Table of Contents
| Preface | XIII |
| Part 1 |
| 1 | Squirrel Inc.: How to Craft a Story to Spark Organizational Change | 3 |
| 2 | Diana Tells Her Story: How to Perform the Story to Spark Change | 25 |
| Part 2 |
| 3 | Save Squirrel Inc. Night: Seven Types of Organizational Storytelling | 41 |
| 4 | Whyse's Story: How to Use Storytelling to Reveal Who You Are and Build Trust | 49 |
| 5 | Hester's Story: How to Use Storytelling to Get Individuals to Work Together | 59 |
| 6 | Mark's Story: How to Use Storytelling to Transmit Values | 69 |
| 7 | Mocha's Story: How to Use Storytelling to Tame the Grapevine | 79 |
| 8 | Howe's Story: How to Use Storytelling to Share Knowledge | 89 |
| 9 | Sandra's Story: How to Use Storytelling to Create a Future | 101 |
| 10 | Howe Upsets the Acorns: How Individuals and Organizations React to Change | 115 |
| Part 3 |
| 11 | The Journey of a Leader: Staying Alive Through the Dangers of Leadership | 127 |
| 12 | The Return to Squirrel Inc.: Living the Story as Well as Telling It | 143 |
| Seven High-Value Forms of Organizational Storytelling | 150 |
| Notes | 155 |
| Further Reading | 169 |
| Write to the Author | 177 |
| Acknowledgments | 179 |
| About the Author | 181 |
Read a Sample Chapter
Squirrel Inc.
A Fable of Leadership through Storytelling
By Stephen Denning John Wiley & Sons
ISBN: 0-7879-7371-8
Chapter One
Squirrel Inc. How to Craft a Story to Spark Organizational Change
Estimated percentage of nuts that squirrels lose because they forget where they put them: 50 -THE HARPER'S INDEX BOOK
It is ten-thirty in the morning when she climbs for the first time into my tavern high up in the old oak tree on 44th Street. I observe that her fur is smooth and perfectly groomed. I've never seen her in here before, or indeed anywhere in these green and leafy trees, but from the way she comes in with her tail very straight and twitching, she is visibly with it, totally today. She asks for a double-fermented rose nectar, with a twist, shaken but not stirred, and then insists that I use a different woodcup, with a thinner lip and chilled for no less than a minute. Even something as simple as a drink involves a mass of planning-typical Squirrel Inc. Yet I also sense something else hidden beneath her furry façade. It's faint but, for a wizened old bartender like myself, unmistakable-something haunting, half-formed, incomplete.
She's carrying off the appearance of being a calm and collected Squirrel Inc. exec with all the pieces of her existence interlocking in a carefully planned pattern. But a Squirrel Inc. exec doesn't climb into a dark, dapple-lit tavern like mine high up in an old oak tree on a bright sunny spring morning, alone, and order a double-fermented nectar unless something is up with the plan of her well-ordered life.
But there's no sense rushing things. It's still early and the tavern is practically deserted. I get her the fermented nectar and fix her fresh hickory nuts. I go on cleaning the woodcups, getting everything ready for the usual lunchtime rush, casual-like but hovering all the time in her vicinity, so that when she's ready for it, she can get what all squirrels are looking for when they come into my tavern-unintrusive company, a sympathetic ear, contact with some other living thing.
Years ago you wouldn't have seen a female squirrel alone in here at all, or if you had, you'd have known that she hadn't exactly come here for a drink. But times have changed. The squirrel workforce is now full of females clambering their way up managerial ladders and smashing into glass ceilings with alarming frequency. I see all types in here-male, female, gray, brown, black, all shades, all shapes, you name it. Why should I discriminate? These are difficult times for squirrels. Somewhere, there has to be a place of respite, an oasis where bruised egos can find succor, comfort, a substitute for love.
She finishes her double-ferment a little too quickly.
"Another?" I suggest. I have to stay in business too, you know.
"Why not?" she replies.
Last night's rain has washed and refreshed the atmosphere. A breeze carrying smells of wet grass and fresh earth is blowing gently though the tavern.
"Great day, huh?" I prompt as I hand her the second woodcup of fermented nectar.
"I wish," she whispers as she cradles her drink.
Pause.
"Difficulties?" I venture.
"Big time," she replies.
"Happens."
"Not to me, it doesn't," she says. "Not to the rising star of Squirrel Inc."
Why am I not surprised?
"Here I am," she continues. "The hope of the firm's future. The one that's beaten every nutty goal they've ever given her. The one that knows what to do when the firm is in crisis. The one with the idea that will enable it to survive."
"And?"
"No one's listening," she says. "It's as if I no longer exist. Suddenly I'm an outcast. They see me coming and they run the other way. The thing is, they're not going to survive as an organization if they don't listen. I know I'm right."
"Right."
"I've just come from a meeting," she says. "I'd done all the numbers, and the rates of return were amazing. I'd put together a presentation. All the right slides. I thought it was straightforward. But they just looked dazed."
"You gave them reasons?"
"I gave them reasons till they came out of my spleen. They're simply not listening. My idea is too strange, too disruptive, too different."
"Pity," I say as she sails through her second drink.
"Someone told me that you may be able to help."
"Me?"
"Skip said you'd know what to do."
"Skip?"
"A friend," she says. "He said you'd come up with something new. Something old that's being put to a new use. What did he mean?"
"I guess he means Dio."
"Dio?"
"A squirrel," I say. "Used to hang out here."
"I've got to talk to him."
"Actually this is a she," I say. "She's on the road a lot."
"I need to speak to her."
"Not sure that's possible," I say. "She hasn't been here in a while."
"There must be a way," she says agitatedly.
"Not that I know of."
She takes a pull of her double-ferment.
"I mean, who is she? What is she?" She stares at me.
"Dio? She taught me all I know. Got to the top of one company and was about to be thrown out. And then she figured out how to get back in the game. Used to be here all the time telling us how she did it. Now she's moved on."
"Why?"
"Fresh woods. New pastures. How would I know?"
"No need to get your fur ruffled," she says.
"I'm perfectly calm," I say.
"But you heard her talk?"
"Yep."
"More than once?"
"All the time," I say, arranging some acorns.
"You followed what she was saying?"
"I know it backwards," I say.
"Skip said it was a miracle," she says.
"Miracles don't exist, my friend."
"I mean, just try. What would Dio say to me if she were here right now?"
She looks at me with those big round squirrel eyes and I feel again that incompleteness. "Many things," I say.
"For instance?"
"Suppose I told you it costs nothing and is very easy and natural?"
"Then I wouldn't believe you," she says. "How could it possibly work?"
"Suppose I told you it's something that's hard-wired into our brains at birth?"
"I'd ask myself what you'd been smoking."
"Did you ever try telling a story?" I ask.
"Why would I do that?"
"Because a story can communicate a new idea quickly, easily, and naturally."
"Not in Squirrel Inc.," she says.
"Why not?"
"Stories aren't serious," she says. "Squirrel Inc. is. It's modern. It's analytic. It's sharp. It's focused on profits. It's bottom-line. It doesn't mess around. No emotional mush. No touchy-feely stuff. Squirrel Inc. would never go for anything like that."
"Did you ever actually try a story?" I ask.
"As a matter of fact, I did," she says. "One meeting, I described what the future would be like."
"Result?"
"They said it would never happen here. Perhaps in some other company, but not in Squirrel Inc."
"Maybe," I say, "there's another way to tell the story."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Dio said there are different purposes in telling a story, and for each purpose you tell the story in a different way. Maybe you told the story in the wrong way to achieve your goal."
"It doesn't matter," she says. "I know a story won't work."
"Right."
The mockingbirds are in full song now as she nurses her double-ferment.
"But you've heard Dio talk," she says. "She knew how to communicate a new idea and get everyone into action."
"If you say so."
"If I don't get the big idea across," she says, "I'm going to be roadkill."
"So what is the big idea?" I say. "How are you going to save Squirrel Inc?"
"Simple," she says, and smiles. "Squirrel Inc. has always been a company that helps squirrels bury nuts. That's not going to work in the future. The nuts keep getting lost. It's got to become a nut-storing company."
"Going from nut burying to nut storing is a pretty big transition," I say.
"It's too much for them," she says. "Squirrels have always buried nuts as a matter of instinct. But it's not going to work anymore. Humans keep digging up their gardens. The nut-loss rate is just too great. It worked wonders for us, all those years. But now those years are over."
"Your idea is pretty clear?" I say.
"Couldn't be clearer," she says.
"Then you're halfway home. Most of the time, Dio would say, the problem in getting an idea across is right there in the first step."
"What's that?"
"Getting clear on the purpose," I say. "What's the change you're aiming for? It sounds like the easiest thing to be clear about. It should be obvious. So many squirrels come in here, all upset, but when you pin them down and get them to say what change they want, they don't really know. They haven't thought it through. So you're way ahead of the game. You've already got a clear idea of what change you're trying to make. You've already taken the first step."
She looks at me intently. "OK, wise guy, what's the second step?"
"You really want to do this?"
"Yes," she says, "I do."
"Then think of an incident."
"Think of an incident?"
"Exactly. Think of an example where this has already happened successfully, even in part."
"You mean, make something up?"
"No. That's not going to work. You need a true story. It's the truth of the story that springs the listener to a new level of understanding. I'm talking about a real-life incident where this actually happened."
"There isn't any."
"Think harder!"
"This idea is new for Squirrel Inc.," she says. "It's a nut-burying company, not a nut-storing company."
"Has any other company done it?"
"Not that I know of."
"You mean no squirrel has ever set about storing acorns rather than burying them? Ever?"
"Nope."
"Not even outside the company?"
"Well," she says, "there were a couple of squirrels I once heard about."
"Tell me more."
"I know a squirrel called Skip."
"So I gather."
"Skip and I were going together, but then he went to live in another city."
"And?"
"Well, he told me about some squirrels there. They experimented with storing acorns, and everyone said they were crazy."
"Did it work for them?"
"It worked beautifully," she says, "for part of the winter. They sat back and relaxed and ate their stores of acorns. But they didn't store enough. They ran out in January."
"So there was a case where this actually happened."
"That's what Skip told me."
"And it worked?"
"In part," she says. "Not as well as it might have if they'd stored enough acorns and had the proper storage conditions. But, yes, in part, it worked."
"What do you know about the squirrels who tried it?"
"Skip said they were a mixed bag. A new-age group."
"What else do you know about them?"
"They were a wild bunch," she says. "You know, doing odd stuff, except for one nifty squirrel who focused on hickory nuts because they lasted longer. He made it through to February. His name was Timmy."
"Timmy?"
"The only normal one in the bunch, according to Skip."
"And he almost got through the winter?"
"Not right through," she says. "According to Skip, Timmy didn't store enough nuts with the proper storage conditions, so eventually he had to go out looking for buried nuts. He does the books for some big company."
"So Timmy is not too different from the squirrels you're trying to convince in Squirrel Inc?"
"Maybe," she says.
"Where did this happen?" I ask.
"The Windy City," she says.
"When?" I ask.
"Last winter," she says. "But I don't get it. What's your point?"
"What we're doing," I say, "is crafting a story that you can use to get Squirrel Inc. to understand the idea of storing nuts and implement it. Giving the date and place signals to the listener's brain that this really did happen."
"But Timmy is only one squirrel," she says, "and even he didn't get through the winter. My idea is about millions of squirrels, all of them getting through the winter by storing nuts. How can a story about a single squirrel convince anyone?"
"You'd be surprised," I say.
"Think about it," she says. "As evidence, a single squirrel is insignificant. Now, if I had a survey showing that lots of squirrels in the Windy City were getting through the winter storing nuts, that might get some attention. But just one squirrel? And that squirrel messed up? Forget it!"
Just then the sun flashes through the leaves for an instant and highlights the troubled expression on her face.
"It's not the number of squirrels involved," I say. "That's thinking with only one side of your brain-the left side. Why don't you try the right side for a change?"
"What do you mean?"
"The left side of the brain analyzes things in a rational way-three threes are nine. The right side of the brain looks at things more creatively. For the right side of the brain, three threes might be nine. But they could also be three hundred and thirty-three. There's always more than one way to understand something."
"But what's in this for Squirrel Inc.?" she says. "They're only interested in the analysis. They don't give a damn about the imagination. Just the bottom line! What do they care about a bunch of mixed-up squirrels in the Windy City? Nada. Rien. Nichts. In Squirrel Inc., three threes are nine, punto! They'll never go for a story."
"That's where you're missing something," I say. "The fact is, we all tell stories. We start doing it when we're little, with our parents, our brothers and sisters, our friends. We tell stories for all sorts of purposes, unconsciously, instinctively, intuitively. We don't have to be taught how to do this. We do it naturally."
"Exactly," she says. "This stuff is for babies."
"That's what we're told when we go to school," I say. "We're told, 'OK, children, now you're going to put aside your toys and your stories. Now you're going to study the significant things-math, algebra, geometry, physics, chemistry.' And so we forget about storytelling."
"But that's just school."
"The same thing happens when we join an organization like Squirrel Inc. It's all about analysis and abstractions. But what do we do after one of these exhausting, boring lessons at school or the even more boring meetings in an organization? We rush outside and ...?"
"We relax," she says.
"But how?" I say. "We tell stories. We tell stories with our friends, our colleagues, our family. Anyone who'll listen. Why? We find it energizing. We find it refreshing. We can do it all day. We can do it all night. Even when we're asleep, we dream in stories. We can't get enough of it. Storytelling is our very nature. We've just pretended to ourselves that we're something that we're not. And the squirrels at Squirrel Inc. are no different.
Continues...
Excerpted from Squirrel Inc. by Stephen Denning Excerpted by permission.
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