There are some writers who love attention; Writers who are confident speakers and get a thrill of reading their work to a captivated audience; Writers who are extraverts or just naturals when it comes to public speaking… but none of these things can be said about me. I’m a writer, not a (out loud, in public) reader. Even if I know this must change down the road…
When I was at the writing workshop I attended three weeks ago it was all about challenging oneself. Many of the workshop leaders talked about fear. They knew they were writing what they needed to write when they became afraid. When they paused and didn’t want to delve any further… except I don’t get afraid when I write. I can’t say there is nothing I won’t write about, because there is a time for everything, but writing out the horrible stuff, the painful stuff, the things I most want to forget or hope no one else ever discovers is not all that difficult for me… but sharing it is another story. I can’t share, even the easy things, with people. And that includes just letting people read my work themselves. So the idea of reading it aloud is about as fun as those dreams a lot of people get when they wind up naked in front of a large group of people and are mortified. The idea leaves me feeling exposed, bare, terrified, embarrassed and sure I’ll fuck it up.
