My words, My Voice

Source: englishmuse.com via Vinobaby on Pinterest

I joined a monthly writer's meet-up group about a year ago.  I haven't attended each month. I wasn't allowed. If I hadn't cranked out enough words on my manuscript that month, I didn't consider myself a real writer. Slacker — yes, but writer — no.

Since I finished draft #1, I figured I damn well earned the title.

In real life, I am a wallflower. Seriously shy. My mouth might as well be duck-taped shut around strangers. At all of the previous meetings I attended I sat quietly, lips zipped, listening to electrical engineers and actresses, karate instructors and math professors read a short piece of writing.  

Their writing.

Some of their diverse pieces were amazing. Some...not so much.

But I've never shared my own work.

Last night I finally let them hear my voice.

It was a total last minute decision. I planned to bring in the first few pages of my novel, edited. Since last week was a giant clusterfluck, that didn't happen. Concerned I would soon be perceived as some kind of wanna-be-writer-stalker, I figured they deserved to read something from me. A half-hour before I had to leave, I alternated printing 25 copies of a blog post while prepping a quick gourmet meal for the family (premade bbq chicken and tater tots — whoohoo!).

I last spoke before an audience back in college, and I refuse to mention exactly how long ago that was. My feet tapped, my stomach knotted, my heart thought I was running a 5k. I tried yoga breathing and sipped on endless mugs of hot tea in a vain attempt to stay calm. (No wine available. Damn. I guarantee that would have loosened my tongue.) 

I didn't throw up. Though I really wanted to.

And I did it.

I read my Swimsuit Shopping {Part one: the Grey Hair} post. If it was funny enough for Scary Mommy, it should work for a bunch of part-time hacks, right?

The audience laughed on cue. I received a (minor) ovation at the close. They wrote positive, encouraging words on their reading copies (and corrected only one typo) before they shuffled the pages back down the tables to me. 

Hallelujah.

The woman next to me commented about how "candid" my essay was. Candid? Obviously she was unfamiliar with the blogosphere. As I scanned through  my published posts trying to find an accurate example of my writing, I gravitated towards humor. I can laugh at myself just fine. There was no way I could have read any of my truly candid posts, presented my tales of heartbreak or grief  for all to critique. Funny how they are far too personal to read aloud to a few dozen strangers, yet I can write them for the world to read and judge.

Hopefully next month I will have my chance to get some feedback on my 'real' writing.  I think I may throw up that night.

It gets easier each time, right?