Last night I told a story for the Register’s Storytellers series. The club sold out to see six stories, including Shylah and me. My story was bizarre and kind of disgusting and about something that could definitely only happen to me. I can’t wait till the recording comes out so I can share it.

The experience was new and old in a lot of ways.

Getting up on stage itself felt GREAT. I knew my material, I loved feeling the crowd react. I did speech in high school and it was like that, those dramatic and humorous monologues and duets, plus 15 years experience at parties and bring a human in the world.

So much of my life is a performance that getting up on stage felt like nothing. (Not to say I wasn’t nervous. I was a little nervous I’d forget my story). But I’m weird all the time. Loud all the time. Got something strange going on every day. So to get up and say stuff to people was like…ok. Finally, there’s a room of people whose one job is to listen to me!

Honing the story with a coach was delightful. A bizarre party tale became something that made sense and had a beginning, middle, and end. Went well with my pledge to stop working alone.

I wish I had more opportunities to perform coming up. Last night felt really really good and I might have to seek some out.


“That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it!”


Person A: Excuse me, how do I  get to the closest post office?

Person B: You’re not from around here are you.

Person A: No, I’m new around here

Person B: It;s nice to see a new face. Around here I guarantee you’ll make a lot of good friends. A lot of people who move here never leave because of how loving our community is. We all know each other around here. We’re like a family. Everyone says hello to each other and we all check up on each other. I mean we’re not intrusive - we just look out for one another. 

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There is something in us, as storytellers and as listeners to stories, that demands the redemptive act, that demands that what falls at least be offered the chance to be restored. The reader of today looks for this motion, and rightly so, but what he has forgotten is the cost of it. His sense of evil is diluted or lacking altogether, and so he has forgotten the price of restoration. When he reads a novel, he wants either his sense tormented or his spirits raised. He wants to be transported, instantly, either to mock damnation or a mock innocence.
—  Flannery O'Connor; Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose