck.

* * *

Why, though? 

You can read that story in 30 seconds. “Why did the minuscule story inspire that reaction anyway?” I wondered. (Literally asked myself this question… for no other reason than it’s fun to ponder why other people do what they do, isn’t it?)

Anyway. Was it…

Because it was a relief to experience Monday’s North American solar eclipse together…? A relief to not be divided by politics or ideology or even Kansas City vs. San Francisco, or not needing to debate the Oxford comma?

Because it’s a reminder of our shared humanity, celebrating the wonder of the natural world?

Because that moment together Monday felt… hopeful?

I think that was part of it. But the other part is how we tell stories.

* * *

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Maybe you know this famous six-word story, written like a classified ad.

It’s often attributed to Ernest Hemingway. But it probably wasn’t his. Versions of the story date back to the early 1900s; Hemingway was born in 1899. He might’ve been a genius writer… but did Hemingway’s chubby fingers bang out this six-word story on his toddler-sized typewriter? I’m voting NOPE.

Baby Shoes is a famous example of a category known as “flash fiction,” a hyper-brief narrative story that still has character, plot, and a hint at a larger story.

(Baby Shoes is hyper-hyper-brief (the briefiest?) (LOL). Flash fiction stories are often longer—up to 1,500 words or so.)

You can’t help but ponder the questions the story suggests. So. Many. Questions:

What happened to the baby? Did the baby die? Was it ever born? Why are the shoes for sale in the classifieds? Was it a hardship? An illness? Who is posting them for sale?

Early Twitter with its 140-character limit re-popularized the flash-fiction idea: Use as few words as possible to get your idea across.

Here in 2024, our squirrel-on-cocaine online attention spans reinforce the approach: We’re all busy running around and gathering nuts and scrolling to and fro! Get in! Break through! Grab attention! And be quick about it.

And yet… the real win is when you make the reader pause.

Help me slow down. Make me wonder about the baby. The unworn shoes. The need for the classified ad.

* * *

How can we tell stories that others will savor?

Stories that will move into our heads; settle in, flop on the couch. Stories that stay a while.

I thought about that Threads story I shared Monday afternoon. I thought of the reaction.

And then I realized it’s a useful example of the few elements that even short, 30-second stories need.

Let’s deconstruct my short Threads post to see what those elements are. A story needs…

🌙 TENSION

“I wasn’t all that excited about the eclipse until…”

This is tension: A character poised for transformation.

You get it right away: I didn’t drive up a North American mountain to view the solar eclipse. I’m unimpressed. I’m ambivalent. UNTIL…

That “until” is the trigger that changes the story.

🌙 DETAIL

A huddle of neighbors in the street, “sharing a single pair of cardboard eclipse glasses.”

The single pair of cardboard glasses shows, not tells. It shows that the gathering in the street is impromptu. No invitations. No planning. No catering. There weren’t even enough pairs of glasses for everyone; we had to pass them around and take turns.

That small detail makes the action of the story feel warmer. It sets up the emotional payoff that happens next.

🌙 METAPHOR

“…passing them around like a beer at an underage party.”

The metaphor of passing around the glasses as like passing a beer at an underage party is important.

Why not pass a ball in a game? Or passing a baton in a race? Or passing weed?

Because we need a giddy feeling. But it had to be wholesome, too.

We need to conjure up doing something fun and only slightly subversive.

Grownups standing around in the middle of a workday, when everyone else is on the clock, needed to feel a little wrong. (But just a little.)

It had to feel innocent and wholesome.

🌙 THE EMOTIONAL PAYOFF

Transformation happens in two ways:

Externally:

I observe the huddle “laughing & enjoying the magic of something rare & more permanent than all of us.”

I join them. I imply that I, too, get a turn with the glasses. Suddenly I’m not ambivalent at all! I’m actually excited by the magic of this rare and impermanent eclipse!

Internally:

I realize how rare and magical it is to stand around with these neighbors, experiencing something equally rare and impermanent: The gathering itself. This impromptu gathering of “mostly strangers” is impermanent, too.

“Mostly strangers”—why don’t I know them better? Why are the baby shoes never going to be worn?

🌙 LEAVE THINGS UNSAID

There were a lot of things the Threads story doesn’t mention. I didn’t mention the other dogs there. Or the actual number of people present. I didn’t tell you what the eclipse looked like.

The story is spare.

Too much detail swamps the story; it capsizes the boat.

The story is about me and my neighbors. But I want the reader to take our experience and see themselves in it.

I want to hold up a mirror to the reader so they see their own experiences reflected back.

Trust that your audience will fill in the blanks.

🌙 THINK SLOW

The small, spare story feels like I dashed it off. But I actually spent some time with it.

After I left my neighbors that afternoon, my dog Augie and I continued on our walk alone, just the two of us.

Often we listen to audio books on our walk. But I didn’t this time.

Instead, I turned over in my head what just happened: the surprise of it. The single pair of glasses. How rare the eclipse was; how rare the impromptu street party.

How getting a glimpse of the eclipse also gave me a glimpse at the community around us. How fleeting. How magical.

Hours later, in the evening, I thought to post it to Threads.

I’m telling you this only to point out:

You read a 30-second story fast. But all good stories happen slowly.