Storytelling is a key to any speech, in any situation. Here's one of my own.
One of the first things I say to people who ask me to help them with speechwriting is that the speech must be ‘theirs’. They have feel comfortable delivering it. They have to own it.
This creates a contradiction. Someone has asked me to write a speech for them and of course I do my best to make it suit them, but when they read it they do not feel it is something that they would say themselves. I can’t read their minds, though I try, and they can’t read what I have written without thinking to themselves: ‘this is not me’. The irony is that I have been paid to write and no one likes wasting money.
I think the issue boils down to two things: trust and courage.
This story that might help.
It was a wedding. The first speech was given by a youngster in their teens.
I had written it. We had discussed it. They did not understand some of it. I tried to explain. For one example, I’d echoed a well-known poem by switching a couple of words in its most famous line. I’d tested it on a friend and while he had not recognised the poem he had said how beautiful the sentiment was. In other words, it worked, with bonus points if the audience recognised the poem, as I was sure some would. I got a teenage response from the teenager. I also got, about other parts of the speech: ‘I do not get what this means’, ‘I would never say that’ and ‘I don’t think that’s funny’.
I was concerned that I had written too-adult a speech for a young person. I had conniptions. I emailed the teenager at school, ‘Just take what you want, if there is anything there that you do actually want, and otherwise say whatever you like.’ I apologised for being too bossy. I emailed the teenager’s tutor who was helping and said the same thing. I backed off.
The teenager called me a few days before the wedding to clarify a couple of points. They made a good suggestion for one of the jokes.
I attended the wedding as a guest. The teenager was the first to speak. When they said that line from the poem there was a clear, audible reaction. There was also a visible one on the teenager’s face. The teenager realised it worked.
The speech was read out word for word as I had written it, apart from the slight amend to that one joke. Of course I was delighted to hear the guests’ reaction. But what gave me the greatest pleasure I have felt in a long time was watching the young teenager’s face as they took off. They were brilliant in their own right. The selfish pleasure for me was seeing and hearing my words spoken out loud with trust and courage. That youngster had trusted me, taken what I wrote even though some of it was unclear to them, and really gone for it. They had owned it. And it worked.
I’ve seen some of the letters after that wedding and every single one mentions that young person’s speech and how great they were. Most of them say it was the best part of the whole day.
I think what I am trying to say is: even if you do not think what I write for you is something you’d say, you can still say it, and when you do that with courage, and your listeners see and hear that, it’ll work.