Yesterday I joined friends and students to read from several new A Cup of Comfort anthologies. They had provided a podium, but the other authors ahead of me stepped in front of it and just stood at the mic. Immediately, the little disabled person inside me cried, “You had better use that podium!”
But I growled back, “No, I can do this.” Do what? Hold the book and turn the page one-handed, as in single handedly. I read the first page, nervous because my mom was in the audience and my story was about–gulp–Mom. I couldn’t look at her, as I imagined being cut out the will for my honesty. Anyway, I had to turn the page and I tried, I really did.
The book grew a mind of its own, flew out of my grasp and landed on the rug. I bent to retrieve it and after a bit of fumbling, kept on reading as if nothing had happened. Afterward, Mom actually hugged me (I still don’t know if I’m out of the will) and several folks assuaged my embarrassment by saying how great the story was. Sandwiched in-between eight or so readers, I rather think they may not have remembered mine at all except for the flying book incident. I learned that podiums are good, publicity (even unintentional) gets you noticed, and if you are going to write essays about your mom and she’s listening when you read them, be very very brave.
Writing Tip for Today: It isn’t easy to be vulnerable and painfully honest in your writing. If your mom ( or any relation) is present when you publicize your work, remember that it is precisely this transparency, this willingness to dig deep, crack it open, that readers love and relate to. The relations in the audience may not agree, but truth is what readers crave.