Storyworthy Read online

  This book is the helping hand they didn’t have in the caves of Altamira. I mean, in fairness, they didn’t need it back then — they seemed to do just fine at telling stories. But the world has changed a bit over the past thirty-five thousand years, and the book you’re holding is a great resource. I’ve always said that a good storytelling show feels like a cross between therapy, rehab, and hanging out after dinner with friends. The idea of reading a book to get better at telling stories might seem a little academic, but you’re about to find out that this is a book written by someone with a great heart, who believes you’ve got a great life full of stories in you and ahead of you.

  I have to admit I have a soft spot for the way Matt fell into storytelling — that he went to a Moth StorySLAM to make good on a promise, secretly hoping deep down that his name wouldn’t get called. And once he was in that room with everybody, he stuck around, but it’s almost as if he didn’t quite know what good could possibly come from it. Matthew Dicks hasn’t so much written a book about storytelling technique, or angling to get ahead in the smallest waters of the entertainment scene, or marshaling the will and ego to elbow your way past folks. He’s written a book about you and how it would be great to have you hanging out and telling stories with everyone. Even if you don’t quite know what good could possibly come from it.

  — Dan Kennedy, host of The Moth Podcast

  PREFACE

  A Coward Tells a Story

  It’s July 12, 2011. I’m sitting in the Nuyorican Poets Café in downtown Manhattan on a Monday night, though the buzz in the room makes it feel like a Saturday. It’s hot and crowded. A possible firetrap. The smell of stale beer lingers in the air. Hipster is piled upon hipster, sitting in metal folding chairs, standing at the rear of the club, and crowded around small, wobbly tables. A spotlight is trained on a small stage peppered with Igloo coolers, black electrical cords, and audio equipment. A single microphone stands at center stage under the spotlight’s warm glow.

  Dan Kennedy — a man I’ve never met but whose voice I know from his audiobooks and The Moth Podcast — is standing onstage, hosting the show. Dan is lean, with a wry smile and dark hair. He’s in his midthirties. Relaxed. Confident. Everything that I imagined from listening to his voice so many times. Plus, he’s funny. Effortlessly funny. Also sweet. Within minutes, he’s wormed his way into my heart.

  This is my first time attending a Moth StorySLAM. The first time I plan to take the stage and bare my soul. Ten minutes ago, I dropped my name in a canvas tote bag. Dan called it a hat, but I didn’t dare quibble over terminology. All I know is that from that proverbial hat, ten names will be drawn to tell stories.

  I’m praying that my name doesn’t get picked.

  After months of imagining this moment, the last thing I want to do now is perform for this audience. I’m only here because I stupidly promised my friends that I would someday tell a story at The Moth. Now all I want to do is bolt. Either that or sit here silently for the rest of the night. I’d be willing to remain silent the rest of my life if I could avoid going up on that stage.

  Two years ago, my friend Kim recommended that I listen to The Moth’s weekly podcast. The Moth, an international storytelling organization, produces shows that feature true stories told live onstage without notes. Experienced storytellers, terrified rookies like me, and the occasional celebrity take the stage to share meaningful moments from their lives with hundreds and sometimes thousands of people. Kim suspected that I’d enjoy the stories featured on The Moth Podcast, and she was right.

  Listening to The Moth’s storytellers, I instantly fell in love with their vulnerability, humor, and honesty. A Moth story offered me a rare glimpse into an entirely new world. I was amazed by the instant connection I felt to storytellers whom I could not see and did not know.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but even though storytelling seemed mysterious and impossible, I was already immersed in the craft. Whether I was delivering a talk about my latest novel or speaking to parents during an open house or even flirting with my future wife, it turns out that I have been telling stories for a long time.

  More importantly, I also had a natural affinity for sharing my less-than-noble moments with others. I’ve always known that embarrassment could get a laugh. Telling about my most shameful and foolish moments had always brought me closer to listeners. Honesty is attractive. A friend of mine once said that I “live out loud.” It describes me well.

  Perhaps I first learned this lesson on the page. Having written a blog since 2004, I’ve long understood the power of unbridled honestly and unflinching vulnerability. I’ve managed to capture the attention of a sizable audience by writing openly and truthfully about my life. I’ve established friendships with people from around the world through the power of my words. But this was new. Listening to a storyteller share a private story so openly in front of an audience captivated me.

  I eagerly awaited Tuesday afternoons for the new episodes of The Moth Podcast to drop. I researched other storytelling podcasts and began listening to them too. Consuming stories in greater and greater numbers. I didn’t know it yet, but I had begun my education in storytelling.

  Over the course of the next year, The Moth grew in popularity, and as it did, more and more people began finding their podcast. Friends who’d become fans of The Moth were soon calling me, telling me that I should go to New York and tell a story.

  “You’ve led such a horrible life!” they’d say. “Your life has really sucked. You’d be great at storytelling.”

  Although I wouldn’t say that my life has sucked, they weren’t entirely wrong. To say my life has been colorful would be an understatement. The short list of moments that my friends were referring to includes:

  •Paramedics brought me back to life through CPR on two separate occasions.

  •I was arrested, jailed, and tried for a crime I did not commit.

  •I was robbed at gunpoint. Handguns pressed against my head. Triggers pulled.

  •I lived with a family of Jehovah’s Witnesses, sharing a small room off their kitchen with a guy named Rick, who spoke in tongues in his sleep, and with the family’s indoor pet goat.

  •I was the victim of a widespread, anonymous smear campaign that included a thirty-seven-page packet of excerpted, highly manipulated blog posts that was sent to the mayor, the town council, the school board, and more than three hundred families in the school district where I teach. This packet compared me to the Virginia Tech killer and demanded that I be fired, along with my wife (who was teaching with me at the time) and my principal. If I wasn’t fired, the authors of the letter warned us, the packet would be sent to the press, and legal action would commence.

  •I discovered that I am a carrier of a gene that will ultimately lead to a disease that killed my grandfather, my aunt, and my mother.

  That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

  My friend Rachel recently told me about the time that her alarm company called as she and her husband were driving home from Cape Cod. “Your house might be on fire,” the representative from the alarm company warned. “We’re sending the fire department over right now just in case.”

  Rachel and her husband, David, spent the next twenty minutes wondering if their house was a smoldering pile of ash before finally pulling onto their street and discovering it was a false alarm.

  “Oh!” I said excitedly when she was finished telling her story. “That reminds me of the time my house caught fire when I was a kid, and firefighters pulled me from my bed while I was asleep!”

  “Of course that happened!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I have a story about my house possibly burning down, and you have a story about an actual fire, complete with firefighters and a midnight rescue. Is there anything that hasn’t happened to you?”

  It was a good point. I’ve led a difficult life in many regards.

  So as more of my friends began finding The Moth Podcast and listening to the stories, more and more of them began reaching out
, encouraging me to go to New York and tell a story for The Moth.

  Tell the story about the time you went headfirst through the windshield and died on the side of the road!

  What about the time you accidentally flashed our sixth-grade math class?

  What about the time you called your dog back across the street into the path of an oncoming truck?

  Tell the story about the time you were hired as a stripper for a bachelorette party in the crew room of a McDonald’s!

  Weren’t you hypnotized onstage once and somehow ended up completely naked in front of the entire audience?

  “Yes!” I told my friends. “I’ll go to New York and tell a story.”

  They were excited. They were certain that I would succeed. They were so enthusiastic that I couldn’t help but get excited too. I was going to tell a story for The Moth. I told everyone about my plan. I was going to take the stage at a Moth StorySLAM in New York City and compete against the best storytellers in the world. I was going to bare my soul just as I had heard so many storytellers do on the podcast. I couldn’t wait.

  Then I didn’t go.

  Despite my excitement, I also knew the truth: I wasn’t a storyteller. I didn’t know the first thing about storytelling. I was a novelist. I made my living by inventing my characters and plots. I didn’t tell true stories. I wasn’t burdened by annoying facts and inconvenient truths. My talent lay in making up stuff quietly in a room by myself.

  Not only did I have no idea how to craft a true personal story, but I was also terrified about performing in front of hundreds of disaffected New York hipsters wearing organic denim rompers and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. They were the cool kids from high school who listened to underground indie bands and oozed irony. I was terrified. Though I’d been working as a wedding DJ for almost two decades and was more than comfortable speaking to large audiences, I’d never actually performed in front of an audience before. No one had ever expected me to be entertaining or funny or vulnerable or honest. I simply steered the party in the right direction. Kept the best man sober and on his feet through his toast. Introduced “Mr. and Mrs.” to their wedding guests for the very first time. Coaxed overwrought aunts and exhausted coworkers onto the dance floor for the Electric Slide. Mainly I spoke clearly and played music. I wasn’t prepared for the high-stakes world of storytelling.

  So instead of heading to New York, I remained safely at home. I taught my fifth graders, DJed my weddings, wrote my novels, and avoided The Moth. I made excuses, which were really lies.

  I’ll go over winter break.

  I promise I’ll go once I finish my next novel.

  Maybe I’ll give it a shot during my school’s April vacation.

  I’ll just wait until this school year ends.

  I’ll go next year.

  I became an excuse machine. The excuses became part of a playlist of lies that was perpetually cued up in my head and fell instantly from my lips. Each excuse was worse than the last. Each excuse made me feel worse than the last. And it was getting hard to keep my excuses straight — which ones I’d told to which group of friends.

  Then I had an idea. Rather than performing for strangers in New York City, I’d start my own storytelling organization in my hometown. I had no idea what that might entail, but anything sounded better than New York.

  Yes, I decided that it would be easier to write a business plan, explore nonprofit status, negotiate contracts with venues, book storytellers, and purchase sound and recording equipment than it would be to stand on a stage in Manhattan and tell a five-minute story. Better to launch a company so I could tell stories for friends and family than compete against seasoned professionals in front of complete strangers.

  This was the solution. I would create an opportunity to tell stories in a warm, safe, and accepting environment somewhere nearby. Maybe even right around the corner from my home. Brilliant.

  Then I didn’t do that either. Just as I did with performing for The Moth, I delayed. I made excuses. I assured my friends that I’d begin producing my own storytelling show any day. I’d find the perfect venue and launch an organization dedicated to storytelling and modeled after The Moth. But instead of doing that, I deflected their inquiries. Pushed back time lines. Made more and more excuses. Just like when I’d gone to New York to perform, I was afraid.

  My failure to follow through on my promises began eating away at me. This was one of the only times in life when I’d said that I was going to do something without any real intention of doing it. Guilt and shame began to weigh on me. I started to think of myself as a coward. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to come clean. I had to do the thing I was afraid to do.

  In June of 2011, I told my wife, Elysha, that I needed to go to New York and tell a story. I said that I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t. “One and done,” I said over a dinner of chicken and rice. “I’ll check it off the list and never look back.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, far too nonchalantly for my taste. Elysha has this consistent, annoying confidence in my abilities. She assumes that I’m capable of almost anything, which both undermines her appreciation for my abject terror and sets expectations far too high for my liking.

  “I’ll get tickets,” she said, thus spelling my doom.

  This is how I find myself sitting at a wobbly table in a packed performance space, praying that Dan Kennedy won’t call my name. With luck, I can return home and tell my friends that I tried like hell to tell a story at The Moth. Bad luck got in my way, I’d explain. My name remained stuck in the bag. This failed attempt at storytelling might buy me a year of dignity. Maybe my friends would forget about my promise entirely.

  Things are looking good for me. Name after name has been drawn from the hat, which really is a tote bag, despite what Dan Kennedy continues to say, and my name has yet to be called. Storytellers have taken the stage and told their stories on the theme of “ego.” I’ve liked most of the stories too. Overall the storytellers seemed to know what they were doing and adored the spotlight, although not everything has gone perfectly for them. An older man who called himself Uncle Frank told a story that referred to his penis. When Dan Kennedy asked for scores from the three teams of judges, each held up two white cards indicating the storyteller’s score on a ten-point scale (though it appeared to really be a 7.0–10-point scale, with tenths of a point differentiating stories).

  Except that one of the teams ignored the 7.0–10 norm and gave Uncle Frank a 5.0, a score so low that it didn’t make any sense. His story wasn’t bad at all. I really enjoyed it. I flinched when the score was announced, almost as if I’d been the one scored poorly. The score seemed harsh and irrational. More to the point, the scoring suddenly seemed unpredictable and terrifying. I didn’t know Uncle Frank at the time, but already I wanted to hug him.

  “What’s up with the score?” Dan Kennedy asked the judging team who’d rated Uncle Frank the lowest. “You really think his story was that bad?” Dan’s quick defense of Uncle Frank reassured me.

  “I heard that guy tell a story last week,” one of the female judges yelled. “He talked about his penis in that story too. I’m sick of his penis.”

  The room burst into laughter and applause. Dan laughed. Even Frank managed a smirk.

  Instead of laughing, I tensed up. My story didn’t refer to my penis, but I had a few penis-related jokes about my last name. I wondered if these references might not sit well with the judges either.

  But it looks as though I need not worry. The night is nearly over. Nine names have been drawn from the tote bag, and mine is still safely inside. Just one to go, and I can escape this night unscathed.

  Dan opens the final slip of paper and reads the name:

  “Matthew Dicks.”

  I freeze. I can’t believe he’s called my name. I was convinced that I was in the clear. I’d already begun the mental drive on I-95 back to Connecticut as the conquering hero. I was already preparing my tale of woe:

  “I
put my name in the tote bag at The Moth. Sadly, it wasn’t drawn, but still, mission accomplished. I tried, damn it, which is more than I can say for a lot of people. I’ll try again someday, maybe.”

  Now those dreams are dashed under the weight of having to walk onstage and tell a story.

  Then it occurs to me: No one in the club knows me. I’m a stranger in a strange land. If I don’t move or say a word, Dan will eventually give up on Matthew Dicks and call another name. This has already happened during the first half of the show. A name was drawn, and the storyteller failed to materialize. Dan tossed the paper aside and drew another. I can do the same thing. I can just sit still and remain silent.

  That is exactly what I do. I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. Then Elysha’s foot connects solidly with my shin. I look up.

  “That’s your name,” she says. “Move it.”

  I’m trapped. I have to tell my story. My terrible wife is making me. I rise and slowly make my way to the stage. I ascend the steps and find myself standing beside Dan Kennedy. He shakes my hand and smiles, acting as if this stage is no big deal. As if standing in front of a throng of expectant New Yorkers is something we do every day. I’m a little starstruck.

  As Dan begins to step aside to allow me to approach the microphone, Jenifer Hixon, the show’s producer, calls out to Dan, reminding him that he hasn’t recorded the scores for the previous storyteller yet.

  Dan turns to me. “Sorry,” he says. “Wait just a minute.” He motions for me to step off the stage so he and Jenifer can record scores from the judges on a large paper chart.

  Instead I remain onstage. I stumble over to the coolers along the wall and sit. I don’t want to tell my story. I don’t want to compete. I don’t want to be here at all. I want to go home and forget this stupid idea forever. But if I’m going to tell my story to this room of storytelling connoisseurs and judgmental New Yorkers, I want to do well. I don’t want to look like a fool. With this in mind, it occurs to me that spending a couple minutes onstage, getting a sense of the space and lighting and the audience, might help.