Can I tell you how hard it is for me to do open mic events?
What makes it funny though is that I read a story at the World Horror Con in NYC in front of strangers, peers, and famous writer-folk and managed not to faint but I STILL get all discombobulated when I have to read to people. What is funnier is that I don’t mind speaking before crowds. The trouble comes when I am reading a story or poem. It’s too personal. Too intimate. I can handle people disliking me, the person, but me the writer has a bit thinner skin.
Each time I am set to read something somewhere, too, I have this plan of what I am going to say, how I will say it, how I will read my piece/s and even the silly banter. I always have a plan and I rarely follow it. I dunno what happens but I get up in front of people and just get hyper-aware of myself, of my work, and psych myself out. I hate it. Reading stories is a good way to get people to dig on my work, and, hope-hope, to buy some, but I can never get past the awkwardness.
It’s like, I love to read to people who are interested, but hate reading at mixed events because I feel like I stick out. Like people will be disappointed that I am not reading a poem, or that my stuff is the way it is.
Here, friends, is the open mind and heart of the writer. HAHA.
I need to get over this. Yes. Just like I need to find those socks that have been stalking me for the past three years. Last night I read Messy and the Meep Sheep, my kid’s story, and a story I never thought I’d read aloud, and it was fun. The hell of it was that I kept finding inaccuracies with some story points that I think I fixed this morning. Not sure. It’s such a long story to try to read though, ack, it was rough. Fun, but rough.
It’s a good thing I’m not established ’cause, brother, I’d be a mess if I had to read all the time.