The root of the thing.

Today I read about a New York club called The Moth. The Moth is a New York club that hosts storytelling sessions, something rarely heard today. Just the word storytelling immediately brought back a slew of memories to me, and made me realize just why I became a writer.

When I was young, a professional storyteller came to my school. He told quaint, childish tales involving goblins, giants, and fights over cauldrons of mead. He was clearly a master of the art, because he held my entire class spellbound as he spoke of things our tiny minds couldn't possibly comprehend. It was his inflections, his put-on voices, his gestures and exaggerated expressions that told the story. He was the embodiment of the root of all storytelling, a hybrid of actor and author.

After that, me and a classmate began to tell stories of our own. We weren't ready to spin our own tales just yet though, so we tried something new. We had read all the old "choose your own adventure" books ("Turn to page 153 if you run from the werewolf") and decided to create our own interactive adventure. We spun loose tales and scenarios, then allowed the other to guide the story. We were forced to improvise as we went, writing the story together as we went on. One would describe the scene, the actors, the conflict, and the other would decide what to do.

That, right there, was the start of my fascination with storytelling. I'm tempted to bring such a thing back, though maybe not in that form. The art of storytelling seems to have been lost, and I'm surprised it hasn't been mourned much.