More Stage Time: I Performed at The Moth

Saying what you want and then mustering the bravery to actually follow through

Alec McNayr

Dec 23, 2023

Update: I recorded this Moth story (for a captive audience/family). Check out the 6-minute home video.

“Our next storyteller is…”

The emcee reads the paper.

“Allie? Allie Ma-Nair? Is there an Allie here?”

Me: (fumbling down my row in the dark) “Here! It’s Alec!”

Emcee: “Oh, of course. Alan. Please welcome up Alan to the stage!”

(nice applause)

This was my glorious return to the stage after a 20-year hiatus.

I was selected, one of 17 names in a bag, to come on stage for The Moth’s open mic storytelling jam this week.

“More stage time”

Thirteen days earlier, I was three days into a personal writing retreat.

"I want to find more stage time."

I spent most of my 20s chasing stage time. Real “I want to be an actor”-style stage time. Stand-up open mic nights. Improv classes. Sketch comedy shows and performing Shakespeare.

And then I stepped away to do some incredible things, from starting a company to starting a family. I had little moments of stage time here and there. Big client presentations, company all-hands, and the occasional storytelling opportunity. I have no complaints about my 20-year hiatus. Just like the tattoo says: “No Regerts.”

And yet, I realize that I miss the want to find more stage time. Being in the spotlight, cracking jokes and being vulnerable is part of what makes me, well, me. It’s something I’ve let atrophy for far too long.

"Have you ever been to a Moth show?" my writer friend Norm asked.

Now THAT’S an idea.

I had never been.

If you don’t know, The Moth is a national organization that celebrates the art of storytelling, with live events and weekly episodes on NPR and a podcast. I’d heard a few stories, but never really thought about it for myself.

I visited TheMoth.org and looked up their upcoming events in LA.

The record scratches.

The Moth was hosting an open mic story jam in thirteen days. Two weeks. A mile from my house.

The open mic event works like this: they offer up a theme, and if you want to perform, you put your name into the hat, and if chosen, you have to bring a five-minute personal story along that theme. That's it. No notes. No pretense. Just you and your words.

"More stage time."

It's a sign. It's a beginning. It's a restart. Step one toward something new. Doesn't have to be a new life mission. Just a step.

I bought the tickets. I was committed. I had 13 days to prep a story that I'd be proud to share.

Preparing the Story

The theme of the night was CONFESSIONS.

I had a perfect story. A personal failing and a confession gone awry....

When I was in 8th grade, I dated two girls… at the same time. I didn't do it on purpose. No, really. I had no experience in this area. A growth spurt and a move to a new state granted me new powers of attraction, and I couldn't help myself!

I was like one of those lottery winners who squander all the money immediately.

Imagine this nerd two-timing some nice girls just two years later…

How do I craft that loose collection of memories into a coherent, FUNNY, tight five minutes?

First, I told the story to my new Write of Passage alumni writing group — getting some instant feedback from Mounica and Vidhika. (thank you!)

Then I wrote the full "shitty first draft," just like Anne Lamont tells you to do.

Then an endless string of "What if I said it like this?" and “Is this phrase funny?” to my wife.

Ahem.

Let's just take a moment to realize that this woman helped her husband — a respectable, professional member of civilized society — prepare a speech about two-timing girlfriends in junior high. What a gem.

“Project your Shame on Me”

Why would I do such a thing? Why tell jokes and share embarrassing stories… in public?

The words of Pete Holmes, recently on Mike Birbiglia’s podcast, ring in my ear:

“Project your shame on me and laugh at it! We’re doing shadow work here! If you’re not telling secrets, then who cares… I could share my winning stories, but what good is that for you?”

This is the work. The work I can do. The work I think I want to do.

The Prep

I'd be lying if I told you that I practiced it every day, multiple times, for a week. Because I didn’t.

Once I had that first draft done, I didn’t change much. I rewrote a couple of jokes, cut out some slow parts, and ensured that it came in at 5 minutes EXACTLY.

I only truly practiced it the two days before I went up. Recorded it. Listened to it back. Wrote down the keywords to remember the anecdotes, asides, and jokes. Tried to commit the transitions to memory. I was bad at memorization 20 years ago, and I’m worse now.

Finally, about three hours before I showtime, I laid down on my bed, closed my eyes, and did a Tiger Woods-style visualization of what it would feel like to go through the piece on stage. Under the bright lights. Muscle memory, baby.

The Show

I arrived at the venue 15 minutes early, put my name into the hat. It was POURING that night. The rain forced everyone to huddle together. The little indie venue was packed. A tight, damp, dark room. 150 people. All ages. A real Los Angeles NPR crowd. A lot of forearm tattoos peeking out from knit sweaters and vintage cloaks.

The first thing I did when I sat down was spill my Liquid Death Mountain Spring Water (#ad) all over my pants. Oh great, I was going to get called up first, and I'd have to explain — or NOT EXPLAIN — to 150 strangers why my crotch was covered with water.

10 spots. 17 names in the hat. One winner.

Oh yeah, they have three judges from the audience SCORE your story. The winner goes on to some future storytelling Deathmatch event. No pressure.

The other peoples’ stories were so inspiring, and all over the map.

One lady shared about her grandparents who lived in Hiroshima when the atom bomb dropped.
Another shared a tender story of falling in love while fearing that she'd die at any minute from a private illness.
Two fathers shared their stories of the lengths they'd go to impress their kids.
One lady confessed that she dresses up as Santa Claus on a motorcyle and hands out presents to kids.
And one guy admitted to a multi-national double felony -- he mailed marijuana vape pens overseas to a friend suffering from cancer.
And me.

I went sixth.

I walked up to the stage. My heart rumbling so loud I thought it was noticeable. I thought my legs would give out.

I stepped onto the stage.

300 eyes staring at me, from the darkness.

I remembered that I wanted to be PRESENT more than PREPARED. I stepped to the mic.and everything went blank EXCEPT for my opening line. So I said it.

And I did great. I was funny. I found a joke right in the moment that got the biggest laugh.

I got a good score. I would have loved to have won. What a story.

But I lost to the double felon, by 0.1 points.

Not bad for my first time in 20 years.

“Why did you do this?”

My friends in the audience were congratulatory. Many people told me that they liked my story. One couple told me that they loved my story because they're both 9th grade teachers and they "see this kind of thing" every day. Hilarious.

But as I drove home, finally alone, I asked myself, out loud, "why did you do this?"

I answered. Out loud.

I did it for me. I did it because I have these skills, and I want to be great.

I want to KILL in that room. Not to win an open mic competition, but because I CAN. I am not yet inevitable. But I could be.

This is the work.

More stage time.

It takes a Village

Special shout-out to my friends Zac and Raaj for joining me at the show. And to the text chain of neighborhood dads who had my back. And again to Norm, Mounica and Vidhika for their support. And of course to my wife Katie for being 100% behind me doing this thing, delighting in me being me.

What next?

I’m going to do these Moth open mic nights again in 2024. I may make a goal of going 12 for 12.

For the story, I’m going to write it out and submit to some humor publications and perhaps weave it into a longer performance piece.

Subscriber bonus: If you comment that you want to see it, I will record a video and post it here on Substack.