My First Public Reading

Just yesterday on Twitter, I was talking to my friend, Diane Callahan (@QuotidianWriter), and in the course of our chat, I started to recount a recent experience of mine: my first time giving a public reading.

The 2019 Repeat Offenders

Front (Left to Right): Adam Cheney, Pat Cadigan, Jalyn Powell

Back: Me, Kathy Kitts, Kristen Koopman, Rachelle Smith,
Chris McKitterick, Anna Scherer, Jean Asselin

Not Pictured: Patricia Crumpler, Isaac Bell

This happened at the Repeat Offenders Workshop this past July at the James Gunn Center for the Study of Science Fiction, in Lawrence, Kansas. It was my second time attending a Writing Workshop at the Gunn Center (hence the name of the workshop), and I was able to reunite with some of the people I'd met the year before, as well as acquaint myself with some new faces. In the course of that first week, however, our fearless leader, Chris McKitterick, decided to arrange a Public Reading for all of us to take part in at the Lawrence Public Library. 

If any of you reading this have ever attended a reading or seen a video on YouTube of such an event, you know it's self-explanatory. It usually takes place at a bookstore, a library, or (if the writer is sufficiently famous and popular, such as Neil Gaiman), at a theater, and the author then reads from either the work they're currently on tour promoting or from a work-in-progress. Most professionals, at some point or another, participate and even end up the star attraction of such events. Since all of us would like to attain that distinction eventually, learning how to do this is necessary for the job.

At the same time though, a writer doing a public reading is a fish out of water (especially if you're this writer). When I heard about it, I was terrified. I write, partly, because I'm not a good talker and never have been, and despite the impression some of you may get through these posts, I'm not the bold type. The two adjectives I use to describe myself are shy and quiet--great traits for writers, not so good for performers. 

However, I recognized that this was an opportunity to do something that, eventually (I hope), I'd be called on to do a lot. So, I did the thing I always do when faced with something I don't want to do, but know I have to do: I over-prepared.

Before I go further, let me explain three pertinent details. 

This reading was arranged fairly close to the last minute as a way for us Repeat Offenders to gain experience doing readings. Thus, it was highly unlikely that we'd draw that large a crowd, even in a town like Lawrence, with a population that loves events like this. So, I was certain the crowd would be small and contain mostly interested library staff and my colleagues. 

One might think that such foreknowledge would make things a little easier, and one would be wrong. It's one experience to read for a crowd of strangers, but it's wholly another experience to read in front of people whose opinions matter to you.

Additionally, the Repeat Offenders Workshop comprises two different groups. The first (he said arrogantly), was my group, the Short Story Repeat Offenders, and the second (no offense intended), was the Novel Repeat Offenders. Both groups, who mingled socially, but not while workshopping, would be attending this reading.

Finally, the reading was to take place in the course of two hours, and since there were many of us attending, we each had a set amount of time to read our selections. To be specific, we were each allotted a total of 5 minutes. 5 minutes to get to the podium, introduce ourselves, introduce our selection, read it, and bug-off. 

In such a tight timeframe, it's hard to give an audience a full and good experience of one's work. So, I knew, if I wanted to make the best impression possible, I couldn't read a scene from a longer story. I needed something short and complete. And, thankfully, despite my own propensity to write long, I had managed to produce one piece that could fit the bill.

The year before, shortly after my initial time at the workshop, I'd written a flash piece (flash fiction is anything shorter than 1000 words), titled "Oscar Ambrose's Magicpedia Guide to Modern Mirror Making," as a sort of exercise to see if I could even write flash fiction. And, for a first attempt, it turned out pretty well. I then had a few of my colleagues workshop it (over email), and I made a few tweaks to it and thought it as complete as I could make it. So, upon my return, it was ready and waiting for it's debut. What better place to do that than at a public reading?

So, for a lot of the night and morning before the reading, I ran that story, like someone practicing a speech, until I knew exactly how I wanted to deliver it--every pause, every inflection. In addition, as I ran it, I rewrote it after reading it, tweaking it so I wouldn't trip over any difficult words or suddenly run out of breath mid-sentence. After the quick rewrites, I ran it again, and once I knew I'd learned it well enough to be able to "perform" it, I was a ready as I could be.

The group of us made our way to the Lawrence Public Library where we'd read. The space they gave us was a small-ish auditorium. As I'd suspected, my fellow readers comprised most of the crowd, along with a handful of library staff. It was a bit like being in a comedy club during an open-mic night, where most of the crowd is just others eagerly awaiting their time to perform. Still, I was nervous.

.

So nervous, in fact, that I didn't read first. Or second. Or third. I allowed many of my fellow Repeat Offenders to go before me, but I knew, sooner rather than later, that I'd have to go up. Some of them read funny pieces. Some read dark and haunting pieces. Some read emotionally wrenching pieces. All of them, though, were brilliant. And my nervousness only increased.

Finally, one of my fellow short story colleagues, went up and read a poetic, dark short piece that sent a hush over the crowd, and when she finished, everyone gave her a well-deserved round of applause. I chose, at that moment, to take the stage to read my little comic story. 

I ambled up to the microphone, introduced myself by saying, "Hello, Funny People. My Name is Ian Martinez-Cassmeyer, and--"

Before I could finish, I started having mic trouble. No one could hear me, and I couldn't get the microphone to raise in its stand. (Although, I did manage to say "goddammit" in an exasperated tone directly into it, which made everyone laugh.) So, I opted to hunch over the podium, put my face right into the mic, and not move. In hindsight, this probably made me seem more nervous than I was at that point, but it worked, they could hear me.

"I shall remain stationary,"  I said, once I'd found the position that worked, "Now, this is Oscar Ambrose's Magicpedia Guide to Modern Mirror Making," which elicited a titter from the crowd, "And despite it's title, it's actually quite short."

I began, and, to my pleasant surprise, all my preparation paid off. Once I started reading, it felt less like a reading and more like a performance. Every moment that I thought was funny in this piece got a laugh from the crowd. Some were louder, some were softer, but, the story was doing exactly what I wanted it to do. It was entertaining the audience. I read the final line, closed my Kindle's cover, said, "Thank you," and left the podium as they applauded me. 

I must confess though that I didn't take much notice to the applause. I was simply relived it was over, and that the story worked. 

The aftermath of the reading, however, was the best part. I knew from the reading that the story had gone over well, given the laughs that I'd heard. Still, I hadn't looked at the crowd during the reading at all though because of my mic problems and my nervousness. However, over the course of that evening, as people made their ways back from getting ice-cream (we'd had dinner before the event), or returning to some other errand, to the dormitory we were occupying for the workshop's duration, many of my colleagues came up to me and told me they really enjoyed my piece. They told me it was funny, and some, likely perceiving my trepidation about going up to read, told me I'd done a good job. The best compliment by far, though, was that I should consider writing more pieces like "Oscar Ambrose."

As nerve-racking an experience as doing the reading was for me, it turned out well in the end--for everyone involved. The real point of doing a reading, like any kind of writerly endeavor, is to introduce people to you and your work. If you can show off a different part of yourself through your work, all the better. Most of my colleagues knew me as the quiet, shy (and, let's face it, somewhat scary-looking), person in workshop who struggled to get his thoughts across when speaking. After that reading, they found out I also had a sense of humor. And, lucky me, I learned a few things about them as well.