More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Some stories explore internal stakes, in other words, what’s going on inside your head: Will I feel alone forever? Do I have what it takes to pass the test? Am I strong enough to forgive my mother? Others deal with factors outside yourself: a bear, an audit, an irate neighbor. But many of the best stories are a mix of both.
When you build out the stakes of your story, how can you set them up so the audience knows what’s important to you?
Tell the story about the moment you realized the idea was brilliant, even though no one believed in it. Use your story to set up the world before your idea, guide them through your aha moment, how it will change everything, and land on where you are today.
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.
The best stories are not just about the facts of what happened.
We’re not just exploring “this thing” that “happened” to you. Dig deep to find the roots of how and why it mattered to you.
An arc, put simply, is: Who were you at the beginning of the story, and who were you at the end? How do you live your life differently as a result of the events in the story, and why is that consequence meaningful to you?
All Moth stories document a storyteller’s transformation.
Why should we care about this shift in you? Why do you care?
If nothing changes, you’re sharing a recap, or an eloquent summation. Stories hinge on change.
There’s a difference between the events of the story (the plot) and what the story is really about.
Moth stories are not all plot (this happened, and then, can you believe this happened?); they always alternate between action and reflection.
You just need to think about the important steps that will take us through your story. What info do we need to know to understand the bigger picture?
Scenes show us important moments, instead of simply conveying facts.
Some stories might be chock full of small scenes, while others may have only two or three more detailed, impactful scenes. Usually there is one big scene (or the “main event”) that the entire story is building to, which includes the climax. This is the scene without which there is no story.
If a detail or scene is surprising, don’t ruin the surprise by telling us it’s coming! Give us the gift of feeling surprised along with you.
The brand of margarine, the song on the radio, the texture of the blanket, the fragment of crime scene tape still on the doorframe, the feel of moss beneath your bare feet—details turn your scenes from black-and-white into Technicolor. They make the story vivid, real, and tangible. They are often the juiciest part. Believe it or not, even the most obscure details can make your story feel more relatable. They highlight moments, create emotion, add tension, and ultimately support the stakes and the arc of a story. Details make your story unforgettable to the listener.
Beyond eloquent and invisible construction of the story, emotion is the glue that connects storytellers and listeners.
Stakes aren’t possible without emotions. What’s in jeopardy is tethered to your frame of mind: embarrassed, elated, fearful. Make us feel what you were feeling.
Sometimes a story wants to be told step-by-step, especially if it’s a little complicated or even a bit of a mystery.
Bottom line: Don’t assume you have to get fancy with your structure. Sometimes the best way is to simply start at the beginning and tell it from there!
Another structure involves cutting back and forth between two stories that unfold simultaneously.
You might consider using a flashback—a tool used to temporarily pause the story to give the listener information.
It isn’t a hard-and-fast rule, but if your story is causing your listener to feel dread, an earlier reveal can help relieve it.
Why try to blend in when you were born to stand out?
As a storyteller, you should constantly ask yourself: What was unique to my experience? Why am I the only person who can tell this story? How can I best deliver my story to an audience who may not have lived through the same thing?
Often when you’re telling a story about an event, especially a tragic event, it can quickly become a recounting of a series of things that happened. The dreaded and then and then and then. By finding a smaller detail or story within the larger events—a narrative thread—you are able to give the story an arc instead.
If you’re called upon to give a eulogy for someone, try to ground it in specific and idiosyncratic details that show us the depth of their character, their kindness, or their spicy side:
We can’t stress enough how vital your first and last lines are.
It’s helpful to think of the beginning and the ending as a launchpad and landing pad (or the first and last stone in your path of stepping stones).
You contemplate why you revisit and care about these memories and you start to understand how they’ve changed you, how they’ve made you who you are. Finding the very beginning and end can often “crack it”—and make clear to you, the teller, the why of the story.
Specificity is important throughout a story, but relating the end of the story to the beginning reminds the listener of where we have all, collectively, just come from. The end is set up in the beginning and the beginning informs the end. There’s a narrative balance.
“Walk fearlessly into the house of mourning, for grief is only love that has come against its oldest challenge. And after all these mortal years, love knows how to handle it.”
Choose the details carefully, because the audience may tune out if it’s too much work to stay with you. You want the audience to think, What happened next?, not Why am I hearing this?
There is no need to start by telling us what the story is about or do any setup (“I’m gonna tell you the story about the day I became a man”). 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.
A great ending can take the listener’s breath away and leave them speechless or fill them with a giddy delight that causes them to high-five the person sitting next to them! A bad ending can leave them questioning why they just spent their time emotionally investing in something that wound up having no point.
The events of a story can pose a question that is answered when the story concludes. Your story may have a well-crafted answer (ending), but it will only really “click” if we understand the question!
Use your last line to land us somewhere special and unique to you; don’t waste it on a broad concept.
When you tell a story, you want to be able to really tell it, not recite it.
Almost everyone who is great at anything learned from folks before them.
The process will help you see how the joys, heartaches, and struggles fit into the larger arc of your life. Most of all, telling your story allows you to own it. It gives you permission to abandon the narratives others may have ascribed to you, cast off the harmful ones you may be telling yourself, and define your own. This is your story; only you can tell it.
A good pitch uses all the elements of a good story. You need stakes, emotions, and an arc. It has to explore something deeper than just this thing that happened. For a pitch to work, you have to summarize your story in a way that illustrates that all those elements are in there waiting to be developed.
