I've always hated reading in public. I've always hated doing anything in public. I like to be that person sitting quietly in the back listening to whatever's going on, maybe asking a question once in a while, but not if everybody stares at me.
When I was about twelve, I was in a choir. I was the backup singer for this beautifully talented girl who sang "I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair," a Stephen Foster song. She had such an amazing voice and seemed so confident that I didn't mind being her back up. I convinced myself I'd never get to go on stage to sing that song.
The night of our performance, we all sang together on various Stephen Foster songs, and then it was time for the star to sing her song, "I Dream of Jeannie." And she freaked out. She totally panicked. She wouldn't go on stage. She started to cry. She was terrified. The teacher grabbed me by the arm and said, "You're up." I went, "No, no, I can't," but she literally shoved me on the stage. I sang such a miserable version of that song I thought I would die.
The first time I ever read at our local poetry readings, at the Civic Media Center, I was recovering from chemo and radiation and thought I had very little time left to get my work out into the world. I convinced my husband to drive me down to the CMC, a cute little bookstore with all kinds of amazing and rare books on politics, rebellion, and insurrections. The Civic Media Center has one of the longest-running poetry jams in the country, every Thursday night. So Ken pulled up out front and I said, "Oh, God, I can't go in, I can't. I'm too scared. Drive me home." So he took me home.
The following week, I asked him to take me again. We parked in front of the bookstore, and I started to exit the car, but then panicked. "I can't. Drive home. Just go." He was pissed off, but he drove me home.
Week 3 the same thing happened. I totally panicked. Only this time, my sweet, dear, calm husband totally lost it. "Get the F*** out of the car," he said. "You're going in." I was so stunned I actually did it. And I actually read some of my own work for the first time in 20 years (the last time was in graduate school - and that wasn't optional).
After that night, things got a little easier. I started reading somewhat regularly. And then the Covid epidemic hit. And it all came to a screeching halt. We introverts have thrived during Covid. But now, I have to get back out and read again. Last week, I read at a wonderful new place, the Theatre of Memory, in Gainesville, Fl (https://www.theatreofmemory.org/) . I was so terrified, so nervous. It seems like it's been forever since I read in public. But I had to do it. It's time. As a dear friend of mine told me a long time ago, "Oh, Honey, Emily Dickinson's been done." You can't hold your work secret your whole life. It's time to get out there.
The reading went well, although I didn't know it at the time I was reading. I get so nervous that it's like I'm in a trance. I literally have no idea how the reading is working out while I'm speaking. I do not hear the crowd, I do not hear clapping, I do not hear cheers or jeers. I am in a trance, trying to sound authoritive without being in my own body. When I was done, a number of people told me it went well. Good to know. I guess I'll try it again soon :)
This weekend, the writers group that I started, The Writers Alliance, is going to have a book festival here in Gainesville. This will be the fourth annual Sunshine State Book Festival. We have been so blessed to have such good response from local writers. We'll have over 100 there on Saturday at my church, Trinity United Methodist. I'm looking forward to it. And of course, I'm terrified. Selling my own books? What a nightmare. Advertising myself? Yech. But I'll probably survive. After all, even Emily Dickinson did some marketing...
My Books:
