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.