At the time, I was working full-time. Most weekdays, I’d spend part of my lunch break writing, then head to a coffee shop and keep going late into the night.

[At the old Amy’s Bread on Bleecker St. in NYC]

Like so many aspiring screenwriters, I bought a copy of Save the Cat! and tried to learn more about structure.

At the heart of the screenplay was the relationship between a legendary restaurant owner (a local hero because of his athletic accomplishments), and a socially awkward high school busboy trying desperately to find his place in the world.

[Me at fifteen]

There were parts of that world I loved.

A cold can of ginger ale at the end of a long shift.

A lucky rabbit’s foot dangling from a shoestring necklace.

A taxi driver with a heart of gold.

Individually, each one fascinated me.

Collectively, they refused to become a story.

The problem was, none of the puzzle pieces seemed to fit together.

Shortly after, I sent it to a handful of friends whose opinions I trusted.

The responses weren’t bad.

They also weren’t what I had hoped for.

People saw potential, but no one said, “You have to keep going with this.”

That was hard to hear.

I remember thinking: “Maybe I’m just not cut out to write a screenplay.”

Eventually, I admitted to myself that it wasn’t working.

So I put it away deep in the bottom drawer of my desk.

Going Back

Seven years later, I tried again.

This time, I reimagined the idea as a TV pilot.

I borrowed some of the same characters and situations, hoping a different format would unlock something.

It didn’t.

The characters still felt one-dimensional.

The story still wouldn’t come together.

Another draft.

Back into the desk drawer it went.

On one afternoon, something unexpected happened.

I stopped trying to write the story.

Instead, I started writing about diners.

Not a screenplay.

Not a TV pilot.

Just diners.

The places themselves.

The people.

The conversations.

At first, I hoped all of it might eventually become something.

But after a while, I stopped worrying about that.

I was simply writing about things I genuinely loved.

The pressure disappeared.

Instead of forcing a story, I found myself following my curiosity.

And the more I wrote, the more I didn’t want to stop.

These weren’t scenes anymore.

They were memories.

Why Diners?

Why was I so drawn to diners?

There was always something about a diner that made me feel safe and comfortable.

My mom and dad loved them.

So did I.

Whether you were in a small New Hampshire town or the middle of New York City, a good diner somehow made you feel like you belonged.

Looking back, it’s amazing how every chapter of my life had its own diner.

Growing up in Manchester, we had the Red Arrow and Blake’s. We went often as a family.

In Keene, it was Lindy’s.

In Manhattan, it became the Waverly.

In Fairview, New Jersey, it was the Park View Diner.

In Hoboken, the Malibu, where my friend Walter introduced me to Jersey disco fries.

No matter where I lived, I always seemed to find my diner.

Every diner had its regulars. The waitress who knew your order. The cook working behind the grill. The elderly couple in the corner.

Even when I was eating alone, I never really felt alone.

I bought every book on New England diners I could find, many filled with beautiful photographs and sometimes paintings (Ralph Goings). Instead of worrying about plot, I immersed myself in their history, architecture, menus, and the personalities that made each one unique.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t frustrated.

I found myself writing pages and pages about these diners that had been part of my life.

Not just what they looked like.

What they meant to me.

Who I was during that chapter of my life.

Before long, one folder became two.

Then three.

I wasn’t collecting a story anymore.

I was collecting pieces of a world.

Local Heroes

Then another idea found me.

I started writing about hometown sports heroes.

Growing up in Manchester, two names stood above almost everyone else.

Mike Flanagan.

Steve Balboni.

Both had grown up in town.

Both had gone on to become Major League Baseball players.

Years earlier, both had played high school basketball against teams my father coached in the early 1970s.

That became my Local Heroes folder.

I sat down with my dad and asked him question after question.

“What were they like?”

“How did they carry themselves?”

“What did people say about them?”

My dad’s memory was unbelievable.

He was like an encyclopedia of Manchester.

The people.

The schools.

The rivalries.

The history.

And the best part was...

I was just as happy that he wanted to help as I was to hear the stories themselves.

Those conversations became some of my favorite moments of the entire writing process.

He told me about the fierce rivalries between schools.

How entire neighborhoods identified with their teams.

How Friday night games sold out, with lines stretching down the block.

A missed shot.

A strikeout.

A championship.

The heartbreak of a tough loss.

[A team of my father’s playing in front of a sold-out crowd]

One day he laughed and said,

“After that big loss in Durham, I threw a ham sandwich against the wall in our kitchen.”

He also told me about finally winning a state championship after losing in the finals three years in a row. “It was such a thrill.”

[My dad holding the state title trophy his basketball team won in 1974]

Even decades later, he remembered every detail.

“When I go out to lunch with my old friends, that’s all we talk about,” he’d say.

“It’s like all these things happened yesterday.”

[Manchester Central High School, New Hampshire State Champs 1974]

The games had become part of the town’s identity.

I wasn’t researching sports.

I was researching what it meant to belong to a town.

As he told these stories, something wonderful happened.

His voice changed.

Every follow-up question unlocked another memory.

Another story.

Another character.

It was like watching him climb into a time machine and return to Manchester in the early 1970s.

I wasn’t just researching local sports history.

I was preserving my father’s memories.

Eventually, those stories came to an end.

My dad stepped away from coaching to become the athletic director for the Manchester public schools.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t just listening to stories about basketball.

I was listening to someone figure out who he was after coaching.

One other story stayed with me.

My dad had coached another local legend, Steve Schubert, who went on to play for the New England Patriots and the Chicago Bears from 1974 to 1979.

After his football career ended, Steve, who always reminded me of Marlon Brando, came back home to New Hampshire.

Years later, when I was in my late twenties, I was scheduled to have double hernia surgery.

My aunt, who was friends with Steve, mentioned it to him.

Out of the blue, he called me.

He wished me well, gave me a little pep talk before the operation, and told me everything was going to be okay.

It was such a simple, genuine act of kindness.

I’ve never forgotten it.

Then I started thinking about another place that had shaped me just as much...

The Puritan Back Room

This quickly became one of my largest folders.

The Puritan Back Room was my first real job, a busboy.

[When the Puritan first opened on Hooksett Road, 1969]

[The Puritan Back Room today]

I was fifteen years old.

Walking through those doors for my first shift felt like stepping into an entirely different universe.

The smell hit me immediately.

Burgers and steaks sizzling on the grill.

Coffee brewing.

The constant hum of conversations and the controlled chaos of the kitchen.

In the back of the kitchen was a giant ice machine with a beat-up boombox on top, always tuned to Rock 101.

I was making five dollars an hour.

When I received my first paycheck, I couldn’t wait to take it to the bank.

After cashing the check, I carefully folded the bills and tucked them into my navy blue Velcro wallet.

I can’t explain why, but that moment made me feel like an adult.

The restaurant became much more than a place where I earned money.

At school, I was still the awkward kid trying to find my place.

At the restaurant, I was part of a team.

Everyone mattered.

For the first time, I mattered, too.

Without realizing it, I was getting a front-row seat to how communities work.

And then there were the owners.

Three very different personalities.

Andy had been a popular local radio personality. Back in sixth grade, I’d call into his sports talk show. A few years later, I was working for him.

Arthur was the workhorse. His grandfather had been one of the original owners, and Arthur carried that legacy with quiet pride. We loved talking about the Red Sox.

Then there was Chucky.

He was the personality.

Always laughing.

Always talking to customers.

Always making people feel welcome.

We shared a mutual love of Frampton Comes Alive!

Each of them led differently, but they all cared deeply about the restaurant—and about the people who worked there.

The restaurant wasn’t simply a business.

It was an extension of the family.

People looked after one another, especially when times were tough.

Every Thanksgiving, each employee went home with a turkey.

Every Christmas, they’d throw a huge employee celebration.

[Puritan Back Room Employee Christmas Party mid-1980s]

As a fifteen-year-old, those gestures left a lasting impression on me.

The more I thought about it, I realized the Puritan wasn’t unique.

Many of my favorite restaurants growing up were owned by Greek families: the Pappas family (Ron and Scott) at Pappy’s Pizza, the Vorias family at Chelby’s, and the Zotis family at Woodside.

Each restaurant had its own personality.

But they all shared the same values.

Hard work.

Generosity.

Hospitality.

Community.

Eventually, they found their way into the play.

Muses

Later came the Muses folder.

I poured my heart into this one.

It wasn’t really about crushes.

It was about muses.

At fifteen, I was surrounded by people who fascinated me.

The waitresses, who were so confident and comfortable in their own skin.

[Some of the incredible Puritan Back Room waitresses]

The hostesses who were a few years older than I was.

College students.

Young adults.

To me, they all represented a world I hadn’t reached yet.

Then there were the girls my own age who scooped ice cream in the take-out section of the restaurant.

I wasn’t just writing about who I had crushes on.

I was trying to understand people.

Those experiences eventually became the emotional foundation for the Susie character.

Not because Susie is based on one person.

She isn’t.

She’s made up of small pieces of many people who drifted through my life during those years.

The World Around Me

The more I wrote, the more I realized I wasn’t just collecting memories.

I was collecting Manchester itself.

There was Bonneville & Son, where a larger-than-life Greek salesman became something of a local celebrity through his radio promos on WKBR 1250 AM.

Merchant Motors, which started in Manchester, seemed to sponsor everything like high school sports, Little League, and local college athletics. Their enormous sign overlooked a parking lot that always seemed full of cars.

Those places weren’t just businesses.

They were part of the area’s identity.

Along with the diners.

The neighborhoods.

The people.

It was all becoming one world.

Dreams

For all the affection I had for my hometown, I was also dreaming about leaving it.

There was one final folder.

It simply said:

Dreams.

It was the most personal folder of all.

Growing up in Manchester, I spent a lot of time imagining what life somewhere else might look like.

At fifteen, “making it” meant fame, fortune, and getting out.

I dreamed about New York City.

Radio. Television. Film. Performing.

Anything that felt bigger than the world I knew.

But leaving wasn’t as simple as packing a suitcase.

It meant leaving behind family.

Friends. Teachers. Mentors.

[Christmas Eve with my dad]

The people who believed in me.

[Red Sox Spring Training with my mom]

[Sharp-dressed men. With my brother, Matt]

As I got older, I realized something.

The people who leave carry their hometown with them.

And the people who stay carry a different kind of courage.

Years later, I realized that tension had quietly become one of the central questions of My New Hampshire Diner.

Who stays.

Who leaves.

And what each choice costs.

When the Pieces Connected

By this point, I had a drawer full of folders.

But I still didn’t have a play.

But I had spent several years collecting pieces of one.

Then something happened that finally brought them all together.

My former Magnet Theater storytelling student, Beth, posted a photo on Instagram.

She had finished writing her first play.

I was inspired.

I remember asking myself one simple question:

“Could I do that, too?”

The last time I had written a play was in fifth grade, in Mr. Clow’s class at Webster Elementary School.

Back in 1987.

[Mr. Clow’s fifth-grade class, Webster Elementary School, 1987]

We were assigned a group project.

Each group created papier-mâché puppets and then wrote a play for them.

Our play was called The Rematch of the Super Fight, inspired by the famous Marvin Hagler–Sugar Ray Leonard boxing match.

It’s one of my favorite childhood memories.

And yes, the last time I wrote a play.

I had never seriously considered writing another one.

Screenplays? Absolutely.

Television scripts? Sure.

But plays...

Plays felt like something other people wrote.

In college, I concentrated on film production while earning my communications degree.

I took a few theater classes, but I never imagined becoming a playwright.

It simply didn’t feel like my lane.

Then I saw Beth’s post.

It hit me harder than I expected.

Here was someone I knew who was talented and creative.

Someone who had actually done it.

I sent her a congratulatory message.

She thanked me and told me about a book that had helped her through the process:

The 90-Day Play.

Commuting into New York City that night to teach one of my storytelling classes, I couldn’t stop thinking about Beth’s post.

Maybe I could write a play.

Somewhere between Jersey City and Manhattan, that thought quietly changed.

You’re going to write a play.

I just didn’t know what it was going to be about.

That night, when I got home, I ordered The 90-Day Play.

Two days later it arrived.

I grabbed a brand-new composition notebook and got to work.

Next, I pulled out the folders I’d been quietly building.

As I worked through the exercises in The 90-Day Play, something unexpected happened.

Those folders stopped feeling like separate ideas.

Suddenly, everything I’d been stockpiling over time began talking to one another.

The diners needed people.

The people needed the town.

The town needed its local legends.

And all of it needed one place where those lives could intersect.

A diner.

That’s when it finally clicked.

This wasn’t a screenplay.

It wasn’t a television pilot.

It was a play.

Yes! I could actually see it.

Once I knew the setting, the people started showing up.

I thought about starting my job at the Puritan Backroom back in the summer of 1991.

Fifteen-year-old me trying to figure out who I was while getting my first real glimpse into the adult world.

Slowly, everything began narrowing itself down to three central characters.

As I kept writing, the people I’d been thinking about for years began separating themselves from one another.

The busboy.

The diner owner.

The waitress.

Those three characters eventually became Adam, George, and Susie.

Adam, based largely on me.

George, inspired by several bosses, and a little bit of my father.

And Susie, from several of my first loves growing up.

Still thinking about that fifth-grade puppet play, I added a major local sporting event and imagined how its aftermath might ripple through the lives of everyone in this New Hampshire town.

One of the biggest lessons I learned during this process was the difference between an idea and a project.

An idea is exciting.

A project requires commitment.

So I kept writing.

And writing.

I carried my notebook everywhere.

I tried my best to trust myself and enjoy the process.

And slowly, it started coming together in ways I couldn’t believe.

All those years of notes...

All those folders...

All those seemingly unrelated memories...

They were finally becoming a story.

They’d been waiting for one another.

My goal was simple:

Create a beginning.

Create a middle.

Create an ending.

And don’t stop until all three existed.

What surprised me most wasn’t that I was writing a play.

It was how much I enjoyed returning to a world that had meant so much to me.

The diner.

The community.

The first crush.

The first job.

The dreams of getting out.

Six months later, I typed two words:

THE END.

I had finished the first draft.

I was so excited.

I did it.

The first person I messaged was Beth.

I thanked her for posting that photo.

Without it, I don’t think this play would have existed.

I printed out the final page and just stared at it for a while.

Wow.

For years, writing a play had felt like something other people did.

Now I was holding one in my hands.

To celebrate, I bought myself a hot fudge sundae from McDonald’s and took a long walk along the Jersey City waterfront.

It wasn’t a fancy celebration.

It didn’t need to be.

It felt perfect.

As I walked along the waterfront, looking at the Manhattan skyline, I kept thinking the same thing over and over again.

I wrote a play.

I wrote a play.

I’m a playwright.

There was only one person I wanted to send it to first.

Flanders.

My college friend, and the first person I’d ask to read almost anything I created.

When I was a DJ at WKNH, the college radio station, Flanders not only listened to every weekly show, he recorded each one on cassette for me. Afterward, we’d recap the show together. I’d ask what worked, what didn’t, and bounce ideas off him.

Later, when I started writing and performing story songs, he was usually the first person I’d try them out on.

Over the years, that never really changed.

His feedback was always thoughtful, generous, and honest.

So I emailed Flanders:

Hey Flanders,
I think it’s 100,000 times better than the screenplay.
Let me know what you think.

A week later, he wrote back:

“You’ve got something good going here.”

He’d been there from the beginning.

If he thought I had something...

maybe I really did.

I spent the next few days soaking in that feeling.

Then another realization arrived.

Finishing the first draft wasn’t the finish line.

It was the starting line.

Adam Wade is a New York City-based storyteller, performer, teacher, and playwright. He is a 20-time Moth StorySLAM winner and the creator of the Audible Original You Ought to Know Adam Wade. You can learn more about his live shows, classes, and creative projects here.

It’s a Monday night at Under St. Marks Theater in New York City’s East Village.

I’m standing in the cramped backstage area, waiting for the first edition of a new monthly storytelling show to begin.

I can hear the sounds of people entering the theater and finding their seats.

No one knows it yet, but this little storytelling show is about to become one of the most important projects of my life.

At the time, I had been performing at The Moth for more than six years.

I was telling stories regularly.

Winning StorySLAMs.

Getting booked on shows around the city.

Things were going well.

But I felt something was missing.

I craved more stage time.

More reps.

More opportunities to experiment.

I needed a place to work.

I just didn’t know it yet.

The Storytelling Boom

The late 2000s were a really exciting time for storytelling in New York City.

The Moth was growing.

Storytelling was spreading into small theaters, comedy clubs, bars, and alternative performance spaces throughout the city.

One of the first major satellite shows to emerge from The Moth community was Speakeasy Stories, hosted and produced by the late Sherry Weaver.

Then came The Liar Show, hosted by Andy Christie.

Soon, there were storytelling shows popping up all over New York.

More importantly, I was surrounded by people creating opportunities for themselves and for others.

Every week felt like a chance to discover another room, another producer, another performer.

I loved being part of it.

Catching the Producing Bug

Around this time, my friend Jake Goldman and I launched a storytelling show called True College Tales at Ochi’s Lounge in the basement of Comix Comedy Club.

Something happened while producing those shows.

I realized I didn’t just love performing.

I loved creating opportunities.

I loved bringing people together.

I loved building rooms.

After one of our shows, Jake and I found ourselves at The Donut Pub for a post-show coffee and a couple of donuts.

We talked about how much work it was to put a show together.

Booking performers.

Promoting the event.

Wondering if anyone would show up.

It could be exhausting.

But it was also incredibly fulfilling.

More fulfilling, in some ways, than simply showing up and performing on someone else’s show.

Looking back, I think that conversation was one of the first times I realized that producing might become just as important to me as performing.

Under St. Marks

One of my favorite storytelling shows was TOLD, hosted by Seth Lind from This American Life.

It took place at Under St. Marks Theater.

I performed on it several times and I really started to fall in love with the venue. It kept growing on me.

Small.

Intimate.

Creative.

A place where people genuinely listened.

I had already spent years performing at Under St. Marks, doing open mics and terrific alternative comedy shows like Andre du Bouchet’s Giant Tuesday Night.

The theater felt like home.

One night after performing on TOLD, I took a long walk around the East Village.

It was one of those walks where your mind won’t stop turning.

When I got to the Kmart at Astor Place, a thought popped into my head:

Maybe it’s time for me to do my own show.

The idea excited me.

It also terrified me.

My biggest fear was simple:

What if nobody came?

When you get on stage and tell a true personal story, there’s already a vulnerability to that.

Producing your own show feels like a whole different level of vulnerability.

You’re not just asking people to listen to your stories.

You’re asking them to leave their apartments, travel across the city, buy a ticket, and spend an evening with you.

If nobody showed up, it would be hard not to take that personally.

Still, I couldn’t shake the idea.

Eventually, I spoke with Erez Ziv, who ran the theater, about starting a monthly storytelling show there.

He said:

“Yes. We’d love to have you.”

That meant a lot to me.

And in January of 2010, Adam Wade from New Hampshire was born.

The First Show

Back to that January night in 2010.

A few hours after that first show ended, I sat triumphantly at Veselka in the East Village with a handful of friends.

It was the first monthly storytelling show I had ever solely produced, hosted, and performed in.

And somehow, it worked.

We ended up with a near sellout crowd in the fifty-seat theater.

For the previous three months, I had been putting the show together.

Booking a guest.

Promoting it.

Figuring out what stories to tell.

By the time it was all over, I was mentally and physically exhausted.

I was also starving.

Pre-show nerves had gotten the best of me, and I hadn’t eaten all day.

So there I was at Veselka, demolishing a plate of pierogies and stuffed cabbage with mushroom gravy.

My special guest that night was Jim O’Grady.

I had met Jim a few years earlier at a Moth StorySLAM at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe.

We quickly became kindred spirits.

Having him on the very first show meant a lot to me.

Earlier that evening, the Under St Marks Theater’s heat wasn’t working.

The audience sat through most of the show bundled in winter coats, scarves, and hats.

Then, midway through the performance, the building’s ancient pipes began clanking.

The heat had finally come on.

Before the show started, I was a nervous wreck.

When Jim walked into the cramped backstage green room, he took one look at me, patted me on the shoulder, and said:

“Come on, Wade. You know it’s gonna be great.”

That simple gesture settled me down.

It set the tone for the entire night.

And now, hours later, we sat at Veselka laughing and reliving the evening.

The first of what would eventually become almost two decades’ worth of shows.

At one point, Jim looked over at me.

Smiled.

And said:

“I told you so.”

Keeping It Simple

The format wasn’t complicated.

One or two guest storytellers.

Three or four stories from me.

Music and videos in between.

That was it.

No two shows were ever exactly the same.

I was constantly shuffling older stories with newer ones, developing a larger and larger catalog of material.

The sheer volume of stories forced me to keep honing the craft.

Writing.

Performing.

Editing.

Reworking.

Finding new angles.

And because the show was always evolving, people kept coming back.

Honestly, sixteen years later, the format is still pretty much the same.

Back then, our show started at 7:00 p.m.

The BTK Band, created by Peter Aguero and Rory Scholl, would often perform at 9:00.

Peter was frequently there for both shows and performed on my stage many times over the years.

Those Monday nights slowly became their own little community.

The Show Becomes a Gym

Months passed.

The audiences grew.

The show became a Time Out New York Pick of the Week.

Then a New York Times Pick of the Week.

Then, it was a CBS New York Pick of the Week.

Wonderful guests joined me.

Mike Sacks.

Kerri Doherty.

Dan Kennedy.

David Martin.

And many others.

But the biggest benefit wasn’t the recognition.

It was the reps.

At a Moth StorySLAM, you get one story.

Five minutes.

Maybe six.

Then you’re done.

At my own show, I could tell three or four stories.

I could experiment.

Try new material.

Fail.

Adjust.

Try again.

It became my storytelling gym.

And those reps changed everything.

Ironically, when the show started receiving all that attention, I became more nervous than ever.

The press was wonderful, but it also came with expectations—or at least the expectations I put on myself.

I started wondering:

What if the audience expects my best material every month?

What if I can’t live up to the reviews?

For the first time, I seriously questioned the formula of the show.

Maybe I should stop taking chances.

Maybe I should just tell my greatest hits.

Maybe I should stop trying new stories altogether.

Fortunately, Peter (Aguero) talked me off that ledge.

He said:

“Never mind all that. Just be you.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

Because the entire point of the show wasn’t perfection.

It was growth.

What Came From Those Reps

Over time, I started noticing something interesting. The stories weren't just individual pieces anymore. They were beginning to connect with one another. Themes emerged. Relationships formed between stories. Eventually, I wasn't just building a collection of material; I was building larger projects.

Many of the stories I developed at Under St. Marks eventually became material for my first album:

Adam Wade: The Human Comedy (link)

Then came:

Adam Wade: Live at the Magnet Theater (link)

Both projects grew directly from stories I had worked on at the show.

Those albums eventually led to a collaboration with Audible.

That collaboration became:

You Ought to Know Adam Wade (link)

Looking back, I can trace so much of that journey back to those Monday nights in the East Village.

Not because the room was famous.

Not because it was glamorous.

Because it gave me a place to work.

Then Everything Stopped

In 2018, we moved the show a few blocks away to The Kraine Theater.

The crowds were growing each month.

Everything felt like it was heading in a great direction.

Then the pandemic arrived.

Like so many live events, the show disappeared overnight.

It gutted me.

I missed the monthly preparation.

I missed seeing my storytelling friends.

Most of all, I missed connecting with a live audience.

For a while, I wasn’t sure if the show would ever come back.

And when New York slowly reopened, I wasn’t sure if people would want to gather in a small theater and listen to personal stories again.

Nobody knew what live performance would look like on the other side of it.

I certainly didn’t.

The Rebirth

In 2023, I reached out to Erez about bringing the show back.

And just like he had thirteen years earlier, he said, “Yes. Welcome back.”

This time, we gave it a new name:

Adam Wade Live in New York

We returned to Under St. Marks.

The third Wednesday of every month.

7:00 p.m.

And as the last three years have gone by, somehow the show means even more to me now than it did back then.

Maybe it’s because I’m older.

Maybe it’s because we almost lost it.

Maybe it’s because after the pandemic, gathering together in a small theater to listen to stories no longer feels routine. It feels special.

Either way, every time I walk into that theater, I’m grateful.

The Next Generation

The biggest difference today is who I book.

Many of the performers are former students from my storytelling classes at The Magnet Theater.

People I’ve watched grow.

People I’ve watched find their voices.

People I’ve watched take risks.

People who walked into class unsure if they even had a story to tell.

Now they get the opportunity to share those stories on a professional stage.

To stand under the lights.

To hear an audience laugh.

To feel a room go quiet when a story connects.

That might be the most rewarding part of all.

Watching someone discover their voice is special.

Watching them share it with an audience is even better.

What Producing This Show Taught Me

Students often ask me how to start a storytelling show.

After sixteen years, here’s what I’ve learned.

Start before you feel ready.

Keep the format simple.

Book people you genuinely enjoy.

Consistency beats hype.

Community beats marketing.

Create opportunities for others.

Most importantly:

Don’t wait for someone to hand you a stage.

Build one.

You never know where it might lead.

For me, it led to hundreds of performances, two albums, an Audible Original, lifelong friendships, and a creative home that still exists sixteen years later.

Not bad for a little storytelling show that began in a fifty-seat theater in the East Village.

And not bad for a kid from New Hampshire who was simply looking for a place to tell stories.

What I found instead was a community.

Adam Wade is a New York City-based storyteller, performer, and teacher. He is a 20-time Moth StorySLAM winner and the creator of the Audible Original You Ought to Know Adam Wade.

When’s the next Adam Wade Live in New York show? Click here

I’m a total stranger, standing in a crowded performance venue in New York City’s East Village called Surf Reality, with my name scribbled on a piece of paper inside a bucket. I clutch the case of my acoustic guitar, overwhelmed with nerves.

If the host pulls out my name, I get a few minutes to perform.

If he doesn’t, I take a late-night walk back to the New York University dorm I’m living in for the summer, wondering why I decided to move to New York City in the first place.

The host looks at a tiny slip of paper, ”Coming up next is…”

THE ORIGIN

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away....

Spring of 1996, Keene, New Hampshire, on the campus of Keene State College

I was a sophomore at the time, and I sat in the Night Owl Café to watch the monthly school-wide open mic night.

A student got up and read a poem about trees and dogs, and ended it by barking.

It was odd.

The audience around me not only cheered but also gave him a standing ovation.

I thought to myself, “If this guy can get up on stage and bark like a dog and get THAT kind of reaction, maybe I could do it, too.

And that very night in my dorm room, I created a comedy act that I would go on and do for the next 9 years.

The act was a carryover from the format of the college radio show I hosted. I would tell a true short story (the setup) and play a funny original song that went with it (the punchline).

That was the act.

In Keene, New Hampshire, during the winter semester of 1998, my senior year at Keene State College, I was coming off a win in the campus-wide talent show (after finishing as runner-up in 1997). By then, I had about 15 funny original songs that I regularly performed at my two main open mics — Night Owl Café and Brewbakers Coffeehouse. I took great pride and comfort in knowing people recognized me as Adam Wade, a performer.

(December 1997, Keene State College Talent Show)

Also, on weekends during my senior year, people often came to see me perform (alongside local bands) at a place called 80 Roxbury Street off Main Street in Keene. The college town just had such a strong sense of community — nurturing, supportive, and kind people. They showed up. There wasn’t much else to do in Keene on weekends: frat parties and fun shows like these.

(September 1997, 80 Roxbury Street in Keene, NH)

(Photo following the last show in Keene)

As graduation approached in May of 1998, I started to feel like a big fish in a small pond. I was ready for New York City and what it had to offer.

MOVING TO NYC/THE JOURNEY BEGINS

I moved to New York City without knowing a soul there. I was in for a big change in many ways.

(Rubin Hall, New York University, 1998)

How did I get to New York?

The Keene State College library had a computer lab, and while I was there surfing the World Wide Web, I discovered that New York University offered affordable summer housing for college-age students in one of its many Greenwich Village dorms for 10 weeks, beginning in mid-May 1998 and running through the first week of August. Looking back, it was a huge break — it got me to New York City.

Also, I was very drawn to the idea of living in Greenwich Village. Senior year in college, I had taken an American Folk Music History class, and the professor had us read two books:

No Direction Home by Robert Shelton

and Bringing It All Back Home by Robbie Woliver

Through these books, I became obsessed with Greenwich Village, and the idea of living there one day — walking the same streets where Bob Dylan roamed in the early 1960s — felt not only special, but unforgettable.

Of course, my soundtrack during this time was a cassette of Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde.

(Washington Square Park South, 1998)

I quickly got to know Stan “The Man,” who worked the front desk (my own personal NYC encyclopedia), and alongside him was Carmen, the security guard, who was obsessed with Munchkins from Dunkin’ Donuts. Together, they looked after me and answered the million questions I had.

“I should be back by midnight, just so you know,” I’d tell them as if I were saying goodbye to my parents.

Being able to see the Empire State Building each time I left my dorm was definitely a “pinch me, I’m dreaming” feeling for me.

FINDING OPEN MICS IN ‘98

To find open mics, you had to scour newspapers and magazines like The Village Voice, New York Press, Time Out New York, and Back Stage to figure out where things were happening.

Tuesday nights, I would always walk the short distance over to Astor Place, where the stacks of newly printed The Village Voice would be laid out. It was always a hot item for people, and there would be a big crowd there to get one.

From there, I would start planning out my schedule for the next week.

THE OPEN MIC WORLD

A tour of late-90s downtown performance culture

Baby Jupiter’s

The open mic there was hosted by two guys, one of whom did an incredible Daniel Day-Lewis impression. The room always had great energy and comfortable couches.

The kitchen also had this amazing grilled chicken and blue cheese sandwich served with sweet potato fries. I would get that after every open mic there.

Surf Reality

Chaotic insanity.

It could be great. It could be very bizarre. It was always unforgettable.

I went many times and put my name into the bucket over and over again. I only got picked once — very late one night, and it felt like a true highlight up to that point. That’s the place where I learned of “performance art.”

One woman got chosen, and for her allotted time, she sat on a stool and ate a nectarine. That’s it.

There was a 20-something guy named Hank, who dressed like an old man for his act. He shouted a lot and shotgunned cans of beer. It was my favorite act. A home run every time.

I was also lucky enough to see comedian Brody Stevens perform at those open mics several times before he left for California. I’d get happy hearing his name picked. He was someone I felt a connection to, like a kindred spirit.

Also, I need to mention the cigarette smoke at these open mics; it was everywhere. I’m asthmatic, so I was always excusing myself to the bathroom for two puffs of my inhaler so I could breathe.

Collective Unconscious

Reverend Jen’s Anti-Slam was a weekly open mic I loved going to. I just found it fascinating, daring, and creative. To me, this was what New York City was about. I remember it being such a warm and inviting space where you always left feeling happy.

Inspired by this scene, I would constantly be jotting down ideas or lines for new songs in my notebook.

Hamburger Harry’s

In the heart of Times Square, a New York City comedy legend in her own right, Gladys Simon ran a longtime open mic for stand-ups there. It was also the first place I ever saw Jim Gaffigan perform.

He was the only comedian that night whom the fellow open mic-ers actually watched instead of sitting with their heads down, studying jokes in their notebooks. He completely commanded the room and had everyone in stitches.

As for the food at Hamburger Harry’s, I thought the French fries were much better than the burgers, which tended to have soggy buns.

UPS AND DOWNS OF NYC OPEN MICS

I would walk in carrying my guitar and my backpack, which held a bottle of Poland Spring water, my notebook, a bunch of pens, and a Quaker Oats peanut butter and chocolate granola bar. I’d stroll over to sign up. I mostly remember writing my name on a slip of paper and dropping it into some sort of bucket or hat (once in a while, it was just a signup sheet).

And then you’d wait.

A host, or sometimes multiple hosts, would come up and do their material, and then they’d start picking names.

Toward the end of each comic’s set, I’d be filled with anxiety, hoping my name would be called next. And when it wasn’t, there’d be this little wave of disappointment, and I’d have to go through the whole emotional cycle all over again.

But if I did get picked, I’d feel a jolt of energy rush through my body, and I’d head to the stage to a handful of golf claps. I’d do my bit, sing my song, and then it was over. Even fewer golf claps. Ugh.

The trip home would usually be filled with me being hard on myself, questioning why I did this instead of that, jotting down notes and ideas in my notebook.

Those were the good open mics.

If I didn’t get picked, I’d walk out onto the loud city streets, holding my guitar like an appendage. I’d be full of self-doubt and self-pity, wondering why the hell I was even doing any of this.

However, by the time I went to bed, I’d usually have a smile on my face.

“Hey,” I’d say aloud to myself in a kind voice. “At least you’re doing it. You’re not just talking about it, you’re doing it.”

Those little pep talks kept me going. I was waiting for my moment. The moment I’d be seen by someone important in the business, and all my dreams of success and stardom would finally come true.

(With my brother, Matt, Keene 1996)

After a good open mic, I’d call my big brother, Matt, back home in New Hampshire and give him a play-by-play of the night. I was so lucky he was genuinely interested in all of it. He’d constantly throw out lines like, “Awesome,” “Super,” “Of course it went well,” and my favorite: “Proud of you, Adam.”

SMALL (NON-SHOWBIZ) BREAK #1

In late May, after just two weeks in New York City, I got a job waiting tables at Virgil’s Barbecue in Times Square. I had the Saturday lunch shift, Sunday Double, and Monday lunch shift. So I was pulling in about $300-$375 in cash a week. I had learned quickly that money had to be coming in if you actually wanted to survive in the big city. That was reality.

(Virgil’s Barbecue exterior, Summer of 19998)

Everyone at Virgil’s Barbecue was nice to me except the head cook. He was kind of a dick. But that didn’t stop me from being kind to him, no matter what. It took a few months, but I won him over.

LIVING LIFE IN THE SUMMER OF 1998 (short segue)

I considered going to open mics and waiting tables as work; thankfully, I knew that I needed to find a balance and experience what the Big Apple had to offer during that summer. These are some of the favorite things I discovered in those first weeks in New York City.

Being a movie nerd, and the fact that the summer of 1998 was extremely hot and humid out, I made several trips to the glorious air-conditioned Angelica Movie Theater on Houston St. I saw Buffalo 66, Pi, and Henry Fool there.

I hit this restaurant called Boxers several times during this period. They had some type of chicken, spinach, and goat cheese entree that was superb. I still think about this meal to this day. It was the first time I had ever had goat cheese. Oh, I wish I had the recipe for this meal.

The hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya were my guilty pleasure. 2 hotdogs and papaya juice. Always hit the spot and didn’t put a dent in my wallet.

“Astor Place had a Barnes and Noble?”

So many people ask me that question. The answer is: Yes, they had an awesome one there in 1998! I would spend a lot of mornings in there looking through all the magazines (for free).

Getting to see Loudon Wainwright III at the old Bottom Line was a real treat. I believe that was the following year, but in the summer of 1998, I saw Ramblin’ Jack Elliot. He put on a hell of a show.

I didn’t have a refrigerator in my dorm room, so I would get my orange juice every day at this Duane Reade on 6th Ave (usually with a snack package of Combos). Breakfast of Champions.

Dojo by Washington Square Park was another place where you could get a delicious and inexpensive meal. Also, for some reason, they never charged me for my beers. Still grateful to those bartenders.

My first trip to Yankee Stadium. Even as a lifelong Red Sox fan, I was in awe of the House that Ruth built.

I’ve always been a diner guy, so the Waverly was where I spent most of my time after 11 pm in the summer of 1998. After the open mics, I’d walk in and head to the counter for some eggs or a club sandwich. One of the waiters would always say, “Gigantic guitar,” with a big smile on his face. It was his little joke.

SMALL (NON SHOWBIZ) BREAK #2

Sadly, there wasn’t a big showbiz break in those first 10 weeks.

When my 10 weeks at the NYU dorm were over, my fellow waiters at Virgil’s Barbecue helped me get a cheap basement studio apartment in Fairview, New Jersey. Permanent housing.

When I made the move to Fairview, I had less access to these open mics than when I lived locally in the NYU dorms that summer. I now had to get back to Port Authority and catch the late bus to Fairview, NJ — a ride that could take 30–45 minutes (not 25, which I wrote in my journal - see below).

(Journal entries, trying to figure out life, 1998)

I began wondering: How long can someone stay hopeful?

Going to these open mics in the big city could be intimidating, but they were always exciting to me. A great introduction to NYC and the growing comedy scene.

But after 10 weeks, the crazy amount of times I didn’t end up getting picked started eating at me. It all came down to time. I was spending a lot of it going to these places, and my batting average of getting picked out of the hat or bucket to perform was quite low, like 1 in 5. So maybe I’d get up once every other week.

Also, that guitar and its heavy case only seemed to get heavier and heavier as the night went on. Lugging that thing definitely wore me out physically.

It wasn’t a quick 10–15 minute walk or subway ride anymore.

Something had to give.

THE STRATEGIC SHIFT

I needed a different approach.

I wanted more actual stage time. How do you do that? How do you build your own opportunities?

I played guitar and sang comedic songs.

It was clear that there were a ton of music venues in the city.

So instead of hitting the open mics — where the hardest part was spending hours there and rarely getting picked — I decided to try something different.

MY FIRST BOOKED GIG

My first New York City booked gig was at The Spiral Lounge, on 244 E. Houston Street, on a Tuesday night, October 13, 1998, at 8 pm.

(The Spiral Lounge, E. Houston Street, 1998)

I was so pumped.

I felt such pride thumbtacking my show flyer, which I had made at Kinko’s, on the waiter bulletin board at Virgil’s Barbecue.

(Flyer for my first booked show)

THE VILLAGE VOICE

Leading up to the show, The Village Voice listed all these music venues in their weekly newspaper — and my name would be there, even if it was tiny.

The feeling I had was:
“You’re in The Village Voice. You’re someone now.”

It felt like when Navin R. Johnson sees his name in the phone book in The Jerk.

It was a huge deal: my first NYC show and the first time my name appeared in The Village Voice.

There was also this beautiful but naive feeling I had that I’d cracked the showbiz code in only a few months, and that now everything was going to become much easier for me. I had a booked gig in New York City. Every big agent would spot my name in The Village Voice like Batman’s emergency signal lighting up the night sky, and they’d come racing to the venue ready to offer me an incredible career, and maybe even a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Well, none of them came.

Twelve of my co-workers from Virgil’s Barbecue did come to the show, including Larry, the general manager and the person who hired me. I performed a 45-minute set.

I thought it went really well. When it was over, they all huddled around me. Larry bought me a couple of beers. For that night, I was the star.

Heading back to Fairview, New Jersey, the bus drove along Boulevard East, the road with the sweeping view of the New York City skyline. I had a huge smile on my face, completely drenched in the feeling of that night’s success.

[According to the internet, rock band The Strokes made their NYC debut at The Spiral Lounge, too (11 months later). This was a fun fact I loved telling friends.]

That led to a few more shows at The Spiral Lounge over the next year, though I was still trying to find other venues.

One was at the Orange Bear in the Financial District. I booked it way too soon after a Spiral Lounge show. I was trying to gain some performance momentum. Sadly, everything came to a screeching halt.

It was the first show I was booked on where absolutely nobody showed up. Not a soul. Just me and the bartender. It was beyond embarrassing.

This almost broke me, but again I had to remind myself that I was here, in New York City.

(Journal reflections, Autumn 1998)

Then the following year, 1999, I had a series of shows at the Sidewalk Café.

(Sidewalk Café, 1999)

It was a well-known place where The Moldy Peaches and a pre-fame Beck had performed. I did my best trying to get people to these shows, and we ended up with decent crowds consisting of a handful of my new friends I had met at my NYU dorm, mixed in with the ever-supportive coworkers from Virgil’s.

This show of support meant the world to me and did wonders for my confidence.

(My friend and fellow Virgil’s Barbecue waiter, Tom)

(Performing at the Sidewalk Café, 1999)

(The Virgil’s Barbecue crew after a Sidewalk Café show, 1999)

(A Sidewalk Café flyer featuring many of my friends from Virgil’s Barbeque)

Even with these fun shows and steady crowds, the Sidewalk Café booker stopped returning my calls.

Frustrated, I wasn’t sure what to do next.

NBC PAGE PROGRAM

A huge turning point came once I got into the NBC Page Program in November of 1999.

(With my friend and fellow Page, Kristin, early 2000)

I took a break from trying to book shows to focus on my new job and on making new friends at 30 Rock.

I built a strong network and community at NBC, and I was still close to many of my former co-workers at Virgil’s. I made sure I ate lunch there every Saturday (usually the fried chicken Po Boy sandwich). Each time I visited, it felt like returning home.

Ironically, when I finally booked my first show as an NBC Page at The Spiral Lounge, it was also my final show there. It closed permanently a few months later, on June 9, 2000.

About 40 NBC pages came out to support me that late winter night.

(Onstage at The Spiral Lounge, early 2000)

It was nice to finally really pack the place at least once.

That night made me feel like this was the real beginning of me performing in New York City.

It also opened my eyes to something bigger: other pages wanted to create things too.

Our post-party was a few blocks away at Arturo’s on Houston. I instantly fell in love with the delicious pizza and the homey atmosphere.

While we ate and recapped the night, my fellow pages with similar comedy aspirations started talking about booking our own group shows together, which turned out to be a huge turning point and a glimpse into what the next few years would become.

I took comfort in the fact that I wasn’t going to be doing all this by myself. I had finally found my New York City comedy community.

(Me and a bunch of future Emmy Winners, 2000)

A NEW HOPE

These early open mics and booked shows slowly erased the fantasy that someone was going to magically pluck me out of obscurity and make me a star.

I also realized I still had a lot of work to do as a performer. It would take time and some patience to find my voice and learn how to feel more comfortable being myself on stage.

I couldn’t fully put my finger on it yet, but what I was starting to realize was:
It was more about the journey than finding the proverbial pot of gold.

From then on, I tried to be less hard on myself and learn from each experience.

One Saturday night, after working Saturday Night Live (checking names off at the NBC Commissary for the cast and crew dinner before the 8 pm dress rehearsal), I had been given a car voucher.

I called the car company to schedule my trip back to Fairview, and the dispatcher asked me, “Is it okay if we pick you up in a limo?”

“Ah… yeah. That’s totally fine.” I answered, trying not to express the giddiness I was feeling.

30 minutes later, I watched as a white limo drove down 49th Street and pulled right up to me.

“Adam Wade, Fairview, New Jersey?”

“Yes, Adam Wade, Fairview, New Jersey.”

And so there I was, my first time in a limo, riding back to my basement apartment in style.

This was my ending of Star Wars: A New Hope victory moment.

Adam Wade is a New York City-based storyteller, performer, and teacher. He is a 20-time Moth StorySLAM winner and the creator of the Audible Original You Ought to Know Adam Wade.

For me, Hoboken is one of them.

I lived there from 2003 to 2021—almost two decades. And even now, living in Jersey City these past five years, it still feels like I’m just a short PATH train ride away from something familiar.

Something meaningful.

Where It Started

When I first moved to Hoboken in 2003, I was just trying to find my footing as a performer.

I started doing open mics at Rodeo Ristra on Washington Street, not too far from the McDonald’s. It was one of those places where you just signed up, got on the mic, and figured it out in real time.

I was lucky enough to be a featured performer there a few times.

I remember opening for singer Bill McGarvey at The Frozen Monkey Café—another one of those small, intimate Hoboken spots where you could feel the room with every word.

Then there was The Goldhawk, where I debuted my first solo show, Penguin. That place meant a lot to me. The owner, Fran, gave me an open invitation to perform in that cool back room, and I took full advantage of it. That run of shows even landed me on the front page of the Hoboken Reporter—something I’ll never forget.

The Community

What made all of it special wasn’t just the venues—it was the people.

Hoboken has always had this strong, supportive creative community. I felt embraced early on, and that made all the difference.

Years later, I met Carla Katz—Hoboken’s own—in one of my storytelling classes at the Magnet Theater. That was about ten years ago, and we quickly became great friends.

Together, we created the “On The Waterfront Storytelling Show” at Mile Square Theatre—several sold-out nights, and even one show right on the actual waterfront.

The Present

These days, I’m based in Jersey City—but Hoboken is still very much part of my rhythm.

For the past two years, I’ve been doing shows at 503 Social Club, and I’ve really come to love that space.

It’s run by Hoboken legends James Mastro and Geri Fallo—two people I hold in very high regard. They’re the BEST!

I actually met James years ago when I bought my lefty Stratocaster at Guitar Bar. One of those small, full-circle moments.

And through these shows, I’ve gotten to know his awesome wife, Meghan, as well!

The Shows Now

What I love about these 503 shows is the mix of people.

Storytellers from Hoboken.
Storytellers from Jersey City.
Storytellers from other parts of New Jersey.
Storytellers from New York City.

Many of them are former students of mine from the Magnet Theater—people I’ve watched grow, develop, and now take the stage with confidence and honesty.

And the audiences?

One thing that hasn’t changed over all these years:

Hoboken audiences are just… great.

Open. Engaged. Willing to go wherever the story takes them.

It’s always felt like a communal experience. Old friends, new faces, all in the same room for the same reason.

The Next One

I’m really excited to be bringing the show back again this spring.

“Happy Spring!” — A Night of Fun Stories to Celebrate Warmer Weather and Good Times

Friday, May 15
Doors: 7:00pm | Show: 7:30pm
503 Social Club, Hoboken

We’ve got a fantastic lineup:

Carla Katz (Hoboken’s own)
Rachel Klem (coming in from Jersey City)
Ridhima Saxena
Adam Cohen
Shawn Musgrave

All storytellers I’ve had the pleasure of working with—and now get to share the stage with.

And it was a real thrill to have the show recently highlighted by Hoboken Girl. That meant a lot.

If you’re around, I’d love to have you there.

Tickets:

https://adamwadespring.eventbrite.com/

After the Show

And then there’s what happens after.

The after-parties at Leo’s.

Getting your food order in before 10pm.
Always enjoy seeing Jack Halloran—busboy and future collegiate lacrosse star—working hard.

And then eventually…

The PATH train ride back to Jersey City.

Still thinking about the night.
Still carrying the stories with you.

Maybe even burping up a little chicken parm from Leo’s.

And realizing that, even after all these years…

Hoboken is still very much in your heart.

Adam Wade
Storyteller

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about what happens around those stories,
the moments that lead up to them, and the small things that stay with you after.

This is a place to share some of that.

Notes on storytelling, performing, teaching… and the everyday moments that quietly turn into stories.

On Wednesday night, April 22nd, I walked into Art House Productions in Jersey City, feeling that familiar mix of excitement and uncertainty.

You spend weeks, sometimes months, putting a show together.
Emails. Lineups. Rehearsals. Adjustments. Last-minute changes. Quiet hopes that it all somehow clicks.

And then suddenly… it’s here.

The 2nd Annual “Opening Day” Baseball-Themed Storytelling & Cabaret Show.

And this year, something really special happened.

The Collaboration

Partnering with Jersey City Cabaret brought a whole new energy to the night.

Storytelling and music don’t just sit side by side; they start to talk to each other.

A story about a father and son leads into a song that somehow deepens it.

A funny moment opens the door to something unexpectedly emotional.

You can plan a show.
But you can’t fully plan that kind of connection.

That’s the magic part.

The Build

What people don’t always see is the process leading up to it.

Working with my storytelling students

Eric, Patty, and Robert

from Magnet Theater… watching them shape their stories, refine moments, find what really matters.

Because by the time they step on stage, it’s not just a story anymore.
It’s something lived-in.

The Night

The room filled up.

People came from all over—Jersey City, Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island, Queens.

There’s something about that, too.
A reminder that people will travel for something that feels real.

Hannah, Zach, and the performers from Jersey City Cabaret brought the room to life.

And when Art House Productions founder, Christine Goodman, threw out the ceremonial first pitch to kick things off, it set the tone perfectly. Playful, local, communal.

The whole night just… worked.

Not perfect. Not polished in a sterile way.

Alive.

What Stays

After a show like that, there’s always a comedown.

You go home.
You wake up the next day.
And the big moments fade faster than you expect.

What stays are the small ones.

A look between performers backstage.
A laugh that came a second later than expected, but landed harder.
Someone from the audience coming up after and saying, “That reminded me of…”

And for me, this time, it was Manny.

Manny, the piano player, at the beginning of the night… just playing a victory march.

No announcement.
No spotlight moment.

Just… playing.

Gratitude

A few thank yous that deserve to be said out loud:

To Eric, Patty, and Robert,

for bringing such honest, heartfelt baseball stories to the stage.

To Hannah, Zach, and the incredible performers from Jersey City Cabaret,
you elevated everything.

To Christine Goodman, and Meredith, Josh, Sunjay, and the rest of the team at Art House Productions,
for creating a space where nights like this can exist.

And to the audience—truly. Thank you for showing up.

We’ll do it again.

Already looking ahead to the 3rd Annual “Opening Day” show in April 2027.

But for now, I’m still thinking about that small moment at the beginning of the night.

Manny.
The piano.
The victory march.

And how sometimes, that’s the part that stays with you.