Stories are essential. On a philosophical level, they shape human consciousness by using the past to paint our concept of the future. On a concrete level, they are a vehicle to share ideas. And on a practical level, they can entertain and provide human connection.

Whenever I needed a good story, I told the strange account of receiving rabies shots. I have told the story numerous times and have made many mistakes while recounting it. However, I can say that telling this tale time and time again has taught me essential lessons about storytelling itself. I hope you can take a few of these nuggets with you.

The opening …

I was 20 years old and in a crowded room when I first uttered the words, “I got a rabies shot in a Walmart parking lot.” The side conversations stopped and people turned to me. A natural storyteller, I naively thought. I smiled, they laughed, I rushed through the rest of the story, and everyone returned to the events of their day.

It can be assumed that the audience forgot any detail after that opening line. But, I had achieved exactly what I wanted right then — attention and a reputation as a care-free rapscallion.

And I learned my first lesson of story-telling: hook your audience immediately.

The first mistake …

I was enamored with my mildly effective hook. It was odd enough to garner some attention, but it was not really attached to anything of substance. Sensing the overall story lacked effectiveness, I set out to improve. Instead of building tension, adding humor, or integrating connections, I began to simply embellish the opening.

I started with the line, “I may have had rabies, and I needed treatment in a Walmart parking lot.”

That certainly got everyone’s attention, and the audience felt real concern for my well-being. But, I soon betrayed that interest when I revealed that I did not actually have rabies. I was only concerned about the possibility of the disease after I handled a small bat on the edge of dusk at a drainage pond in Bowie, Maryland.

I was in contact with the creature because it attacked my fishing lure — thinking it to be a meal — and became entangled in the barbed hook before crashing into the water where I reeled it in and showed it to my fishing buddy.

The new “improved” story had a compelling opening, but didn’t resonate because it didn’t deliver on that promise.

I learned that embellishment is fine, but never at the expense of truth.

What I left out…

Determined to craft a truly great story, I continued to tinker. I added vivid details to paint the scene — the blend of pink and purple in the dusk sky, the sound of crickets and frogs mingling with the drone of vehicles on the adjacent highway, and the sweet smell of the clean but stagnant pond in mid-summer.

People listened more intently, perhaps imagining the scene in their own minds. But I was omitting essential details. I avoided the image of how my hands shook as I tried to free the creature’s wings from the treble-hook and how I saw its mouth biting blindly at the incomprehensible trap. I did not tell that my fishing buddy tried to help me and how the gruesome tangle just worsened as we manipulated the creature in the dark. I most definitely left out the emotions I felt after putting the bat out of its misery as humanely as possible.

The story was better but incomplete. And after multiple failures in which I bored my audience, I eventually tried adding the ugly facts. Each time I added a new layer, I received more engaged attention. Instead of shock, horror, and promises to report me to the local authorities, people responded with forgiveness, kindness, and stories of their own mistakes. They connected with me on a deeper level.

I had finally learned that vivid details matter, especially the difficult and ugly ones.

A connection …

Inspired by the audience’s support, I began weaving more and more into the story. I told of entering the empty emergency-room late at night, of the huge needle inserted into my back for the initial shot, and of the flu-like symptoms that resulted from five weekly booster shots. This enhanced the story, but I still sensed that there was something hollow about all of it.

By this time in my life, I was teaching high school, and part of my job was to lead retreats where we encouraged students to discuss their authentic stories and connect with one another. As faculty, we modeled this exchange by presenting our stories in small groups. Naturally, I told the story of the rabies shots. This setting made me bluntly confront my own hypocrisy.

I had omitted the emotions that drove my actions in the story. I left how I went home after killing the bat and searched my hands for cuts and scratches, trying to remember if I was bit or drooled upon. I didn’t mention that I was prone to anxiety, and just the possibility of this disease made my hands sweat and put my stomach in knots.

I omitted how I lied to the doctor, shaving thirty-five pounds from my actual weight, which dangerously affected my dosage. I didn’t want to tell people that I had a very complicated relationship with food and that I fixated on my weight. I had incorrectly convinced myself that a man should not feel those things and certainly not discuss them openly.

Those details did not fit a specific image that I wanted to present, so I left them out, leaving the story inauthentic. I quickly learned that if I expected my students to be authentic, I could not omit those details. Going a step further, I considered that I could in fact teach young people how to share emotions, even when difficult.

So, I told it all, and I was shocked at the response. The audience didn’t dismiss my vulnerability with ridicule. The students were supportive and intrigued, reciprocating with stories of their own lives and emotions. They were most inspired by the very parts of the story that I was hesitant to share. I was finally able to actually affect the audience.

I learned to be vulnerable.

A fitting end…

The challenge of this particular story is that the events are anti-climactic. I spent years trying to increase conflict, to embellish, to add suspense, and to expose the odd humor of conducting a medical procedure in a Walmart parking lot — which is laughable and concerning on many levels, but not wet-your-pants funny.

The truth was that there were no major obstacles to overcome and no surprise ending. I simply received my final booster shot from a registered nurse while I was on vacation in North Carolina. When I called the local clinic beforehand to arrange the details, I was informed that they were closed on the day I was available for the shot. The nurse suggested that the easiest solution would be to meet at the local Walmart parking lot — as long as I brought the medicine, she could take care of the rest.

The fact that I so readily agreed to this ridiculous situation illustrates my naivety and poor judgement. I am even hesitant to share this now, as you are probably deeply questioning my fitness to provide any form good advice. But, the interaction took less than five minutes, and I left safe and healthy — thanks to the skill and kindness of that wonderful nurse.

So, I got my last rabies shot, at least for now, in a Walmart parking lot. And it was not until I finally completed the account — ugly, funny, embarrassing, and kind — that saw how I focused on the wrong elements and hid the pieces that would be most useful to the audience. Too often I kept the best nuggets to myself, dancing around how I changed and why that mattered.

The story was incomplete until I learned that is it essential to show transformation.

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Check back next Thursday for another odd and authentic personal reflection!