For me, the milking stool my carpenter grandfather made is a symbol for the oral tradition. Its three legs are the three great branches of story – the traditional tales that enshrine the wealth of human imagination across time and from all over the world, stories of actual human experience which include personal stories and the stories of history and the new stories that, for the health of humanity, must constantly be created from fresh combinations of ideas. Each of these three branches or legs of story have a vital place in storytelling. They operate together to support us. They create a useful position - like the well-rounded seat of my grandfather's stool - from which to look at the world.

Storytelling has its skills and techniques. The power of storytelling can be equally felt in a classroom, a bedroom, an old people’s home or a festival marquee. The nature of the performance on any occasion has to be suited to the venue, the listeners and the time of the telling. In many settings, skills of listening and facilitation on the part of the storyteller are as important as those of telling. When used to assert power, storytelling can be moralistic and aggressive – and, for me, that’s the opposite of what it should be. Most important for me is that the storyteller loves what he or she does, loves the sharing with other people and does it openly and without hidden agendas. The wish to share underpins everything else. Only a minority of people will ever choose to become professional storytellers: like all good work, it's demanding. Yet with the storysharing attitude I hold most dear, the world of storytelling is open to all. It belongs to everyone to value and develop as they wish. It's in this spirit, I believe, that story truly works.