The Sparkling Moment: How to Turn a True Event Into a Compelling Story

Last week, I sat in a small, warm Spanish restaurant in New York City with my parents, who are in their 80s, and my brothers, who are in their 40s and 50s. The table was covered in dishes of paella, two and a half empty pitchers of sangria, and the kind of laughter that only rises when a family has gathered after too much time apart. We told stories for hours. One story led to another, which led to another, spiraling outward like rings on water.

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What struck me most was not the punchlines or the details, but the act of slowing down. Of listening deeply. Of acknowledging that these moments are finite. We will not always have the people who matter most to us, but we can hold onto their stories.

And that, in many ways, is where compelling storytelling begins: with the willingness to notice the moments that sparkle.

Every writer has experienced this challenge: You know something meaningful happened in your life, or in your family, or in your childhood, but when you try to turn it into a story, it lies flat on the page. You can feel its importance, yet the translation from life to narrative is murky.

This is where the concept of the Sparkling Moment comes in.

A sparkling moment is a tiny, vivid memory—positive, resonant, emotional, or simply alive, that captures something essential. It’s not the whole story. It’s the spark that leads to the story.

The exercise comes from a chapter in my book A Story For Everything, and I’ve used it for years to help both new and experienced writers find clarity and contour in their narratives. It’s simple, it’s surprisingly powerful, and it teaches you two skills at once: how to listen and how to shape.

Below is the core exercise, and then we’ll break down how to use it in your writing practice.

With a partner (or a voice recorder if you’re working alone), tell a very short true story, something happy, positive, or meaningful that can be told in 60 seconds. It could be something from childhood. Or something from this morning. The smaller the moment, the better.

Examples often sound like:

These are memories, not epics. They’re sparks.

If you’re working with a partner, have them listen fully without interrupting. Their only job is to be present. If you stall out before the minute is up, they can encourage you with gentle prompts like “Go on” or “Tell me more,” but they should avoid asking questions that steer the story.

This is where the magic happens.

After you finish your one-minute story, your partner retells the same story back to you, from memory.

Sometimes I ask the reteller to speak in first person, as if it were their own story. Other times, I ask them to retell it exactly as heard. Either way, the real work is happening not in the retelling, but in your listening.

When you hear your own story told back to you, you immediately notice:

This is live, instantaneous feedback on how your storytelling is being received.

Writers spend so much time inside their own heads, shaping sentences and rearranging paragraphs, that they often forget a story is a two-way experience. Someone else has to hear it, understand it, and feel something from it. The Sparkling Moment exercise shows you exactly how much of your story is actually crossing that bridge.

In workshops, I don’t reveal this retelling step ahead of time. Inevitably, listeners laugh and groan when I tell them they’re going to have to retell the story, because most weren’t truly listening. They were half-listening and half-preparing their own story for when it would be their turn to talk.

Sound familiar?

Writers often do the same thing: Instead of staying inside the moment, they jump mentally to what’s next. Instead of sitting in the sparkling memory, they try to build the whole narrative arc before they even understand what the story is really about.

Listening is not passive. It is generative.

Once you hear your story reflected back to you, ask yourself:  Where did the story change?

Every compelling story has a pivot; the moment when something shifts. It might be tiny. It might be emotional rather than external. But it’s the pivot that gives the story meaning.

In the restaurant last week, my dad told a story about a painting he kept in his dental office for years, an image of the Patron Saint of Dentistry. He originally bought it from another dentist; recently, he passed it down to his nephew (my cousin), who is also a dentist. On the surface, it’s a simple story about a painting changing hands. But as he spoke, the emotional pivot became clear. It wasn’t about the sale at all. It was about passing the torch. It was about tradition, and pride, and the “spirit” of the profession he devoted his life to. The painting itself was an object, but its transfer from one generation to the next revealed continuity, identity, and legacy.

The pivot is where the story stops being a list of events and becomes an experience.

When you identify that pivot, you’ve found the beating heart of the story.

A true event becomes a compelling story when you add reflection, when you connect the moment to something larger.

Reflection answers the question:

Why does this story matter?

It doesn’t need to be profound. You don’t need to have learned a grand lesson. But you do need to articulate meaning.

Look back at your sparkling moment and ask:

Reflection turns memory into narrative. It’s where the sparkle becomes illumination.

Now you have everything you need:

All that’s left is expanding the edges, adding just enough context and detail to immerse the reader without burying the moment.

Most writers do the opposite. They start with too much backstory or setup, drowning the scene before the reader ever finds what’s important. The Sparkling Moment exercise reverses that instinct. It makes you start with the moment that matters most, then build outward with intention.

Sitting around that dinner table with my parents and brothers reminded me that storytelling is not a performance; it is preservation. We talked for hours, savoring stories we’ve told before and discovering ones we’d forgotten. And as I listened, I felt something that has stayed with me since: These sparkling moments, once spoken aloud, become the way we hold onto each other.

A story doesn’t have to be big to be unforgettable. It only has to be true, told with presence, and anchored in the moment where something shifted.

You don’t need to be a “natural storyteller.”

You just need to notice your sparkling moments, and let them shine.

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