The performance version of your story and the casual, dinner-party version of your story should be kissing cousins. Different, for sure, but not terribly different.
This means that you should not build in odd hand gestures. When I see a storyteller mime the birth of an idea with hands that flutter like butterfly wings over their head, I think, “You would never do that at the dinner table. Why now? This isn’t a theatrical production. You’re just telling a story.”
This means that when I hear a storyteller say that the purple pansies were particularly pleasant on their plush pillow of purple petunias, I think, “No one talks like that. This isn’t poetry. You’re just telling a story. No one would ever have dinner with someone who talked like that.”
This means that when I hear a storyteller begin their story with dialogue like “Mom, I told you not to look under my bed!” or even a random sound like, “Boom!” I think, “I would not eat dinner with someone who started their story with unattributed dialogue. Why do storytellers think that this is a good idea?”
Just imagine how this might sound:
Me: Hi, Tom. How was your day?
Tom: Not bad. Did I tell you about Liz and the dog?
Me: No. What happened?
Tom: (pauses for a moment and then begins) “Liz, I’m taking the dog for a walk around the lake!” The screen door slams as Fido and I run toward the water.
Me: Check, please.
If you wouldn’t tell your story at dinner that way, for goodness’ sake don’t tell it onstage that way. Storytelling is not theater. It is not poetry. It should be a slightly more crafted version of the story you would tell your buddies over beers.
When telling a story to an audience, we play a game with them: we pretend that we are speaking completely off the cuff. Extemporaneous storytelling, unprepared and unrehearsed. This is not usually true. While most storytellers don’t memorize their stories (and I strongly advise against it), they are prepared to tell them. They have memorized specific beats in a story. They know their beginning and ending lines. They have memorized certain laugh lines. They have a plan in place before they begin speaking.
As a player in this game, the audience also pretends that the story is extemporaneous. Off the cuff. Unprepared and unpracticed. This is what the audience wants. They want to feel that they are being told a story. They don’t want to see someone perform a story.
The audience and the storyteller find a common space in between the extemporaneous and the memorized, and this is where the best stories ideally reside.
My hope is that all my stories occupy this space. If they do, they will pass the Dinner Test. The stories that I tell onstage for thousands of people should be similar to the versions that I would tell for just one person. I would be less methodical at the dinner table, of course. I would allow for interruptions. I might be more inclined to offer an amusing observation or an aside. But essentially it should be the same story.
This is the Dinner Test. It will guarantee that you don’t sound “performancy” or inauthentic. It will ensure that your audience will think of you as a regular human being. It will prevent you from sounding like the occasional Broadway actor who finds his way downtown to The Moth to tell a story, complete with dramatic flourishes and over-the-top vocalization. We hate those people at The Moth. We also hate people who behave that way in real life. Don’t be one of those people.
Okay, now you know what a story is and is not. Time to find some good ones.
I’m eating dinner with my family. I’m sitting at the table with my wife, Elysha, my daughter, Clara, who is five at the time, and my son, Charlie, who’s almost three. We’re all enjoying our meal except for Charlie. Charlie is not eating his dinner. Charlie never eats his dinner. Tonight we’re having chicken nuggets, and as I hand him a nugget, Charlie throws it onto the floor. Every chicken nugget that I place in front of him ends up on the hardwood, and we have the only dog in the world that won’t eat table scraps. She’s sitting at my feet, watching these tiny poultry bombs land all around her. She stares at them blankly.
I’m losing my mind. I’m losing my mind because my daughter, Clara, has never thrown a piece of food in her entire life.
She’s perfect. She’s just like me.
But Charlie is not. For whatever reason, Charlie throws food at every meal, and it doesn’t matter if it’s chopped liver or chocolate-covered chocolate. It all ends up on the floor. So I turn to Elysha and I ask, “What are we going to do about Charlie and the food?”
Elysha tells me that she’s taking Charlie to the pediatrician tomorrow for his regular checkup, and says she’ll ask the doctor for advice.
“Great,” I say. I love it when experts solve my problems.
Twenty-four hours later, we’re back at the table having dinner. Tonight it’s peas. It turns out that Charlie is an Olympic pea-throwing champion. It’s as if he’s somehow turned them into antigravity peas. He can make them roll from the dining room to the kitchen with ease, and he thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world.
I think he could probably roll peas upstairs if I gave him the chance.
Once again, I’m losing my mind, so I turn to Elysha and ask, “What did the doctor say about Charlie and the food?”
Elysha stops eating. She puts her fork down and takes a deep breath. I sense that something important is coming. I steel myself.
She says, “The doctor said that when Charlie throws food, we have to take all the food away from him, and I know that’s going to be hard for you.”
She’s right. It’s going to be hard for me to take all the food away from Charlie, but I don’t know why she would say something like that. I’ve always been perfectly capable of punishing my kids when needed. As an elementary-school teacher, I understand the value of painful consequences.
“Why do you say it’s going to be hard?” I ask.
She takes another deep breath. “I know that when you were a little boy, you didn’t always have enough food to eat, so taking away food from Charlie is going to be hard for you.”
This is true too, but I’ve never told Elysha about my childhood hunger. I’ve never told anyone that when I was a boy, I was hungry most of the time. It’s a secret that I’ve kept close to my heart, hidden away for decades, because when you’re poor and hungry, the last thing you do is tell anyone in the world that you are poor and hungry. It’s a source of great shame and embarrassment, especially when you’re a child.
But my wife has spent almost ten years with me. She’s listened to me talk about my childhood. She’s heard my stories. She’s figured it out. She knows my secret.
Then she tells me that every morning, when I put together Clara’s lunch for school, I pack more food into her lunch box than a child could ever eat in a single day. Then after I’ve left for work, Elysha comes downstairs and unpacks the lunch box. She’s never wanted to tell me this, because she knows how important it is to me to send my kids to school with enough food every day. More than enough food.
I’m sitting at my dining-room table, staring across at my wife, when I realize that she knows me better than any person in the world. She probably knows my heart better than I do. It’s a moment I will never forget.
Here’s the thing about that story: We experience moments like this all the time. This one may sound special and unique and maybe even beautiful, but only because I’ve crafted this particular