My friend Jenny Boylan and I are both incorrigible dinner-party raconteurs who love to one-up each other with stories about our misspent youths and eccentric families. Since we’re both writers, the best of these tales run the risk of theft, which is why often, as soon as the speaker’s voice falls, the listener will serve notice: You have one year to use that, we warn, after which the story becomes fair game. Of course, these aren’t so much “stories” in the literary sense as alcohol-fueled anecdotes, and often it isn’t even the whole tale we covet, just its setup,…