Twelve storytellers put their names in the hat, but there were only ten slots. I’d been listening to The Moth Radio Hour for years and dreaming of performing on it since 2021. As I handed my release form to The Moth’s hosts at the Louisville story slam on June 25, 2024, I felt like I’d arrived.
In 2021, I’d participated in my first, and only, story slam at that year’s HippoCamp Conference. An emcee announced the criteria stories would be judged by. Points were tallied, and while winners were chosen, scores remained anonymous.
This time, after the first storyteller’s performance, judges shouted scores from the audience, which were recorded for all to see.
Afterward, another name was called, then another, and another. After the fifth one, they announced a ten-minute intermission.
As I waited and breathed through the break, I rehearsed my story and imagined myself on that stage.
The emcee called storytellers six, seven, and eight. Scores increased as spots dwindled. One of the hosts was number nine. She shared a heart-wrenching piece about telling her parents that her brother was dead.
As she exited stage right, the emcee announced that he’d call the last name after storyteller nine’s scores were tallied.
In the newsletter I’d published earlier that morning, I’d shared that I was practicing acceptance and would be open to whatever happened. But after traveling, practicing, and dreaming for years, I found myself clinging to an outcome. I squeezed my friend Joan’s hand.
The MC wrote down number nine’s scores, dug his hand into the bag, and called—
my name.
I walked up the steps, and on instinct, hugged storyteller nine, and said, “I know. I’m a member of the dead brother club.” We hugged again. Then I approached the microphone. The bright lights turned the crowd of approximately one hundred people into shadows. I took a deep breath, let the story flow from me, and then waited.
I want to tell you I made it to the Grand Slam, but I didn’t.
My scores fell in the middle of the pack. Given the fierce competition, it felt like a victory, especially for my first Moth and second-ever story slam.
Even though I didn’t get the highest score, I consider myself a big winner. I’d spent several days with my dear friend—something we hadn’t done in almost two years. I’d offered comfort to a grieving sibling. I’d accomplished a dream, done my best, and received some heartfelt compliments from audience members.
The event also included a serendipitous opportunity to share the stage with newsletter follower and former client, Mary Kethya Khuon, which was such a treat!d
Best of all, not winning helped me reconnect with my beginner’s mind.
When we approach the world with a beginner’s mind, we drop our expectations about how things should be and open to new possibilities. This lowers anxiety as it increases our curiosity and creativity.
My beginner’s mind is helping me listen to oral stories in new ways and inspiring me to try new things. Within a week, I found a local storytelling class. I also attended an improv performance.
Taking chances from this mindset increases my joy as it sharpens my skills—which I’ll need because I plan to get on that stage again.
What helps you cultivate beginner’s mind, ? How can you use it to approach both your life and your writing projects?
Not sure how to do this? Here are two invitations:
- During your next writing session, insert an opposing emotion into your project. If you’re writing about a sad topic, what’s a funny way to approach this material?
- Before eating your next meal, pause and really look at the food, your plate, and your utensils. Look for details you might not normally notice.
Until next week, may the fresh and new ways you see the world inspire you to always write on.
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