The Reluctant Storyteller

How to Unlock the “Boring” Life—Often Within the First 15 Minutes

It is the most common, frustrating roadblock in the entire practice of oral history.

You’ve bought the recorder. You’ve prepped your questions. You’ve finally worked up the nerve to ask your grandfather, your aging aunt, or your quiet neighbor for an interview. You sit down, ready to capture history, and they hit you with The Great Deflection:

“Oh, honey, why would you want to talk to me? My life wasn’t interesting. I just went to work, came home, and raised the kids. You should talk to your Uncle Bob; he was in the war.”

If you are the family historian, this response is heartbreaking. You know their life holds value. You know that their “ordinary” existence is a window into a vanished world.

Here’s the good news: you don’t need to argue them into believing they’re fascinating. You need a gentler approach—three low-pressure techniques that reliably turn “I’m boring” into a real story, often within the first 15 minutes.

Because when someone says their life was boring, they aren’t lying. They genuinely believe it.

The Psychology of “Boring”

To your grandmother, using a wringer washer wasn’t a fascinating historical detail; it was just laundry day. To your father, driving a car without seatbelts or GPS wasn’t an adventure; it was just a Tuesday commute. They’re like fish who don’t know they’re in water—because it’s all they’ve ever known.

And there’s another layer: the formality of an “interview” can be paralyzing. Many older generations were raised to treat humility as a virtue. Talking about yourself can feel boastful. Put a microphone in front of them and suddenly it feels like a performance review they are destined to fail.

So the goal is not to extract stories like a reporter. The goal is to lower the stakes and invite memories like a curious companion.

A candid, slightly melancholic photo of an older person looking out a window, their hands resting on a kitchen table. The mood should be quiet and contemplative, representing the feeling that their stories aren't worth telling.

Technique #1: Reframe the Visit (Stop “Interviewing” Them)

If you approach a reluctant storyteller and say, “I want to interview you for the family archives,” their defenses go up. It sounds official. It sounds intimidating.

Instead, change the vocabulary. You’re not scheduling an interview. You’re coming for help, context, and conversation.

Don’t say: “Can we schedule an interview?”
Do say: “I’d love to come visit and hear more about how you met Grandpa.”
Do say: “I’m going through these old boxes—can you help me make sense of what I’m looking at?”
Do say: “I found a photo and realized I don’t know the story behind it. Can we look at it together?”

When you frame the interaction as them helping you with a task, the dynamic shifts. They aren’t performing. They’re assisting.

Try this (a one-sentence opener):
“Could I come by for a visit and ask you for help identifying a few photos? I don’t want to get anything wrong.”

And for that first “non-interview,” leave the professional recorder in your bag. The sight of complex gear can stop a conversation cold. Use the voice memo app on your phone, face down on the table, so the technology doesn’t dominate the room.

If they notice it and look unsure, you can say:
“I’m just recording so I don’t forget—this is for me and the family.”

Simple. Honest. Low stakes.

Technique #2: Use Sensory Triggers (The Sensory Backdoor)

If you sit a reluctant person down in an empty room and ask, “Tell me about your childhood,” they’ll often freeze. It’s too broad. Their brain scans for “important” events, finds none, and responds: “It was normal.”

So don’t start with the whole timeline. Start with something they can touch, see, hear, or smell.

Triggers—visual, auditory, tactile—are magic keys for memory. They bypass the internal editor that insists only “big” events count, and they unlock details that direct questions can’t reach.

The Visual

Don’t just ask about their wedding. Bring the wedding photo.

But don’t ask: “Who is this?”
Ask: “What color was that dress actually? This photo makes it look gray.”

That question does two things:

1. It’s specific, so it’s easy to answer.

2. It invites them to correct the record—an instinct most people can’t resist.

The Auditory

Find the top 10 songs from the year they turned 16 and play them quietly in the background. Watch what happens when a certain track comes on: posture changes, eyes soften, a smile arrives before the words do.

The Tactile (and even scent)

Bring an object: a rotary phone, a kitchen tool they used to own, a uniform patch, a fabric sample, a familiar brand of aftershave. When their hands are busy holding a physical piece of the past, their guard drops—and stories begin to leak out around the edges.

Try this (a simple sensory prompt):
“Hold this for a second—does it feel the way you remember? What did it mean to have one of these in the house?”

You’re not asking for a speech. You’re inviting a memory.

A warm, overhead shot of two pairs of hands—one young, one old and wrinkled—pointing at an open photo album spread out on a wooden table. There are a few loose black and white photos scattered around into.

Technique #3: Start with Someone Else (The “Trojan Horse” Approach)

Reluctant storytellers often hate talking about themselves, especially if they were raised to be modest. But they usually love talking about the people they admired.

Use this. Don’t start with them. Start with the generation before them.

Ask about the formidable grandmother, the hardworking father, the teacher who changed everything, the neighbor who “ran the whole street,” the friend who could make anything.

“You always said your dad was the hardest worker you knew. What did his hands look like when he came home at night?”
“Who was the best cook in your neighborhood growing up?”
“Who did you want to be like when you were ten?”

As they describe these other people, they inevitably reveal themselves—where they were standing, what they were thinking, how they were feeling. By the time they realize they’re talking about their own life, you’re already twenty minutes into a great recording.

Try this (the Trojan Horse opener):
“Tell me about someone you looked up to when you were young. What made them impressive?”

It’s a compliment to their world, not a spotlight on them. And it works.

What to Do When You Hit the Wall Again: Patience Over Perfection

Breaking through reluctance is rarely a one-visit process. That isn’t failure—it’s the work. You’re building trust. You’re proving (through your attention) that their “ordinary” life is, to you, an extraordinary inheritance.

So keep the goal small. One good afternoon. One story. One scene.

Try this (permission-giving closer):
“We don’t have to do your whole life today. I just want one good story from one ordinary day.”

If you push, they shut down. If you gently open doors—with props, low-stakes conversation, and genuine curiosity—you will eventually find the gold.

Because what sounds “boring” to them is often the very texture of history: how people loved, worked, cooked, fixed, prayed, argued, celebrated, and got through hard years without ever calling it heroic.

And that is exactly what future generations are desperate to know.

A medium shot of two people laughing together on a comfortable sofa. The older person is gesturing with their hands mid-story, looking relaxed and happy. A smartphone is discreetly recording on the coffee table in front of them, almost unnoticed.