Today’s guest post comes from Steve.

About a decade ago I was delighted to discover that I was a storyteller. Storytelling is amusing for others, and yet it can be so much more. I saw it as a rich activity that is essential to forming values and shaping the way we perceive the big issues in life. I was proud to identify myself as a teller of stories.

Maybe a year or two later, after some reflection, I began to see the dark side of storytelling. What could possibly be wrong with being a storyteller? In a word, storytellers are rotten listeners. There are exceptions, of course, but the statement is essentially true. Painfully true. And I began to see evidence that I was an especially inept listener.

It isn’t hard to see why. A storyteller is driven by a burning desire to tell a story that others will enjoy. But nobody can tell a story and listen at the same time, just as nobody can suck and blow simultaneously on a tube. The acts are incompatible. Telling stories well requires full concentration. When a storyteller isn’t actually talking it might look as if he or she is listening. The sad truth, however, is that a silent storyteller is (at best) listening with half an ear while preparing to trot out the next story. Most storytellers suffer impatiently while others talk, waiting until that other person shuts up and they can tell another story. Talking when they should be listening, storytellers fail to appreciate what others have to offer, and they typically fall into the trap of telling their favorite stories over and over.

While storytellers are a blessing to mankind, the greater need is for more folks who listen well. Listening well is the ultimate act of respect we can show for others. Because people talk inefficiently and repeat themselves, it is rarely necessary to listen closely. We can listen with half a mind without missing a thing. Listening well requires concentration and a bit of humility, and it is the rare person who concentrates with a full mind on what others have to say.

I was married to such a person. My former wife is the best listener I’ve met. I’ve often watched her relating to people she doesn’t know. She might ask a good question or two, but mostly she listens, and it is instructive to see how quickly people respond to that. They experience a glow of good feelings toward her without knowing that they are thrilling to the rare experience of being listened to. My former wife is a highly accomplished woman, and I’ve always felt that her business and personal success was based largely on her amazing ability to listen to others.

When I became aware of the terrible temptation that drives storytellers (including me) to talk too much, I resolved to listen better. I made a project of talking less and listening more. It was amusing to see how hard that was. After all, the normal mode for a storyteller is talking! Ironically enough, I suddenly found myself wanting to tell stories about the need for listening well.

Even so, I got better almost instantly. Because so few people bother to listen well, it is actually easy to become a superior listener. If you make an effort—even a small effort—you will do far better than most of us do in daily life. And if you want to do even better than that, there are a few well-known techniques that signal to others that we are listening attentively to them. (A typical “trick” of listening well is repeating what someone has just told you, which is a strong signal that you are interested and are paying attention.)

Just at the time I had launched my project to become a better listener I gave a ride to Carolyn, a young woman in my book club. I hardly knew her, although I liked Carolyn, for she is a passionate reader of books. Carolyn and I were making small talk as I drove her home from the club meeting. I think I had just asked her about her job. I was preparing to tell her a story about bad jobs . . . but I stopped myself. I thought, “Shut up, Steve! Be a listener, not a damned talker.” And then I noticed that Carolyn had just spoken the same sentence, word for word, two times in a row. That seemed odd. I ditched the amusing story I had queued up and instead asked Caroline a question about what she was trying to say.

Both of us were shocked when Carolyn burst into tears. Because she scarcely knew me, she was embarrassed, and yet she couldn’t stop sobbing for several minutes. I fought the impulse to start blathering advice. What Carolyn needed, obviously enough, was someone to listen.

Carolyn explained that she had doubts about everything in her life. Although she was fond of the young man she was living with, she knew he would be a terrible husband. He was pressuring her to buy a house with him, which would have made the relationship more complicated and difficult to leave. She had equal doubts about her job and the profession she was preparing to enter. When Carolyn looked at her life, “everything” about it seemed wrong, and she was being pushed toward commit to several decisions she dreaded making. She was terrified.

We talked. I don’t know if the things I said to her that night did any good. I’m sure it was a good thing that I had listened to her. I’m sure the way Carolyn opened her heart that night was ultimately good for her, for she dragged all her unacknowledged demons out of the closet and shoved them in the bright light of day. At the very least, I knew that the trust Carolyn had shown me was a thumping validation of the wisdom of listening well.

I knew a ranch hand in northern Montana, a man named Sonny Turner. His weathered face had a lot of character, particularly since his long nose slanted sharply to the right. I once asked, “Sonny? How in hell did your nose get so crooked?” Sonny said, “Oh, that happened in a bar in Williston. It was one of them times when I was talking when I shoulda been listening.” I knew just what he meant.

Are you a good listener?

Are you a good listener?