Last night was my first public reading of a portion of Blood Dance, if you don’t count the time I won the prize for the nonfiction version of Amateur Night, at least 20 years ago. I was scared; seven readers were to perform at the Florence Regional Arts Center. I was the last. Not only did I fret through the first six readers, but before that, Ned Hickson, editor of the local Siuslaw News and a syndicated humor columnist, talked for most of the first hour about writing – a smart and funny man whose professional past made me wonder why we hadn’t crossed paths before.
Then a break, and then the readings began. The second hour ticked by with readings – some deep, some charming, some delightful and entertaining; and then the third. As the sixth reader took the stand, I could sense the butt discomfort spreading to the rest of the audience. I rechecked my document and was determined to be lively. I heard my name called, and my writing talents described. What was I supposed to do during that effusion? I stood. I smiled. And then I took the front of the room and read.
Someday, when I’m famous and all this is old hat, I’ll be able to look up more often from my pages and read my audience. But this first time, I could register a couple of gasps, a low hum of some sort, and when I dared to look up (I think, three times), they were staring at me intently, waiting … for what. For my story!
Afterward. I took my seat. The rest is a blur. There was a door prize drawing and I won a hardbound folder with a blank notepad inside and “You can do it!” in gold letters on the outside. And then there were handshakes and smiles and then a congratulatory beer with my favorite fan, Michael Cairns.
Reading my work aloud rocks, I’ve decided. What I read follows in the next post. But more importantly, to me, I learned something new. I was given a context (read aloud), parameters (5 minutes) and a goal (don’t put my listeners to sleep). Listening to the sound of my words is a lesson in musical cadence. Watching that song’s impact on the listener is a lesson I’m still learning.
Then a break, and then the readings began. The second hour ticked by with readings – some deep, some charming, some delightful and entertaining; and then the third. As the sixth reader took the stand, I could sense the butt discomfort spreading to the rest of the audience. I rechecked my document and was determined to be lively. I heard my name called, and my writing talents described. What was I supposed to do during that effusion? I stood. I smiled. And then I took the front of the room and read.
Someday, when I’m famous and all this is old hat, I’ll be able to look up more often from my pages and read my audience. But this first time, I could register a couple of gasps, a low hum of some sort, and when I dared to look up (I think, three times), they were staring at me intently, waiting … for what. For my story!
Afterward. I took my seat. The rest is a blur. There was a door prize drawing and I won a hardbound folder with a blank notepad inside and “You can do it!” in gold letters on the outside. And then there were handshakes and smiles and then a congratulatory beer with my favorite fan, Michael Cairns.
Reading my work aloud rocks, I’ve decided. What I read follows in the next post. But more importantly, to me, I learned something new. I was given a context (read aloud), parameters (5 minutes) and a goal (don’t put my listeners to sleep). Listening to the sound of my words is a lesson in musical cadence. Watching that song’s impact on the listener is a lesson I’m still learning.