The secret to great storytelling: Make the big moments incredibly small. Or find your tiny moments and tell just them.

Last night I was fortunate enough to win The Moth's GrandSLAM in Somerville, MA.

I told the story of my decision to confess to a crime I did not commit after a $7,000 deposit went missing from the McDonald's that I was managing in Bourne, MA, and a police officer made the decision that I had stolen the money. It's a story about the series of interrogations leading up to my decision to confess to the crime rather than risk jail time, and the moment in the police station, while standing in a mop sink in a dark closet, that changed my life.

After the show, three people - two storytellers and an audience member who is a fan of my work - all approached and said almost the same thing:

"I can't believe you hadn't told that story yet."

A year ago, one of The Moth's producers - a woman who knows many of the stories from my life that I have yet to tell - said almost the same thing to me: 

"I can't believe how many of your big, crazy, unbelievable stories that you haven't told yet." 

It's true.

In five years, of storytelling:

• I've competed in 43 Moth StorySLAMs and won 21 of them.
• In those same five years, I've competed in 14 GrandSLAMs and won four of them.
• I've also told stories at half a dozen Moth Mainstages, almost 50 Speak Up events, and many, many other shows throughout the country and around the world.

Yet it's taken me all this time to tell the story about the time I was arrested for a crime I did not commit.

Kind of a big story to keep under wraps for so long. Right?

But this is the secret that I tell people when I'm teaching them about storytelling:

Everyone has a story, and oftentimes, your biggest stories are not your best stories. Those enormous, unbelievable, insane, life changing moments from your life are probably not as compelling as the smaller moments that happen all the time but go unnoticed by so many of us. 

Some of the stories that I have told that people love most take place at my dining room table, in my bedroom, while standing in a line at a baseball game, and while sitting across from a friend in a restaurant. Seemingly tiny moments like these - when recognized, captured, and crafted well - are oftentimes so much more compelling than the life-or-death moments that I've spent in police stations or hospitals or jail cells. 

Don't get me wrong. There'a a way to tell those big stories, and I've told many of them.

• A car accident two days before Christmas that left me dead on the side of the road.
• A horrific, armed robbery that still plagues me to this day.
• A vicious and unparalleled attempt to assassinate my character and destroy my career by a group of anonymous cowards.
• A bee sting that left me dead in my dining room when I was a boy.
• The story of my homelessness.

The key to telling these big stories is to forget why they are "big" and instead find the tiny moments within them. The moments to which people can connect.

My car accident story is not so much the story of the accident. It's about a moment in the emergency room between me and my teenage friends that still lives in my heart today.

The story of the robbery isn't so much about the horrors of that night.  It's about the way that events of that night have changed the way I see my children and the world today. 

The story of the attempt to destroy my teaching career isn't as much about what those people did to me, as unbelievable and unprecedented as it was. It was about the moment when parents, students, and colleagues stood up for me and let me know that I meant something to children when I had begun doubting myself and my career. 

The story of my death by bee sting isn't so much about the way I died and was brought back by paramedics. It's about the connection that my mom and I created in that moment - a connection that was finally broken (or perhaps not) on the day she died.

The story about my homelessness isn't about my means of survival on the streets. It's about the shame associated with being helpless and alone and being saved by people who discover a truth you're unwilling to admit to anyone in your life (even yourself).

And last night, the story wasn't about my decision to confess to a crime I didn't commit and my subsequent arrest. It was about a moment in a closet in a police station, while standing in a mop sink, when I asked a question aloud, received an unexpected answer, and discovered that perhaps I wasn't as alone as I thought. 

Big stories made small by avoiding the focus on the unbelievable and instead finding the part that everyone can understand. The part that everyone else has experienced and connected to. 

Not everyone has gone through a windshield, but everyone one knows what it's like to be disappointed by parents and saved by friends.

Not everyone has experienced character assassination on an enormous scale, but we have all experienced moments of doubt about ourselves and our life choices.

Not everyone has decided to confess to a crime they did not commit, but we have all experienced the sense of being so alone that it hurts. 

The good news about all of this is that you don't need to have led a life of unending disaster in order to be a great storyteller. You simply need to open your eyes to the tiny, incredibly meaningful, oftentimes missed or forgotten moments that people love. 

Find them. Capture them. Craft them. Tell them.

I still have some doozies left. Some enormous, unbelievable, life changing stories. And eventually I'll get around to telling them. But don't hold your breath. I have a million tiny moments, too, and I can't wait to tell most of them.

Roman creativity when it came to punishing those who murdered their fathers astounds me.

If found guilty of parricide (killing your father) in ancient Rome, you'd be sewn into a leather sack with a viper, a dog, a monkey, and a rooster then flung into a body of water to drown. 

This form of punishment was known as poena cullei (from the Latin 'punishment of the sack').

Poena cullei was used for more than 400 years until the 3rd century, when it fell out of use.

I can't imagine why.

Constantine revived poena cullei during his reign, with only serpents to be added in the sack. Well over 200 years later, Emperor Justinian reinstitute the punishment with all four animals, and poena cullei remained the statutory penalty for parricides for the next 400 years, when it was finally replaced for good with death by fire.

So many thoughts about this:

• How did they ever decide upon these four particular animals?
• What was it like to be in the sack with a monkey, dog, viper, and rooster during the actual sewing of the sack? None of these animals strike me as calm and cool under pressure. "Tempest in a teapot" is the descriptor that comes to mind.
• How big (or small) was the sack?  
• How did the seamstress ever get the sack sewn shut?
• Though I oppose the death penalty - and think this form of the death penalty sounds especially horrific - I actually feel worse for the dog than the convicted murderer in this circumstance. The monkey and rooster and viper, too (to a lesser extent), but why throw in an animal as loyal and friendly as a dog?
• What was it like in that sack for each of the participants? What the violence primarily animal-on-man, or was there animal-on-animal violence taking place as well? Was the primary cause of death for all involved drowning, or were one or more of the creatures inside the bag dead before they even hit the water?
• What was the worst of the animals in terms of the man? Oddly, I think it might have been the rooster. The viper might bite, but in comparison to the dog and monkey, its bite would be nothing, and its poison wouldn't have time to impact the man in any way. The monkey and the dog would be panicked, of course, and probably prone to biting and scratching, but the rooster strikes me as the kind of animal that would be especially dangerous in a confined space like a sack. 
• Was this a punishment witnessed by spectators (as many Roman punishments were), and if so, why? Once the sack is shut, what was there to see? A roiling mass of leather with the occasional scream or bark or cock-a-doodle-doo? Perhaps if the sack had instead been made from a strong mesh, it would be worth watching, but even then, once they hit the water, I have to imagine the sack sank fast. 
• Despite the oddity and horror of this peculiar form of the death penalty, it may have been preferable to its eventual replacement. Being burned alive does not sound fun and is supposedly one of the most painful ways to die. Being bitten and scratched and incessantly pecked by a rooster before drowning alongside all of those animals sounds awful, but convicted murderers may have actually yearned for the animal-filled sack as the flames blossomed around them and began roasting their flesh. 

If you're using The Bible to support your opposition to same sex marriage and transgender restroom choice, you're simply obsessed with penises and vaginas.

It's not often that you can cheer on corporations for all the good they do, but on Monday, under increasing pressure from major corporations like Unilever, Disney, Coca-Cola, Home Depot, and the NFL, Gov. Nathan Deal announced he will veto a bill that critics say would have curtailed the rights of Georgia's LGBT community.

House Bill 757 would have given faith-based organizations in Georgia the option to deny services and jobs to gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people. 

Also on Monday, a federal lawsuit was filed against the North Carolina governor and other state officials over a new law there that blocks transgender individuals from using public bathrooms that match their gender identity and stops cities from passing anti-discrimination ordinances to protect gay and transgender people.

I can't help but think that if these conservatives would just stop obsessing over penises and vaginas, the world would be a lot better place.

And it really is an obsession. Same sex marriage. Transgender restroom choice. All of this amounts to where and how a person chooses to make use of their genitalia - even though said usage is almost never being done in public and does not impact the lives of these genitally-obsessed bigots in any way. 

It's an obvious and bizarre attempt to legislate the use of genitals, often based upon a religious text that also forbids the tattoos and the trimming of beards and calls for the stoning to death of anyone who works on Sunday. It's buffet-style Bible reading, and these people are choosing penises and vaginas over the pork tenderloin every time.

Let's put it this way:

If opponents of same sex marriage and transgender bathroom choice are basing their positions on religion - and in these cases, they have said as much - but these same opponents are also shaving on a regular basis, doing business with people with tattoos, and working (or even doing business with people who are working on Sunday), then this isn't really about religion or God or The Bible.

It comes down to a simple and bizarre obsession over penises and vaginas.

These people can't stop thinking about, obsessing over, and desiring command of our nation's genitalia. They are penis and vagina enthusiasts. They are seeking dictatorial control over the parts of the body typically concealed by underwear. 

All of this trouble because the conservative movement can't get their minds and hearts and heads out of other people's pants. 

Truly. It makes no sense.

This is what childhood is supposed to look like

My wife was in a doctor's appointment. 

Charlie asked the friend who was taking care of him  if he could climb up the enormous dirt pile at the adjacent construction site.

She said yes. Wisely.

My Jewish daughter understands Easter - and religion - perfectly.

Easter morning. My Jewish children scamper around the house, searching for Easter eggs.

Clara, my seven year-old says:

"I think Easter is about thinking sweet thoughts. Soft things. That's why we get candy. To make us think of sweet things."

Clara has also told me that she plans to marry someone who isn't Jewish so she can "celebrate lots of holidays and learn about lots of different stuff and know lots of different people."

If only everyone thought a little bit more like Clara.

A little less tribal. Actually, a lot less tribal.  
A little more openminded.
A little more willing to embrace difference.

I think she might have this religion thing figured out perfectly.

He's not confessing to anything

I like to imagine that this is what I looked like during my many police interrogations in 1992.

Maybe a little older.

Boy vs. Girl: Episode 20A and 20B - Twenty Questions

In this week's episode of Boy vs. Girl, Rachel and I play 20 questions in a special two part episode celebrating our 20th episode. We ask each other about spirit animals and Super Bowls and coed naked podcasting. 

You can listen here or - better yet - subscribe to our podcast in the iTunes store or wherever you get your podcasts.

And if you like the show, please consider leaving a review on iTunes. It helps readers find the show, and it makes me feel even better about myself.

My children are stars in an Instagram ad. Apparently the entire world has seen it.

A large number of our friends - at least those with Instagram accounts - began sending us messages yesterday after having seen Clara and Charlie in a TurboTax ad. 

Rest assured that this was no surprise to us. Months ago an advertising agency contacted us after seeing a photo of the kids on my blog. After signing nondisclosures and negotiating terms and compensation, we agreed to the use of the photo in this ad.

We didn't realize the ubiquity that the ad would achieve. So many of our friends have seen it, and as if this moment, the ad has 180,749 likes and almost 2,000 comments.

TurboTax isn't messing around.  

We also decided that the compensation received would be used to pay for a weekend at Great Wolf Lodge, a place that the kids have been asking us to take them for months. We explained to them how we would be paying the trip - essentially with money they earned - and they were thrilled.  

This situation also illustrates the fundamental belief that I have in "putting yourself out there." Some day I will create a list of all the things that have come back to me thanks to my willingness to put myself out there - online, on stage, in print, and elsewhere. Unexpected, almost always positive responses from the world. 

The Moth brought me and my elementary school principal back together

Earlier this month, I told a story at a Moth GrandSLAM in Brooklyn about a time in my life when I had to face down the principal as a third grader. After stealing a classmate's stamp catalog, I was forced to admit to the theft or risk allowing my entire class to be punished for my crime.

Walking into the principal's office and telling him the truth that day remains one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I can still remember the moment like it was yesterday, and I think about it often when faced with the need to speak a difficult truth or admit to a mistake.

It was a lesson for a lifetime. 

It wasn't a typical story for me. Too long for a Moth slam, I stripped the story down to its bones and retained more humor than heart. Not my unusual strategy in storytelling, and especially in competitive storytelling, but I enjoyed telling it just the same. I don't often go for the laugh as often as I did that night, and I probably swore more on the stage that night than all the stages I've ever stood on combined. 

It was a different side of me as a storyteller. Not my most effective side, but a fun alternative.

The principal's name was Fred Hartnett. I had not seen or spoken to him since elementary school, though a few years ago, I discovered that the new middle school in my hometown - built on the street where I grew up - bears his name. I thought it was the perfect choice of name given how much that man still lives in my heart and mind almost four decades later. 

I assumed that Mr. Hartnett had probably passed away years ago, given that he was my principal back in 1979 and already seemed old to me even back then, but when I mentioned on Facebook that I was telling a story about him, a former classmate sent me a message informing me that Mr. Hartnett is alive and well and passed along his email address.

Since then, Mr. Hartnett and I have exchanged emails.

I can't believe it. 

In addition to the message I sent him, I attached a recording of the story made at a Speak Up event, where I had first told the more complete version of the story.

He replied:

"I certainly do remember you as well as other members of the Dicks family. I must admit, however, I do not recall the incident you referenced. That having been said, I thoroughly enjoyed your presentation."

He went on to expound on the fates of several people in the story, including my teacher and a classmate who plays a significant role in the tale.

In regards to the new school bearing his name, he writes:

"As for the middle school at BMRSD, it was my responsibility as superintendent to construct it, The school committee announced the dedication at graduation in 2003, the year I retired. I was, and sometimes remain, uncomfortable about it, though relieved it's not posthumously! On occasion, when I drive in I reflect it's similar to seeing one's name on a tombstone."

The man still has it. 

Remarkable how the power of The Moth has once again brought someone back into my life and re-established a connection that means so much to me. Mr. Hartnett and I continue to exchange emails. A man who once lived only in my heart and mind has come to life once again for me. We have discussed our teaching, writing, and course of our lives.

It's been remarkable.  

Tell your stories. On stages or in living rooms or at dinner table. Share them with friends and family and people willing to listen. You never know what may happen.

The best worst magic show ever

Last week I told a story for The Moth at the beautiful Brooklyn Academy of Music about the armed robbery that I survived back in 1993.

The story opened with an anecdote about a magic show that had taken place just a few days prior to telling the story. I managed to record a little bit of the magic show. Whether or not you ever hear the story, the magic show is worth a peek.    

Four rules about being precious about your stuff

You know what I mean when I say precious. Right?

It's when you write something on social media about your perfect Sunday afternoon with your highly attentive husband and your GMO-activist toddlers and tag it with something like #weekend or #bliss or #joyofparenting or (please don't) #yummy

It's when you extoll the many virtues of your home grown Swiss chard or say the phrase "farm to table" more than once or twice in a single decade.

It's when you post a photo on Instagram of the creamy heart that your Argentinian barista designed in your no-fat organic soy latte along with some reference to the restored Amazonian teak inlays in your independent coffee shop's granite countertops. 

It's when you speak in hushed, reverent tones about time spent with your private yoga guru or the unique tonality of your meditation chime and how it has completely changed your life.  

Precious. Right? Annoyingly, disgustingly, offensively precious. 

Four rules about being precious about your stuff:  

1. Don’t do it.
2. No one likes it.
3. Yes, this applies to food, food preparation, beverages, Sunday brunch, your overly publicized workout routines, sunsets, your child's achievement of milestones, and the fetishization of the weekend in general.  
4. Punch me when I do it.

Caught in the Middle: A musical filled with stolen words, purloined ideas, and personal philosophy

I spent this weekend watching the first two productions of Caught in the Middle, a musical that my writing partner, Andy Mayo, and I wrote about life in middle school. It was produced in full for the first time ever by a local theater company.

This was the second show that I have written that I was able to see performed onstage, and it never disappoints. 

It's thrilling, to be honest. The writing isn't always fun, and getting it produced can be a pain in the ass (though truthfully, it's my partner's pain in the ass), but the final results are fantastic.

I wrote this show more than two years ago, and while I remembered the story and its characters, I didn't really remember it. With about ten minutes to go in the show, I found myself wondering, "How is this thing going to end?"

It's also fascinating the listen to the influences and personal history that I have embedded within the story and the dialogue. Watching the show was like peeking through a notebook full of thoughts and ideas that I have espoused, stolen, appropriated, or admired over the years. 

I heard myself in the voices of many of the characters, speaking about the nature of teaching, the sadness associated with growing up, my ever-present existential crisis, my internal struggle for meaning in this life, and the absurdity of homework.

I heard the words of my colleague of almost two decades, Donna Gosk, on the nature of getting older - words that were originally spoken by her late mother.

I heard the voices of so many of my former students as they return to elementary school after having been away for a year or two in middle school. 

I heard a haiku that appeared in the New York Times years ago that continues own a piece of my heart. 

I heard inspiration derived from children's author Mo Willems.

I heard the words of my daughter. 

I also saw moments from my own life reproduced onstage.

• A moment in a gym class at Maloney Middle School circa 1984.
• A moment in a high school cafeteria circa 1987. 
• Moments from many of my high school relationships with girls. 

Having forgotten much of the show before seeing it for the first time, it was a great reminder of how the work that we do is so influenced by the people and events around us. How those influences become a part of us, embedded in our DNA. 

I do not write in a bubble. I don't create in a void. I do not start with whole cloth. The tapestry that I weave is a patchwork, filled with the words and images and people of my lifetime.  

It was a great show. I can't wait to see it again. I really hope that someday, I will have the opportunity.  

You have to admire a true artisan

Text and photo combo of the week

Sent by my wife, Elysha, to brighten my day:

Playmobil Porsche dealership with Playmobil douchebag at the wheel.

A very special chair and a recommendation to librarians everywhere

I visited the Townsend Library in Massachusetts this week. I spoke to some lovely people about my path to becoming a writer, ordered them to go home and write, answered some interesting questions about my books, teaching, and the writing process, and then listened in as a book club discussed The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs. 

It was fascinating to listening to people talk about my characters as if they were real people. In my mind, they are absolutely real, but rarely do I get to hear others talk about them in the same way I think about them.

They loved Polly. Argued about Emily. Identified with Caroline.

They all claimed to love the story, but I was sitting about three feet away, so perhaps they were being kind.

The book club consisted of about ten women and one man, who amusingly had to raise his hand in order to speak. Apparently it's difficult to get a word in edgewise.   

I was also permitted to sit in a chair that very few people are allowed to even touch. Apparently one of the librarians - a woman named Molly - is fairly protective of this commemorative chair, going so far as to placing a warning sign on the chair which contains a picture of the chair in the event the sign somehow falls off the chair. 

I was told more than once how fortunate I was to be sitting there.

Before I left, another librarian, Stacy, showed me the shelves containing my last book: Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend.

So rarely have I thought that a library or bookstore has the right number of my book.

In the case of the Townsend Library, they nailed it.

Librarians around the world may want to take note.

I found someone who thinks EXACTLY like I do. Almost as if I put the words right into her heart and mind.

The strangest thing happened. 

I attended a rehearsal for Caught in the Middle, the musical that I wrote more than a year ago for a summer camp. It's being produced by a local theater company and makes it's world premiere on Friday night. 

You should come.

As I'm watching a scene, one of the characters stands, moves to center stage, and begins talking about the nature of teaching. "There are two kinds of teachers..." she begins. Then, after a series of jokes, she speaks lines I don't exactly remember writing, but I can hear myself onstage, I hear someone other than me saying things that I believe with all my heart.

It was like watching a different version of me. Someone with all of my beliefs in a decidedly younger, more female body than mine. 

It makes sense, of course. It's only natural for a musical that I wrote to contain lines that have come from me, but it was surreal to see a person standing in for me onstage, spouting my philosophy. Filling my role. Professing my beliefs with the same conviction - albeit faked - as me. 

Ever since I wrote my first musical - a rock opera entitled The Clowns - a few years ago, there have been few things as thrilling as watching actors speak my words. Even if you've never wanted to write a play or musical before - and I never did and often still don't - I can't recommend it enough. 

Hearing the words that you write in your head is one thing. 

Hearing a professionally trained actor - or in the case of Caught in the Middle - a talented teen actor speak your words is remarkable. 

And if that's not enough to get you excited about writing a play, you can look forward to the day when you can bring your seven year-old daughter to a rehearsal and watch her stare in wonder as your show unfolds before her eyes.

Wait for the moment when she asks you to write a show just for her, so that she can take the stage and sing and act someday like these big boys and big girls in front of her.

Wait for the moment when she tells you that she loved what she saw and can't wait to see it for real this weekend.  

Wait for the moment when she kisses you and says, "You write good stuff, Daddy. Funny, too."

It's a pain in the ass to write a play. Even more so when you're writing a musical. 

It's an even bigger pain in the ass to get someone to produce it.  

These singular moments make it all worth it.

I think. 

A peek into a typical day of our marriage

Last night I told Elysha that I had a song stuck in my head. She asked me what the song was. I told her that she wouldn't know it. She assured me she would. 

"Fine," I said. "It's I've Never Been To Me."

"I know it," she said.

Of course she knows it. The woman can't find west if she's driving into a setting sun with a compass on her lap and a flock of geese visibly flying south overhead, but she knows just about every song ever written. 

She asked me how this song could possibly be stuck in my head. I explained that it was on a CD that I would throw in at weddings if the dinner was running long. Before my DJ partner and I could burn our own CDs. "I heard it today in the supermarket," I explained. "It's been trapped ever since." 

I also told her that a quick Wikipedia dive revealed that the song had tanked in 1977, barely scraping the bottom of the Billboard chart, but it was re-released in 1982 after some insane DJ in Tampa began playing it and his listeners - also clearly insane - liked it.   

"I can't believe you know the song," I said. "You even know the ridiculous spoken words in the middle?"

"Yeah..." she said. "What were they?"

"I'm not saying," I said. "I don't want the song any more stuck than it already is."

"If you don't tell me, I'm going to play it." 

"Don't."

"I will," she said, smiling. 

"Don't." 

Then she did. She played it, And sang it as it played, To me. Smiling the whole time. Looking beautiful and joyous in a way that only she can. Speaking the words from that ridiculous spoken-word bridge (which is wisely absent from the Youtube version of the song) like she was speaking them to me. Cementing the song in my mind. 

"I've been undressed by kings and seen some things that a woman ain't supposed to see," she sang.

"Yeah?" I said. "What wasn't she supposed to see?"

"Ugly penises." 

I laughed. She's annoying and cruel, but she's funny, too. 

More than 24 hours later and the song is still jammed in my head. She tried to tell me that research indicates that the best way to rid yourself of a song it to play it all the way through. Beginning to end. 

Nonsense, of course. Or at least nonsense if the person you love is singing along. 

Now she's sitting across from me again right now. Same song still playing in my head. It's so awful, and it's going to be with me for days. 

I'm not saying a word to her. She can sit over there and think that my mind is empty of subtle whoring (yes, a line from the song) and Marlow in Monte Carlo and ugly penises.

She can't be trusted. 

Boy vs. Girl: Episode 18 - Pants, Lands End, and military service

In last week's episode of Boy vs. Girl (apologies for the delay in posting here), Rachel and I discuss pants, the Lands End decision regarding Gloria Steinem and compulsory military service. 

You can listen here or - better yet - subscribe to our podcast in the iTunes store or wherever you get your podcasts.

And if you like the show, please consider leaving a review on iTunes. It helps readers find the show, and it makes me feel even better about myself.

Boy vs. Girl: Episode 19 - Wedding proposals, politics, and frats

In this week's episode of Boy vs. Girl, Rachel and I discuss wedding proposals, double standards in politics, and single sex fraternities. 

You can listen here or - better yet - subscribe to our podcast in the iTunes store or wherever you get your podcasts.

And if you like the show, please consider leaving a review on iTunes. It helps readers find the show, and it makes me feel even better about myself.

Clara's best bad behavior