Storyworthy. Matthew Dicks

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ