If you’re telling a story about something that happened in 1960, but at some point you say that your mission was as unlikely as the moon landing, you’ve created a temporal impossibility in the story and likely popped your time-traveling bubble.
Anachronisms are like sledgehammers, reminding us that this story is just a story. It reinforces the idea that we are not traveling through time.
Sometimes, unfortunately, they are also unavoidable.
In “Charity Thief,” I mention that it’s 1991 and cell phones don’t exist. I hate saying this. If cell phones didn’t exist in 1991, then they shouldn’t be spoken of at all in my story.
The only reason I mention the absence of a cell phone is because too many millennials have asked me why I didn’t have a cell phone on that day, so I feel the need to control their wonder by reminding the audience that something that didn’t exist in 1991 did not exist in 1991.
Apparently if you’ve lived in a world where cell phones have always existed, it’s hard to imagine them not existing. Annoying. But in most cases, I avoid these anachronisms at all costs.
Don’t mention the word story in your story.
Phrases like, “But that’s a story for another day,” or “Long story short” serve to remind our audience that we are telling a story. If your audience knows that you’re telling a story, then they’re not time traveling.
Downplay your physical presence as much as possible.
When I tell a story onstage (or even in a workshop or at a conference), I wear blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a hat. I wear this every time. It’s my uniform, chosen because it suits me as a person and is fairly nondescript.
My goal is to downplay my physical presence. I want to increase the likelihood of becoming a disembodied voice in the mind of my audience. I want them to completely forget that I’m standing in front of them.
There was a time when I varied my outfit slightly. I wore graphical T-shirts and other variations of shirts and pants. Then I took the stage in Boston one night wearing a T-shirt featuring a half-dozen storm troopers from Star Wars, sitting on a beam, looking like construction workers. As I adjusted the microphone, a cluster of audience members up front began to laugh.
I looked. Why were they laughing? I listened. They were laughing at the graphic on my shirt.
I didn’t want my audience laughing yet. I didn’t want them looking at me. I didn’t want them taking inventory of my wardrobe or thinking about my shirt at all. From that moment on, I’ve opted for the same bland outfit every time.
This is not to say that jeans and a black T-shirt are my recommendation for everyone. Just don’t wear clothing that might upstage you or attract the audience’s attention during your story.
An audience member once told me, “Listening to you tell a story is like listening to an audiobook.” Exactly what I wanted.
STORY BREAK
I Berate Storytellers at the Worst Moments
I’m sitting in the wings with storytellers at one of our biggest Speak Up shows of the year. We’ve sold out a 550-seat theater in downtown Hartford, and Elysha is center stage, introducing our first storyteller of the night, Jeni Bonaldo. I’m sitting beside Jeni, demanding that she start her first novel.
“Write a sentence a day,” I say. “And then make it a page a day. Write a page a day, and after a year, you’ll have a novel.”
“You’re always berating me for not accomplishing enough,” she says. “It’s never enough for you.”
I’ve just launched into a lecture on the importance of goal setting when I hear Elysha reaching the end of Jeni’s introduction, and I realize that this woman is about to take the biggest stage of her life, and I have just spent the last minute before her performance haranguing her.
As she rises from her chair, I try to tell her how impressed I am with everything that she does. Teacher. Storyteller. Mother. Future novelist. I don’t think she hears a word I say as she steps into the light.
She performs brilliantly. Truly. She is vulnerable and hilarious and heartbreaking. She is beautiful. But it isn’t any thanks to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Words to Say, Words to Avoid
In 2007, a small band of terrible human beings excerpted about ten years’ worth of my blog entries and created a thirty-seven-page packet designed to make me look like a violent, sexually deviant person who was unfit to teach children in a classroom. The authors also accused me of receiving excessive favoritism from my principal and demanded that he and I be fired immediately, along with my wife, who was teaching in the same school at the time. The packet was signed by “The Concerned Parent Body of West Hartford.”
The authors took my words out of context to fabricate a persona that was unlike anything that existed in reality. For example, in one blog post, I wrote about my opposition to placing text on the butts of female clothing. At the time, the Juicy brand was all the rage, so elementary-school-aged girls were walking down the hallways of my school with “Juicy” plastered across their bottoms. I questioned a company’s decision to manufacture this product and the parent’s decision to purchase this clothing and wrote, “Even worse, the eye is naturally and unavoidably drawn to text, so I find myself staring at girls’ butts every day.”
The only line excerpted for the packet was, “I find myself staring at girls’ butts every day,” without any reference to the Juicy brand or my moral outrage against it.
Under the category of favoritism was listed this out-of-context quote: “[My principal] said I can take as much time off as I want. ‘Do whatever you want to do,’ he said.”
The authors failed to include the fact that this was said to me on the day that my mother died.
The authors included photos that I had taken while in Bermuda of the photos of barely clothed models hanging in the storefronts. I wrote the post to criticize the objectification of women for the purposes of selling these products to women, but again, the only thing included in the packet were the photos and the suggestion that I am obsessed with sex.
This kind of deliberate manipulation went on for thirty-seven pages. I wrote about my love of the classic Calvin and Hobbes snowmen, often drawn in morbid and horrific poses, so the authors of the packet implied that this was something I did with regularity. I was compared to the Virginia Tech killer and referred to as “sick,” “deviant,” and “violent.” Page after page of unfair, deceitful characterization.
The authors threatened to send this packet to every family in my school district, as well as the press, if action was not taken immediately. It was sent to the superintendent, the mayor, and every member of the board of education and the town council.
The district placed me on three days of administrative leave in order to conduct an investigation. After three days, the human-resources director found that I was well within my First Amendment rights while writing my blog and had not written anything that would preclude me from teaching children. I had done nothing wrong.
It was a hit job, plain and simple, most likely perpetrated (in the estimation of the human-resources director) by a colleague or former colleague with an ax to grind. He assured me that threats to send material of this nature to the press or public were never acted upon, and I had nothing to worry about. I returned to school triumphant and finished my year.
Two weeks into my summer vacation, the packet was mailed to more than three hundred families in my school district. In addition, it was handed out in driveways. Stuffed under windshield wipers. Copied and distributed widely. Having taken down my blog (at the request of the district), there was no longer any context that readers could apply to the packets. Each of the examples now stood on its own.
A firestorm erupted in my town. It was a long and terrible summer filled with meetings with the superintendent, union representatives, attorneys, and town officials. My realized dream of teaching children was now in jeopardy, and my wife’s career was teetering as well.
Ultimately, the parents of the twenty-three child
ren who were placed in my classroom in the coming school year were given a choice: keep your child in my class or move your child to another class without prejudice.
Because of the inflammatory nature of the packet and the lack of context, the district expected every parent to pull their child from my classroom. If so, it was decided that I would be assigned an administrative position at Town Hall and likely never teach children in my district (perhaps in any school district) ever again.
Of the twenty-three children assigned to my class that year, all twenty-three families opted to keep their children in my classroom. In addition, another twenty families contacted the superintendent, asking to place their child in my class if a spot opened. The superintendent called me and demanded that I stop soliciting support from these parents. I told him (in all honesty) that I had not spoken to a single parent all summer. These were unprompted, unsolicited requests.
“Stuff it,” I told him.
It was a happy ending to a horrible series of events. To this day, I don’t know for certain who the anonymous authors of the packet were. I have evidence of some, but perhaps not all. It’s possible that one of the authors still works in my school district. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about what happened to me and how powerful anonymity can be.
I owe those twenty-three families so much. They knew me. They trusted me. They were willing to look beyond the accusations and supposed evidence and think thoughtfully about me as a person.
But what also saved me was the reputation I had established over my first eight years of teaching and how careful I had been with the words on my blog and in person. While I was admittedly offering controversial opinions and frequently played devil’s advocate on my blog, district officials expressed great appreciation for the fact that I had never mentioned my school district or colleagues by name, never used profanity or vulgarity on my blog, and never promoted my blog to students or colleagues.
My decision to keep my blog clean and free of specific teaching references and vulgarity helped a lot.
I continue to blog daily, but I still don’t swear or speak profanely on my blog. I don’t criticize my school district or my colleagues. You’ll never find a photograph of my holding a beer or drinking wine. I knew what to write and what not to write to preserve my reputation in my community. I knew where the line was, and I often stepped on it but never over it.
It saved me.
As a storyteller, you need to do the same. Whether you are telling a story to a coworker, conducting a presentation in a boardroom, toasting your brother at a wedding, or performing onstage, the words you choose will in part determine how your audience perceives you. It will impact the opinions that they form about you.
Here is my advice in these matters.
Profanity
I don’t swear much when I’m telling a story. In truth, I don’t swear often in real life. And I don’t swear often in storytelling, for a couple of reasons.
To date, The Moth has been generous enough to air eight of my stories on their podcast and The Moth Radio Hour, providing me with an audience numbering in the millions. To make it easier for The Moth and others to use my stories publicly, I try to tell stories suitable for the masses.
Avoiding swearing also makes it easier for public and private organizations, religious institutions, school systems, and the like to trust me and hire me. A storyteller who leans heavily on profanity isn’t likely to be hired to teach children, rabbis, corporate executives, librarians, priests, or teachers. He’s less likely to be hired to perform for nonprofits, yoga institutes, holiday parties, religious retreats, high schools, and more.
Also, swearing is lazy. In most cases, a swear word can be replaced by a better word or phrase. The swear word is easy and may engender a laugh, but it’s rarely the best word to choose.
That said, there are times when I think it is appropriate to swear:
•Repeated dialogue: The kid who arrives at my car accident swears. He says, “Dude, you’re fucked.” It’s his words, repeated exactly.
•When a swear is simply the best word possible: There is no better way to describe my former stepfather than asshole, so that is the word I choose every time.
•Moments of extreme emotion: There are certainly times in our lives when the best way to capture the heightened emotion of a moment — particularly when it comes to anger and fear — is with profanity.
•Humor: Though I would never rely solely on profanity for humor, there are moments when a well-placed swear word makes a perfect punch line to a joke.
Vulgarity
Vulgarity is the description of events that are profane in nature. This includes actions of a sexual nature, anything involving bodily fluids, and the like.
In “Genetic Flaws,” for example, I tell about my visit to a semen-collection facility for the purposes of genetic testing. I acknowledge in the story that I will need to masturbate in order to provide a sample, but at no time am I specific about it in such a way to make an audience uncomfortable. I use euphemisms, allusion, self-deprecation, and humor to set the scene without exposing the scene. Everyone knows the reality of the situation without needing to know the exact reality of the situation.
In all stories, we take care of our audience by ensuring that they are not repulsed, offended, or disgusted by what we are saying.
A friend once told a story at a Moth StorySLAM about his intestinal disagreement with Thai food while on a first date. While sitting on the woman’s white couch, my friend experiences a loss of bodily control, and the result is an unfortunate situation for both him and the couch. He described the defiling of the cushions in specific, graphic detail, including color, smell, viscosity, and texture. He scored poorly with the judges that night, because his description of the situation was repulsive and sickening. What he thought was honest and authentic was revolting.
All he needed to say was that he stood up, turned around, and discovered a “situation” on the couch. “A serious situation. An unfortunate situation.”
This would have resulted in both an understanding and a laugh while not repulsing the audience in any way.
I once heard a storyteller talk about how he and his father would spend hours in their basement watching pornography when he was a teenager. This story was less graphic than my friend’s couch defilement, and yet the story was still vulgar because of the level of creepiness and the ick factor. I actually think this story could be told well with humor, self-deprecation, some unexpected heart, and the heavy use of euphemisms, but this storyteller opted for none of these, and the judges made him pay the price.
I once heard a storyteller describe sex with a woman as a Christmas tree, with the presents underneath the tree being worth the wait. He was not graphic or overly specific, but it was creepy and objectifying, and therefore vulgar.
The rule with vulgarity is simple: If you are speaking about a topic that would be awkward to talk about with your parents or grandparents, tread lightly. Take care of your audience.
Other People’s Names
I’m often asked how to handle using real people’s names in my stories. I tell storytellers that changing the names of people to protect their anonymity is perfectly reasonable. When you change the name, however, I always suggest that you choose a similar name to make it easier to remember.
Barry becomes Bobby.
Sally becomes Sandy.
As a teacher, I always wait five years before telling a story involving a student. Even then, I always change the student’s name, and I never tell stories about students that cast them in a negative light. They are always stories about my failures as a teacher. Never the failures of my students.
Sometimes we just don’t tell certain stories. Speaking them aloud might irreparably damage relationships with loved ones. You may expose someone else’s secret. You may put your job or your company in jeopardy. Sometimes it’s just not worth the story.
I once had a storyteller say to me, “You’re so lucky that your mom
is dead.” She quickly realized what she had said and backtracked, but I understood her meaning. My mom passed away, so I’m able to tell stories in which she is less than heroic. I don’t have to worry about her getting angry with me.
In truth, I’ve been talking about my parents’ failures for a long time. There is very little that I don’t share with the world, but this is me. It might not be you. I’m a big believer in the words of novelist Anne Lamott: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
For this reason, I also name my former stepfather by both his first and last name in my stories. I believe in naming the villains in our lives. Neil McKenna destroyed my mother’s life, and in many ways he seriously damaged the lives of his stepchildren in the process. He was a despicable human being, so I say his name with enthusiasm.
In the end, you make the choice over what names you want to use. Just be sure to consider the possible long-term effects of using the name.
Celebrity / Pop Culture References
I once described a former girlfriend in a story as “the kind of girl Zooey Deschanel plays in movies.” Then I watched about half the audience nod in understanding and the other half squint in confusion.
That was the moment I stopped using celebrities as comparisons in my stories.
When we refer to celebrities in our stories, we make three mistakes:
1.We risk alienating half of our audience, who might not be aware of the reference. While one side of the room nods and laughs in recognition, the other side of the room feels foolish or lost.
2.Comparing a person to a celebrity sticks that celebrity into the story and pops that mystical time-traveling bubble. I once heard a storyteller say that her father looked a lot like Ronald Reagan. As a result, Reagan was now playing the role of her father in the story, and having a former president walking around her cruddy little apartment made no sense. It’s impossible for an audience to picture someone looking “kind of like Ronald Reagan.” They will just use Reagan, turning a formerly sensible story into something dreamlike and strange. Just don’t do it.
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