Storyworthy

by Matthew Dicks

  3.I’m also reinforcing grammar. Students are forced to compose their thoughts in a single sentence and must avoid run-on sentences.

  4.I’m teaching and encouraging active listening.

  When a student tells us something that is genuinely interesting, I often ask follow-up questions. Sometimes I allow the student to expound upon the moment. Occasionally a student will even tell a story.

  It was while I was listening to one of these stories that it finally occurred to me why I despise so many of them: the word and.

  My students tend to connect sentences, paragraphs, and scenes together with the word and more than with any other conjunction. This results in terrible stories.

  Here is a word-for-word account of one of my students’ stories:

  My cousin Lisa came over for a sleepover, and we went to bed on time and we didn’t sleep. When everyone was asleep we snuck downstairs and watched TV. And my parents heard us, and they thought the voices on the TV were burglars robbing the house and they called the police. They didn’t wake us up because they didn’t want us to be scared and they didn’t check my room. My dad waited upstairs with a baseball bat. The police came to the house and saw us watching TV through the window. They called my parents and told them that it was us downstairs, and we got in so much trouble.

  This is a story with a lot of potential. It at least has the makings of a solid, amusing anecdote, but it is told poorly. In the monotonous storytelling voice of a child, even an amusing anecdote can become agony.

  Once I realized the mistake that my students were making, I started listening to adults, and I quickly realized that even experienced storytellers onstage do the same thing. A clear majority of human beings tend to connect their sentences, paragraphs, and scenes together with the word and.

  This is a mistake. The ideal connective tissue in any story are the words but and therefore, along with all their glorious synonyms. These buts and therefores can be either explicit or implied.

  “And” stories have no movement or momentum. They are equivalent to running on a treadmill. Sentences and scenes appear, one after another, but the movement is straightforward and unsurprising. The momentum is unchanged.

  But and therefore are words that signal change. The story was heading in one direction, but now it’s heading in another. We started out zigging, but now we are zagging. We did this, and therefore this new thing happened.

  I think of it as continually cutting against the grain of the story. Rather than stretching a flat line from beginning to end, the storyteller should seek to create a serrated line cutting back and forth, up and down, along the path of the story. We are still headed in the same direction, but the best storytellers don’t take a straight line to get there.

  Look at my student’s story rewritten with this but-and-therefore principle. I’ve bolded all the buts and therefores and all their synonyms, and I’ve added the implied equivalents in parentheses as well.

  My cousin Lisa came over for a sleepover, but we had no intention of sleeping. We went to bed on time, but we didn’t close our eyes. Instead we snuck downstairs when everyone was asleep to watch TV. But my parents heard us, except it wasn’t us they heard. It was the TV. They heard the strange voices of our television program. Instead of investigating the voices, they (therefore) assumed that burglars were robbing the house, so they called the police. But they didn’t wake us up because they didn’t want us to be scared, so Dad waited upstairs with a baseball bat. The police came to the house, but instead of finding burglars stealing our few precious belongs, they found us watching TV. (Therefore) they called my parents and told them that it was us downstairs, watching television. (As a result,) we got in so much trouble.

  Better. Right? Can we see how the sentences constantly cut against each other to add momentum, change, and action?

  Let’s look at the first few paragraphs of “Charity Thief.” I’ll make the same notations of the buts and therefores, along with their synonyms.

  It’s the fall of 1991. I’m twenty years old. I’m driving down a lonely stretch of New Hampshire highway. I’m driving home from the very first booty call of my entire life, and I’m excited because (but) I don’t know that this is also going to be the very last booty call of my entire life.

  It’s in this moment of excitement that the right front tire of my 1976 Chevy Malibu blows out, but it doesn’t just deflate. It disintegrates. It throws rubber and wire across the road in a way I didn’t think was possible, and (therefore) it takes everything I have to get the car over to the shoulder and to a stop.

  And it’s 1991. (Therefore) I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t have a spare tire. I haven’t seen a car on this stretch of road for a long time. So (therefore) I do the only thing I can think of doing: I start hiking back up the road to search for help.

  Seven hours later, after having given all my money to a half-naked mountain man named Winston in exchange for a balding spare tire, I’m (therefore) back on the road, heading home, a hundred miles between me and my apartment in Attleboro, Massachusetts, when I look at the instrument panel and (therefore) see that I have no gas.

  All the money I had — every penny to my name — is in the hands of a half-naked mountain man. I don’t have a credit card. I don’t have an ATM card. I don’t even have a checking account.

  So I take the next exit and roll my car into a Citgo station, and as I park the car on the edge of the lot, facing a field of fall foliage, I grip the steering wheel in anger. I’m angry, but I’m also sad. I’m twenty years old. I’m a McDonald’s manager. I make $7.25 an hour, and (but) I am the richest person I know. My mother is living on welfare with my pregnant teenage sister. My brother joined the army a year ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. My father disappeared from my life ten years ago. (Therefore) the only person I know who can help me, who even has a credit card or a car that can make this hundred-mile trip to New Hampshire, is my friend Bengi, and he is off on some college weekend. (Therefore) I can’t get in touch with him, because in 1991, when you want to call someone, you need to make a phone ring on a wall, and (but) you need to make that phone ring at the moment the person you want to speak to is near that phone, and (but) you need the number for the phone to make it ring, and (therefore) all of that is impossible for me to get.

  This was not the plan for my life. I’m sitting behind the wheel, staring into a field of bright colors, yet I feel anything but bright. I was not supposed to be this alone this early in my life. You’re not supposed to be twenty years old and have absolutely no one in your life to call for help. As I sit there in my car, staring into that field of orange and yellow, I (therefore) see my future ahead of me. An endless series of moments just like this one, when I need help but will have none.

  So I make a plan. I’m going to beg for gas, because it’s 1991. Gas is eighty-five cents a gallon, so eight dollars is all I need to get me home. I’ll offer my license, my wallet, everything in my car as collateral in exchange for eight dollars’ worth of gas and the promise that I will return and repay the money and more. Whatever it takes.

  So I rehearse my pitch, take a deep breath, and walk in. There’s a kid behind the counter, probably about my age. I tell him my problem. I ask him to help. I make my offer. (But) the kid refuses. He doesn’t want to risk his job.

  Do you see the way the sentences, paragraphs, and scene work against each other? They either oppose the previous sentence (it was this, but now it’s this) or they compile the previous sentences into a new idea (this plus this equal this).

  This is effective storytelling. It’s a way of making a story feel as if it’s constantly going someplace new, even if the events are linear and predictable.

  It’s the difference between these two statements:

  I loved Heather since sixth grade, but as much as I loved her, she was never mine.

  I loved Heather since sixth grade. She was never my girlfriend.

  One feels better than the other, doesn’t it?

  Th
e first example has a single sentence that accomplishes much more than the two sentences in the second example. That single sentence:

  1.Climbs to the summit of a hill (I loved Heather since sixth grade . . .).

  2.Rests at the top for a moment (. . . but as much as I loved her . . .).

  3.Falls down the backside of that hill (. . . she was never mine).

  It zigs and then zags. It says this and then that. The two clauses work against each other, creating a sense of action and movement.

  The second example consists of two independent sentences. They are related, for sure, but they’re not working in concert with each other. They are not connected by opposition or culmination. The second example is flatter and less interesting than the first. It contains the same information, but it does not move. It doesn’t cut against the grain of the flat line of the story. It hugs the line. There is less unexpectedness and surprise. Less movement. Less delight.

  Once I noticed this truth about storytelling, I went back and listened to my own stories and found myself “butting” and “thereforeing” my way through all of them. It’s a natural tendency that I seem to have developed somewhere along the way, probably thanks to the writing that I’ve been doing all my life.

  I discovered that I had unconsciously embraced this but-and-therefore principle long ago, even though I could certainly be butting and thereforeing more strategically and consistently.

  I started teaching this technique in workshops, and my students adopted it quickly. As my students’ ands became buts and therefores, their stories improved almost immediately. Performances that felt flat and lukewarm suddenly had an energy and spirit to them that had previously been unrealized.

  Students reported that using this technique also helped them craft their stories. They suddenly had a better sense of direction. They could better determine how the next scene should open. One student said, “I feel like I know where to go next in my stories. When I’m stuck, I just look for the but and the therefore.”

  About a year after I stumbled upon this principle, a student directed me to an online video of Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the creators and writers of South Park. They had joined a college writing class at NYU and described stumbling upon this principle as well.

  Parker and Stone explained that as they storyboard each scene in their show, they have found that they must be able to connect the scenes (they refer to them as beats) with a but or a therefore for the next scene to work. If the words and then can be placed between any two scenes, Parker says, “You’re fucked.”

  Matt Stone says it’s this “causation between each scene that makes a story.” This happens, therefore that happens, but then this happens, therefore that happens.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one to discover this principle. At least I’m in good company.

  Stone is right. It’s the causation, or the causal links between sentences, paragraphs, and scenes that make a story. It’s the interconnectedness of moments that brings meaning to an otherwise linear collection of events connected only by time and space.

  Just listen to someone tell you about their vacation to Europe or their weekend at the beach. It’s almost never a good story. It’s almost never something you want to hear. Why?

  “First we went here, and it was amazing, and then we went here, and it was also amazing, and then we saw this, which was so amazing.”

  Kill me.

  But this is how people often tell stories of their vacations. Instead of talking about a moment of great meaning they have had, they instead recite the itinerary, adding in descriptions and food choices for each place they visited. This is not a story. It’s a boring, meaningless stroll down memory lane.

  Stories are not a simple recounting of events. They are not a thorough reporting of moments over a given period of time. Stories are the crafted representation of events that are related in such a way to demonstrate change over time in the life of the teller. Applying the but-and-therefore principle to your stories, both formal and anecdotal, will make you the kind of person people want to listen to.

  One other aspect to the but-and-therefore principle: the power of the negative.

  Oddly, the negative is almost always better than the positive when it comes to storytelling. Saying what something or someone is not is almost always better than saying what something or someone is. For example:

  I am dumb, ugly, and unpopular.

  I’m not smart, I’m not at all good-looking, and no one likes me.

  The second sentence is better, isn’t it? Here’s why: it contains a hidden but. It presents both possibilities. Unlike the first sentence, which only offers single descriptors, the second sentence offers a binary. It presents the potential of being smart and not smart, good-looking and not good-looking, popular and unpopular.

  The second sentence really says this: I could be smart, but I’m dumb. I could be good-looking, but I’m ugly. I could be popular, but no one likes me.

  By saying what I am not, I am also saying what I could have been, and that is a hidden but.

  This probably sounds a little wonky and overspecific, but it makes a real difference when speaking to people.

  “I was lost” is just not as good as “I could not find my way home.”

  “Heather is my ex-girlfriend” is not as good as “Heather is no longer my girlfriend.”

  “I was penniless” is not as good as “I didn’t have a penny to my name.”

  This isn’t always true, of course. A short, positive statement at the end of a paragraph of description can often serve as an amusing button to a scene.

  Heather laughed at me when I wasn’t trying to be funny. She refused my offer of a birthday cupcake, claiming she’d already had a cupcake that day, even though it was only 9:30 AM. She chose to walk five miles home from school, even though I offered her a ride and she lived next door to me. Heather despised me.

  That short, positive statement at the end of the paragraph serves to summarize all that came before. Inflection and timing can make that simple sentence amusing. It might even get a laugh.

  But did you notice the three sentences before that last one? Each one of them contained an implied hidden but.

  Heather laughed at me when (but) I wasn’t trying to be funny.

  She refused my offer of a birthday cupcake, claiming she’d already had a cupcake that day, even though (but) it was only 9:30 AM.

  She chose to walk five miles home from school, even though (but) I offered her a ride and she lived next door to me.

  Three sentences embracing the power of the negative, followed by a single, positive statement to summarize.

  Simple, positive statements are also preferred when answering questions. In answer to the question, “Who is Heather?” a statement like “my ex-girlfriend” is more effective than “She was once my girlfriend.” Short answers to simple questions should never feel dramatic or crafted.

  “She was once my girlfriend” does not pass the Dinner Test.

  But when telling a story, these negative statements often serve the storyteller better. By presenting a binary option, they provide depth and potential to a story. They infuse a story with movement, momentum, and action. The audience feels as if they’re going places as they climb and descend the hills of possibility.

  STORY BREAK

  Storytelling Makes You Just Like Family

  I flew into Chicago on a stormy day in December 2016 to perform for the Champaign-Urbana Mass Transit District holiday party. I was supposed to catch a connecting flight to the Champaign airport, but a snowstorm had canceled the flight. Karl, the CEO, picked me up at the airport. It was about a two-hour drive through cornfields from Chicago to Champaign.

  When Karl picked me up, he informed me that he had just left his family’s holiday party, which was a short drive from the airport. He needed to return to pick up his wife and kids before we all headed to Champaign together.

  “Would you mind coming in for a few minutes?” he asked. “The
family sort of knows who you are. They’d like to meet you.”

  I agreed, of course.

  I was greeted by a raucous group of partygoers who knew more about me than I had expected. It felt as if they had spent the entire day watching my YouTube channel. They hugged me like a long-lost friend. Clapped me on the back like a neighborhood pal. It was sweet.

  This is a truth about storytelling: You develop an inverse relationship with your audience. The more you tell, the better the audience knows you, particularly given the nature of the stories we tell. It’s common for me to meet someone who knows a great deal of my personal history while I don’t know the person’s first name.

  It also means that you can find yourself celebrating Christmas with a family in Illinois, who welcome you in like one of their own, while you struggle to keep track of who is who.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “This Is Going to Suck”

  I’m going to tell you another story now. I mentioned it in a previous chapter, so you may have already listened to it on the “Storyworthy the Book” YouTube channel. If you haven’t, you should, if possible. It’s always better to listen to a story told live.

  I’m placing the story here because it serves as an excellent model for the next couple of chapters. I first told this story at a Moth GrandSLAM in New York City. I finished in first place that night, then I expanded the story and told it at a Moth Mainstage in Pittsburgh. It’s since aired on The Moth Radio Hour.

  It’s December 23, 1988. I’m seventeen years old. I’m coming out of a record store. As I hit the sidewalk, my friend Pat sees me. He asks me what’s in the shopping bag I’m holding. I tell him it’s a concert T-shirt. It’s a Christmas present for Bengi, our friend, and my best friend. A surprise Christmas present.