Top Quotes: “How to Tell a Story: The Essential Guide to Memorable Storytelling from The Moth”

Introduction

“You are encouraged to remember texture, detail, sense memory, and what you felt like when the story first took place. These exercises make you listen to yourself, and in doing so, they unlock the true power of storytelling.”

“Once we start to focus on a story, we ask the teller to consider a few bigger, often harder-to-answer questions.

• What is this story ultimately about for you?
• Why is this story important for you to tell?
• How would you describe yourself at the beginning of the story, and who had you become by the end?”

“We ask about everything that was happening in your life when the story took place. Why was this significant for you? We ask about your backstory and the things that led to this particular moment. What was different? Why does it stand out for you? We’ll listen for hesitations and stumbles — anything that indicates perhaps there is more under the surface. (There’s gold in those pauses!)”

“We identify scenes and details that can bring the story to life. We ask you, “If this were a movie, what scenes would keep us glued to our seats?” Retrace every step, describe it in Technicolor. We often ask that you “blow it up big” and look at every detail you could play with, and then pick the very best and shiniest.

Then we work on structure. Is there a smaller story within the larger experience that might make the story more interesting or relatable?”

“It must have STAKES.

A story needs action and the action must have consequences.

What is gained or lost? What is the urgency? What is the conflict? What is the goal and who or what is blocking it? How did the trip from Point A to Point B change or shape you?”

“Hook us in. Make us care about you. Paint the scene. Clearly state your fears, desires, the dilemma. Make us invested in the outcome. Introduce the conflict. Make us worried for you. Impress us with observations that are uniquely yours. Rope us into the moment when it all goes down. Conclude as a different person: Triumphant? Defeated? Befuddled? Enlightened?…CHANGED.”

“Look for a place, an object, a friendship, that meant a lot to you. Or the opposite: a place, an object, a friendship that almost destroyed you. Try to focus on just one moment!

Think about a time when you…

• Felt an emotion: doubled over with laughter, burst into tears, or lost your cool.
• Did something you never thought you’d do.
• Tried to be something or someone you aren’t.
• Discovered something about yourself, your environment, your family, or the world
• Changed your relationship with someone — for better or worse, a little or a lot.
• Had a secret revealed — by you or someone else.
• Stood to gain or lose something that mattered to you.
• Made a tough choice for the right (or wrong) reason.
• Found yourself saying, I do! I won’t! Hell no! I dare you. You couldn’t pay me to. It would be my greatest honor.”

“A few years back, a friend of mine invited me to her apartment in Manhattan for an informal cocktail party. She said that everyone she invited had some connection to our home state of Arkansas. When I arrived, I recognized one or two friendly faces, but everyone else was a stranger. I typically find these kinds of events difficult, with small talk and trying to find a way to connect, but the genius idea of our hostess, creating a theme for the evening, gave the guests a perfect entry into conversation.”

“One cold winter night, he missed the last bus that would take him to the next town. There were no taxis or hotels in the tiny village where he was shooting. In the end, he ordered a pizza, asked if it could be delivered to the place in the next town where he was staying, and then said, “Uh…can I go with it?” The delivery guy took Tim and his pizza to the hotel in the next town. The story demonstrates that Tim is a creative problem solver, with an adventurous spirit.”

“Stakes require tension. Where can you find them in the story?

• A problem that needs to be solved.
• A struggle over a tough choice.
• A question that needs to be answered.
• A mystery you’re trying to get to the bottom of.
• An unexpected event.

Tension keeps the audience on the edge of their seats. Your listeners wonder: What happens next? Will they or won’t they? How will this end?”

“Perhaps you begin by describing the scene of you packing, and you mention sliding the picture of your late grandmother, who raised you and loved you, into the pocket in the lining in the luggage. (You never travel without it.) Then tell the story of the hellish adventure, and when you get to the scene where the agent tells you your bags have been lost, you immediately bring us back to the image in our head of that photo tucked safely inside — the only photo you have — and suddenly you have given the listener a reason to care.”

“An anecdote is a short, amusing account of a real incident or person. A story is beyond a string of occurrences; it deals with evolution. If you don’t want or need anything, it’s not a story. A good story builds. By the end, things have intrinsically changed. Something about it has a lasting effect. You can’t go back. You can’t unsee it. You can’t un-be it. You are a different person because of the events that unfolded.

Our anecdotes might have some dramatic or entertaining details, but they usually lack true depth. These anecdotes are worth mining, because often there is more to these frequently repeated moments if we dig into them.”

“You may know where the story starts and where it ends, but between those two points are a thousand choices. What critical pieces of the narrative puzzle do we need in order to follow along? Try making a list of bullet points that includes not only specific moments but also the backstory and important thoughts or realizations that lead you to the climax and resolution at the end.”

“The next thing to try, before you build the story, is to distill it down to one sentence.

What’s the trailer of your story?

The sentence you choose will act as your road map.

You don’t need to include it in the actual story — there’s no need to start with a stated premise. (Please don’t!) Just think of it as a path to help guide and focus your story.

You can revisit the one sentence as you go along, using it to edit out details that might be distracting or take the story off course.

Let’s look at a one sentence for “A Kind of Wisdom,” Ellie Lee’s story.

It took a disaster for me to appreciate the important role my father played in our community.

Inherent in this sentence are the plot and her arc.”

Structure

“She lands her story with a final summary, including her reflections looking back on the experience.

A couple weeks later, I graduated high school, and my daughter and I took off out of western Nebraska, and I went on to earn a college degree. I joined the army, and I was awarded a bronze star for my actions in Desert Storm. I have been able to travel the world, and I have seen magnificent things, but a part of my heart has never left western Nebraska. It will always remain with the farmers who gave me a chance in life.”

“If your story begins with you quitting your job, don’t just tell us you quit. Show us where you were — sitting anxiously in your boss’s office or losing your cool next to a frozen yogurt machine that just erupted with raspberry swirl. Was there a phone ringing or a kid standing nearby laughing uncontrollably? What happened next? Did you stumble over your words, or did you take off that purple apron covered in yogurt and throw it on the floor before you stormed out?”

“On her fiftieth birthday, Mary Domo, an early volunteer at The Moth, threw a party, and asked everyone invited to come prepared with a two-minute Moth-style Mary story. Mary has many friends from vastly different parts of her life: her Hoboken crew, East Village neighbors, career friends, people from The Moth, people from Burning Man. The idea was for each guest to share stories. “That’s very Mary” could have been the theme. Each person only had two minutes to paint a scene that showed her quirky genius. The little stories acted as introductions between people who had never met before. Mary felt loved, celebrated, and seen. All her guests felt more connected.

On the other side of the world, in the Embakasi neighborhood of Nairobi, an eighteen-year-old birthday girl asked each adult guest to tell a memorable story of their eighteen-year-old self. Stories were shared by the girl’s grandmother and grandfather and everyone who was there to celebrate.”

“As you craft your scenes, make sure to stay in the action and describe them from the inside. Be an active participant rather than a passive observer, and avoid telling from hindsight. Allow the moment to unfold the way it happened for you.

Consider the difference between

I was scared when I walked in the room because I heard a noise.

and

As I opened the door, I heard a growling noise in the corner — and my heart started racing!”

“As we broke bread at 17,500 miles per hour, going around the planet every ninety minutes, seeing a sunrise and a sunset every forty-five, I thought about the people that I’m now working with and trusting with my life. African American, Asian American, French, German, Russian, the first female commander of the International Space Station. Breaking bread, floating food to each other’s mouths.”

“We often forget the inner dialogue. It is equally if not more important to let us know what you are saying to yourself in the moment as it is to hear what you are saying out loud to everyone else.”

“Then, as your story goes on, you palm that detail. Forget it, leave it alone. Till you come to the end of your narrative, when you produce it again:

“…And the cop handed me Uncle Wilkins’s threadbare wallet, and I looked through it. There was a twelve-year-old gym membership, his expired driver’s license, and nothing else — except a long, folded cardlike thing. Which I unfolded. It was a strip of four photo-booth snapshots. The four of us assuming those poses. ‘Surprise. Fury. Sorrow. Exultation!’”

Your listeners will have completely forgotten that photo strip — until you bring it up in this entirely new context. And now that that they know the characters involved, the photo strip — the “buried treasure” —will be laden with new meaning. If you pull off this sleight-of-hand nimbly, it can be a powerful and moving device.”

“Saying something like “I can’t remember the details of the argument” or “I was probably driving to school” might cause the listener to question whether you are remembering everything else correctly. Better to say, “Before class, we fought like cats and dogs!” Include the details you do remember instead of pointing out the ones you don’t.”

“Decide how best to parcel out what the listener needs to know and when. Sometimes you might share the backstory before a crucial moment to allow your audience to fully savor that moment when they get there. Other times, you might start with a scene, and then back up and reveal some important context from before this moment. It’s like saying, “When someone cut off my great-grandmother in the church parking lot, I was worried. I should back up and tell you that in 1944, she was arrested for uttering profane language in a public place and was released under a thirty-five-dollar bond.””

“It’s one thing to describe how something looked or sounded, but when you punctuate with emotion, you bring us into how you were actually feeling in the moment. If you don’t, the listener might misinterpret the truth of your experience. Consider the sentence “I signed the divorce papers.” Perhaps you were delighted: free at last! But if you don’t share your emotions, the listener may presume you were devastated.”

“On a first date, a man and I were talking about what we did for work, and he told me that as a boy, he dreamed of becoming a firefighter. As he grew older, everyone told him not to do it, so he went to college and became an engineer. His parents were so proud! But as the years went on, deep down, he knew he’d made the wrong choice. When he quit his engineering job at almost thirty and told his family he’d passed the civil service test and was accepted into the fire academy, they disapproved. They reminded him of the danger, but he knew that being a firefighter was his calling. He told me he put everything he had into the grueling training, then graduated and proudly joined the FDNY. He said he wouldn’t trade it for the world.His parents are his biggest supporters now — and he’s FDNY for life. Then he asked me on date number two. (And of course I said yes. Come on! I was so moved by this story!) When you’re on a date, tell on yourself a little. Invite people in. A short personal story can calm your nerves and help your new potential partner to feel closer to you.”

“If you’ve been chosen to give a toast at an event, everyone knows that you have a connection to the subject. Tell us something lovely we might not know about them.”

“I am a fifth-generation native New Yorker. And while there is certainly something cool about that, there is also a downside. There was a moment when it occurred to me that while many other American families also first landed in New York, for the most part, at some point, they kept going and pioneering their way west with little more than the rags on their backs. And meanwhile, my own family got off a boat, took two steps, and were like, “Good enough for me,” you know, forever. All of that is to say that I come from a place where discovering the great unknown means New Jersey.

The humor makes it clear that while Tara may have a complex relationship with her family, she also has a deep love for them.”

“Now, I wasn’t necessarily in the closet at sixteen, because I wasn’t conscious, per se, that I was gay. But apparently, I was so gay that I wasn’t aware that designing my date’s prom dress in a white satin with a pink shimmer when it hit the light was essentially my coming-out quinceañera.”

“We studied Victorian life obsessively, and one of our favorite traditions from that era was the “turning of the table.” At formal dinners, the seating was very intentional. Couples who arrived together were never placed next to each other. Guests were expected to speak only to the people seated next to them, turning to the person on their left for one course and the person on their right for the next, back and forth until dessert. By the end of a long meal, the hope was that every guest had started two new friendships (or maybe something more!). It made for exciting evenings. Take a note from Lady Astor at your next dinner party.”

“If you are afflicted with PTSD, then telling your story allows the brain to make new connections to that memory. You are not only attaching words to your experience, but you are attaching the feelings and sensory impressions that you felt at the time. And in doing so, the stuck part of the brain can finally stand down. It will realize that the danger is not happening. It can stop firing as if you’re in immediate danger.”

“One morning we were driving back across the bridge. Pam the Funkstress, The Coup’s DJ, was driving, and I was sitting in the back with some other folks that had been in the studio. And we realized we left our keyboard player at the studio. And so we needed to turn around, and the only place to turn around on the Bay Bridge is Treasure Island. And at this time Treasure Island wasn’t full of condos like it is right now. It was a naval base. So we got off on Treasure Island, made that turn, and started heading back up the hill toward the bridge, when all of a sudden, we hear a siren, and it was the military police stopping us. The cops stopped us and asked us all for our IDs. There were a bunch of us in the car. We all gave them our IDs. They asked Pam for the registration, and I said from the back, “The registration’s in the glove compartment.” So somebody opens the glove compartment, and a waterfall of bullets come down.

Now let me explain how those bullets got there.

Boots then hangs in this moment of tension and uses it as a place to look back at the historical context of Oakland in the years leading up to this scene.”

“White supremacists didn’t like us, and we ended up on one of those lists. And it’s not a good feeling to know that there are crazy people looking at a list of people that should be killed, and you are one of them. So we bought guns.

We also didn’t want to get messed with by the police. So we did it all the way legal. We registered them, we went to the shooting range to make sure we knew what we were doing with them, and we transported them legally when we needed to transport them.

That meant carrying it in a lockbox while it was unloaded, in the trunk of your car. What I didn’t realize before I told somebody to open the glove compartment was that we had recently been to the shooting range, and there was a box of bullets that was open, and they came raining down like a waterfall.

And they seemed to be going in slow motion, and I feel like I thought the longest Oh sh*t that I could ever think. And in seeming slow motion, the cop pulls out his gun and has it two inches from Pam’s head, and says, “Put your hands up! Every-body, put your hands up!”

At first the bullets are a surprise element that play with perception — the listener questions why they’re in the glove compartment and makes assumptions — and then Boots gives us the backstory and explains the context. Now we know what he knows, and when he comes back to that moment and we see that cascade of bullets for a second time, we think Oh sh*t too!

Using the flashback plays with the listener’s perspective. At the beginning the listener may think and feel one way, but after you flash back and give context, they think, feel, and understand in a new way.”

“While a classic flashback can happen anytime in the story, a cliffhanger is exclusively used in the beginning. Opening your story with a short scene, or a few lines describing a critical moment, can create drama and tension and introduce the stakes right out of the gate. You can pause the scene and flash back to explain how you got there, leaving your listener hanging (What happened?!). Then tell the story chronologically until you return to that edge-of-the-cliff moment you opened with.”

“ENDING:

And now, we made it. My children would never walk two hundred miles again. They would never starve again. And they will always be happy, even when I’m not around. Once again, I thought about the last few years. When my daughter graduated from law school, I was so very proud of all my children. Today, I think about that first day in the Portland, Maine, airport when the woman said, “Let’s go home.” And home means hope to me. Home means I would never, ever run again.

The callback differs from a cliffhanger in that you are not leaving your listener in suspense and then resolving the moment later. Instead, the opening scene is the first step in your story. When Abeny refers back to the opening scene, we are reminded how much she has been through on the long road to finally feeling like she is home. When she repeats the phrase “Let’s go home,” we feel a depth of meaning that we did not feel at the beginning.”

“If we know the end, we’re less likely to lean in and listen to the details of your story. Let us wonder what happens. Let us learn what the story is about with you so that we are in sync.”

Conclusion

“We suggest you boil the draft down to bullet points before you begin practicing. This “cheat sheet” can help you distill the major scenes of your story into short sentences or phrases. Try doing it with just ten bullets. While you rehearse, you can glance down to find your place if you get lost.”

“The only things we suggest you memorize — and we stress, the only things — are the first and last lines of your story.”

“In the sixteenth century, people would put small pieces of toast in the bottom of their wineglass (to improve the taste of wine). It was customary to drink down to the toast when honoring someone. It was also the custom to throw the glass into the fireplace!”

“Like Carl, many great storytellers play with tense to draw the audience in. They might start out in the past tense, but then switch to the present tense at a crucial moment of drama so we’re right there with them. The present tense can be used like a zoom lens in film, bringing you right into the heart of the action and indicating to the audience that this part is important, so they should pay special attention.

Another example of this is Journey Jamison, who was just sixteen years old when she told her story “Theory of Change”:

[STARTING IN THE PAST TENSE] And I never imagined going outside and putting myself in danger to help anybody. But it turns out that I didn’t have to, because seconds later [NOW SHE SWITCHES TO THE PRESENT], my back door flies open and a young man, nineteen years old, comes in holding his neck. It’s bleeding. And he’s just saying over and over again, “I’ve been shot! Can you help me? Can you help me?” And I just say: “Yes!””

“If a point is particularly critical, dedicate a few sentences to it, to ensure the audience hears it. You can even slow down saying it, to signal: Hey, you don’t want to miss this! Or simply repeat the detail for effect.

I spent 10,000 hours practicing — 10,000 hours!

At the end of the road we saw a dead body — a dead body!”

“Stories can feel bland if they’re told at the same pace all the way through.

Don’t give every moment in the story the same weight! A story is like a song; it has variance. It’s not a metronome, simply keeping the beat. In places that are serious or dramatic, or that include a lot of integral information, you might want to slow down. But of course if there’s a moment in your story where things are chaotic or exciting, you might pick up the pace.

SILENCE CAN BE JUST AS IMPORTANT AS THE WORDS YOU SAY. There is a rhythm to how you deliver your story, and a few pauses throughout are essential. A breath punctuates the story and can let the audience know what is most important. A pause after a huge plot point can also help the audience take in what just happened. If something is a big deal, put a little space around it to give it extra weight!”

“If you pause before you flash back or jump ahead, it gives the listener a chance to stay with you.”

“Once you establish who is talking, you can also drop the “he said”/”she said” /”they said” altogether.

Notice how these lines differ:

“How old is Nina?” I said.

“Five,” she said.

But if you switch it up…

I said, “How old is Nina?”

“Five.”

…it flows well. This will make your story sound more natural.”

“Sometimes tellers get a case of the “yous.” Keep the story rooted in your own experience instead of generalizing. To generalize is to subconsciously step away from the bigger feelings — it can create distance for the audience, too, and take them out of the story. Compare these two versions of Kiri Bear’s “A Natural Mother.” Here’s how she could have told it:

As a parent, you always consider that what your kids think about you doesn’t matter. Your job is to show up, to love them. What they do is completely up to them. But you find out how much they love you.

Here’s how she actually told it:

As a parent, I’d always considered what he thought about me didn’t matter. My job is to show up, to love him. What he does is completely up to him. But I found out how much my son loves me because the thought of never seeing me again was devastating.

USE THE PERSONAL “I” INSTEAD OF THE COLLECTIVE “WE”: Using “I” instead of “we” language keeps the story personal. What is true for you might not be true for “all microbiologists” or “all Angelenos””

“Avoid saying things like “And then the most amazing thing happened” or “And then she said the most hilarious thing.” Often when you set something up as being the most anything, it somehow falls flat. The listener is like, That’s not THAT amazing. It’s nọt THAT hilarious. It comes down to human nature. People don’t really like to be told what to think. When you set something up like this, the listener instantly goes, I’ll be the judge of that! If you drop the declaration and just say the actual thing, nine times out of ten your listener will think it’s the most hilarious or amazing thing!.

NO SPOILERS! Resist the urge to tell us what will happen before it happens. Often people will throw in a sentence like “And then something happened that would change my life forever.” This is like telling us the end of the story before you get there. It might feel dramatic to you, but it can actually kill the energy of the moment. Before that moment happened, no one told you it would change your life forever; try to recount it the way it unfolded for you so your audience can experience the same element of surprise or suspense you did.

BEWARE OF FILLER WORDS.

• “YOU SEE?” People often have a phrase or word they pause on while they’re preparing for their next sentence. Um and like are the most common. It’s good to be aware if you’re doing this, because after the twentieth like, right? or literally, it can become a bit tedious and ultimately fatigue the listener.
• “YOU KNOW?” No, we do not know. We may be familiar with the themes or circumstances of your story, but we do not know your story. That is why we’re listening. Also avoid these phrases:
• As you can imagine… Can we?
• It goes without saying… Does it?
• You understand…Do I?

Typically, tellers don’t even realize they’re dropping these phrases. Stay aware, and you can lift them right out.

• “So…” If we had a nickel for every time a storyteller opened their story by saying, “SOOO,” we would have…a huge pile of nickels. Starting with so is another thing that people aren’t aware that they’re doing.”

“ON MAKING SPACE FOR STORIES OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE DIED: Casseroles and flowers are nice, but sometimes the most meaningful thing you can do for a grieving friend is to make space for them to share their stories about a loved one they lost. Asking broadly for stories might feel overwhelming, so instead start small — ask about a tradition, a memorable meal, or what made them laugh. You’ll allow them to spend time outside of their grief and may inspire a memory that adds brightness to their mourning. Let the stories build upon each other. Your friend may be comforted by hearing stories from other people who loved their loved one.

KATE: My mother’s birthday is always hard for me, so last year I texted my high school friends and asked them to share a memory of her. The day was punctuated with short memories: her excellent hummus, her obsession with Sérgio Mendes’s Brasileiro album. My favorite? One friend said that she was the first adult he came out to. It made the day for me.”

“START THE DATA PRESENTATION WITH A STORY. Open with a story to set up the “why” before you share your data findings. For example, Moth storyteller Lindiwe Majele Sibanda starts her agricultural research presentations with a short story of growing up on her grandmother’s farm in Zimbabwe and the hope that their harvest would feed the whole village.

DROP DATA IN THROUGHOUT ONE LONGER STORY. Use one story as the spine of your entire presentation and pause to share critical data points.

USE A STORY AT ANY POINT WITHIN THE PRESENTATION TO ILLUMINATE A CRITICAL DATA POINT. Your story is a way to pause and give space to information that is crucial for your audience to understand.”

“I’m a big believer in celebrating my parents’ birthdays every year. I make their favorite meal and pour them a drink (vodka and tonic for her, rum and Coke for him), but really, it’s just another excuse to talk about them and have a good laugh or a cry and repeat our favorite stories about them. Usually both. It is a ritual so normalized in my family that my daughter assumed everyone did it.”