Everyone has one killer story. If you have two, you’re a storyteller. Either way, you can and should do at least one Moth Story Slam.

The Moth is a live storytelling show, a form of expression and entertainment that has drawn some cultural attention over the last few decades without ever having a proper “moment.” The scene is less commerce-driven and drama-clogged than comedy, whether improv or standup. You’ll make friends with other storytellers, which is easy because you already know things about them that many of their friends and relatives don’t.

Moth Story Slams are live events in which randos from all walks of life take turns getting on stage and telling stories to often large, generally supportive audiences. When it comes to live storytelling, the Moth isn’t the only game in town, but it’s the biggest. Most serious cities have one. The Moth Radio Hour, one of its popular brand-line extensions, airs on radio stations that also air This American Life, which is actually a bigger game but a very hard one to get into. 

By contrast, anyone can perform at the Moth. It’s basically an open mic with a lottery system. You show up, put your name in, and nervously wait to be called, not knowing when or if it might happen. You are judged by… You know what? Ignore the judging system. It’s chaos.

This may not sound like something you’d do voluntarily on a weeknight. And yet, I’ve done it many, many times, and I think you should, too, for a number of reasons.

You are smarter, funnier, and more interesting than you think you are. Even if you’re not, to reiterate, everyone has at least one killer story. 

Character is forged in conflict, and the only way to meanigfully grow is to face our fears. If you’re like most other people, you have a serious fear of public speaking, which is much less scary than you think it is and thus a relatively easy fear to conquer compared to a fear of dry-diving off a skyscraper while being eaten alive by spiders. 

If you’re a writer or performer of any sort, you should perform live, in front of people, to strengthen your material. I much prefer writing and podcasting and would never, ever trade those for the life of a road-dog comedian, but one reason they’re easier is I’m playing with stacked decks. I see much more improvement in a real-time crucible filled with hostile, envious strangers. 

If you’re not a performer, you should be one for a night, just to understand why you shouldn’t trust anyone just because they happen to be holding a microphone. This is at least one one thing the punks were right about, and live storytelling is the easiest way to do it because everyone has at least one killer story.

One thing I can’t do is tell you how to win a Moth Story Slam, because I never have, despite coming excruciatingly close several times. I have been featured on Risk and other serious shows, so I’m not entirely unaware of what I’m taking about.

So! Now that you’re 100% on board and ready to do exactly whatever I tell you to, here’s what you need to do before you sign up for a Moth Story Slam.

Pick a story from your life.

It has to be true. Although you’re, as we said, a wonderful specimen of humanity, you don’t have the talent of a Hasan Minhaj, a Mike Daisey, or even George Santos that it takes to pull off a good lie in front of a large group. On stage, you’ll give yourself away, and even if you succeed as a fraud, that life is its own punishment.

It has to be about something that happened to you. I’m sure the story of how your grandparents fucked on JFK’s corpse is great, but it’s not your story unless the story is about how you felt about it, which your story should be, because if it’s something you feel strongly about, it’s easier to share that intensity with strangers.

It needs a beginning, a middle, and an end. Our minds are relentless pattern-matching machines that are always trying to connect dots and make sense of the ice-cold absurdity of existence. Life is a mess, but as the auteur of your story, you can decide where it starts, where it ends, and what happens in the middle, as long as what happens in the middle is a) surprising in a way that b) makes sense and c) keeps raising the stakes so we stay engaged and entertained.

Certain structures tend to deliver your material better than others and help you make it easy on yourself, as you should, especially the first time.

Rehearse the hell out of your story. When you get on stage, you’re going to go blank, so it’s better, as a rookie, to memorize the story, word for word. You can afford to loosen up later on, if you want.

Use humor judiciously. If you blow a joke, or if you make a joke that seems forced when it’s supposed to be spontaneous, that will suck the energy out of the room. If you kill, you’ll get a lot of laughs, which is a high-quality problem but will seriously eat into your time. At least in LA, they enforce the five-minute limit fairly strictly. The judges will ding you for going over, plus it’s just rude, selfish, and narcissistic to outstay your welcome on stage.

Don’t talk about pain that’s too fresh. We like you, and we don’t want to be actively concerned for your welfare. 

Make sure you don’t win. Winning your first time out is the worst thing you can do, because you’ll keep chasing that dragon forever and, like everyone who succeeds in America, you’ll refuse to admit to yourself that it was 99% dumb luck and drive yourself crazy with your inability to hit that jackpot consistently.

And you may very well want to keep doing this.

After years of zine readings in Chicago and marginal standup comedy in LA, I got into live storytelling when I quit drinking and lost the will to shark for laughs at open mics until 1:00 a.m., seven nights a week. 

I’ve made some of my best friends ever – as a divorced eccentric in his 40s – through live storytelling. It’s habit-forming, and it’s a clean buzz. And you have at least one killer story, and almost certainly dozens, if you give yourself a chance to share them.

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