Good Friday
At the San Francisco Writers Conference we have readings in the evenings. This year, my friend Joss lectured me, “A writer should never pass up a chance to read.”
Friday night I sat in my chair, halfway back on the right, with my hands sweating and my breath quivering, dreading my turn and aching for it be over so I could go up to my room, scrape off the rotten tomato and weep in relief. There were near to forty readers signed up, and maybe double that in the room. Readers received polite golf claps, neutral comments, “I found your setting evocative,” and faint praise handed out to all of us aspiring authors. I wanted to die of terror. terroooooooor
Then it was time for number five, my number. “Looks like next up we have J--” I stood, “-Jennifer [someone whose last name is lost to me in a sea of adrenalin.]” So there I stood like the first runner-up grabbing at the crown. I sat.
Then it was my turn and I hyperventilated all the way to the podium, trying to not vomit on my shoes. I struggled to open my notebook to the right page. I put my head next to the microphone and raced through my selection, then slithered, soaked in flop sweat, toward my chair while reminding myself that even with paper-cuts, it's down-the-road not across-the-street.
BUT A MIRACLE OCCURRED.
There was thunder and whistling that followed me all the way to my chair. Oh! My joy! I channeled Sally Fields “They LIKE me, they really, really LIKE me.” I took off my clothes and bathed in the warmth of glowing praise. Suddenly birds sang and I loved EVERYONE. I loved you, and that guy over there, and even the driver who cut me off on the freeway last Tuesday. Then came Black Saturday.
Friday night I sat in my chair, halfway back on the right, with my hands sweating and my breath quivering, dreading my turn and aching for it be over so I could go up to my room, scrape off the rotten tomato and weep in relief. There were near to forty readers signed up, and maybe double that in the room. Readers received polite golf claps, neutral comments, “I found your setting evocative,” and faint praise handed out to all of us aspiring authors. I wanted to die of terror. terroooooooor
Then it was time for number five, my number. “Looks like next up we have J--” I stood, “-Jennifer [someone whose last name is lost to me in a sea of adrenalin.]” So there I stood like the first runner-up grabbing at the crown. I sat.
Then it was my turn and I hyperventilated all the way to the podium, trying to not vomit on my shoes. I struggled to open my notebook to the right page. I put my head next to the microphone and raced through my selection, then slithered, soaked in flop sweat, toward my chair while reminding myself that even with paper-cuts, it's down-the-road not across-the-street.
BUT A MIRACLE OCCURRED.
There was thunder and whistling that followed me all the way to my chair. Oh! My joy! I channeled Sally Fields “They LIKE me, they really, really LIKE me.” I took off my clothes and bathed in the warmth of glowing praise. Suddenly birds sang and I loved EVERYONE. I loved you, and that guy over there, and even the driver who cut me off on the freeway last Tuesday. Then came Black Saturday.