Moment of Weakness

I graciously accepted an invitation to an annual holiday party hosted by my writing peer, Melanie Millburn through my writer's critique group. The invitation made me feel like one of them. I've arrived. I have become a writer! When you're invited into your tribe, you have become, right?

    That's what I thought anyway.

            To ready for the event, participants were to prepare a piece to share with the group. Something already published, or something that we’ve written for the event itself. A sample of our writing.

            I prepared a speech about being a writer. My “piece” was not writing, it was a lecture about the very thing everyone who joined this holiday celebration already knows. Launching writers know about the critique process, the publishing hardships, the writer’s block, the blogs they've started, and struggle to find members for. These writers know about their passion. They’re actively working toward their passions! Still, I thought my perception may be a fun piece to share with the group.

            The morning of the event, I worked for some hours at the library. Following my day-job duties, I made a trip into Durango and dropped my books off with another store that wants to carry my art! Then I participated in a reading at the Durango Public Library. The event was fun and motivating. I’ve said it before, and I will continue to do so, I love the conversations that I get to have with these kids, my “fans”! My books open people up, and I can’t get enough.

            I added names to my email list through that reading, but I didn’t sell any books. That’s okay. I still had a blast with the kids.

            Finally, it was time to make the drive to Melanie’s house. I pumped myself up along the drive. I’m doing this. I’m welcome there. It will be a new venture – another step in the process moving me toward being an actual writer.

            Upon my arrival, I walked into a momentary lull in conversation. There’s silence in the entire house. No music, no conversation, yet about a dozen writers standing around a table full of food looking at one another. Looking at me. Do I belong here, I ask myself?

            Yet, here I am, so I must belong. I have been invited. I am worthy; I do belong.

            Look at what I’ve completed today alone! Work at a library, dropping off books to a seller, participated in a reading, and attending a writer’s holiday party! I must belong. Right?

            The lull in conversation was a coincidence, of course. Discomforting, but coincidental. The party livened up once again and everything was okay. People were friendly, welcoming, warm, courteous, and best of all curious. All the things you want when walking into this type of event for the first time.

            I make small talk with fellow writers. I make myself a plate. I find a seat. I watch.

            As conversations begin to fill the awkward silences, I hear from the party attendees about the things they plan to share with the group tonight. Writings about different subjects and from different points of view, different styles, and my interest piques. I realize my prepared speech will not do here. I need to read one of my books. That’s not what I’ve prepared.

            Fuck.

            I have three books to choose from. I would have rather had an adult writing to share with the group, but I have nothing with me. It’s not what I have readied myself for. All of my published books are with me. I need to select one of them.

            I run out to the car. I grab my go-to title, The Mango Tree, and begin to walk back toward the house. Then I turn around and go back to my car and grab another title in case I’m moved to read that one instead, The Tortoise and the Flair. As I head back toward the house, I find myself turning around yet again to bring in Brinley Discovers Santa – my first published title, and the one picked up traditionally. I figure, I never have a chance to read Brinley; it’s too revealing! This could be my opportunity.

            As names are drawn from a hat determining who’s to read next, the anticipation builds. Listening to other writers read their work I’m feeling awestruck. These are really great writers! Their work is enticing and enjoyable. I like hearing their stories. I like hearing the authors read them!

            There are nerves. You can hear them in the quiver of a voice, see them in the shaking of a hand, or in the shuffling of their feet. But they persist and persevere. They all sound fabulous, and I begin to wonder if I truly belong here.

            Then I tell myself, this isn’t the question. I do belong here because I am here. Like it or not, Brookie, you’re going to read a book tonight. Your name is in that hat.

            My head fills with dread as I contemplate what to read. I read The Mango Tree on a weekly basis. I’m always reading that story right now. While it’s a great work, I don’t feel like reading it again. I just finished reading it an hour and a half ago!

            Julieta? Should I read The Tortoise and the Flair, my newest release? Mmmm, I think that’s going to eventually turn out to be similar to The Mango Tree and be read weekly. My mind settles upon Brinley Discovers Santa. Again.

            Just do it, Brookie. You got this. It’s going to be okay. You’re amongst supportive friends.

            We hear five lovely readings during the first half of the evening. Five openings of the soul. Five opportunities for me to turn back and make a different choice.

            Then we break.

            I have a great conversation with a couple of the readers. We’re enticed to learn more about one another.

            We come back together as a group having taken a drink, used the restrooms or grabbed seconds from a lovely buffet style potluck table.  As we get back together, once again, I’m hit with the fact that I will be reading my book to these professionals.       

            I truly don’t feel worthy.

            We hear two more great readings, and once again, I’m left feeling interested in their works and I want to hear them continue to read. To hold up the line. To stop my moment from arriving. Unfortunately, that’s not how the world works. And my name is in fact drawn from that hat.

            I like to laugh. And when I’m nervous, I would appreciate a partner in my giggle-fest. I don’t need a nervous laughter, but I like to make some jokes, and as I stand, I make one of my jokes.

            I tell everyone that I’m going to read my first title, Brinley Discovers Santa and explain to them the reason for my choice. I get to read from my other two titles all the time during book readings and school events; but Brinley spills the beans disallowing me to read it to the audience for which it has been written. This is a conversation for parents to have with their children, I tell my audience.

            Then, as my joke, I say, Here’s your warning, if you don’t want to know the truth about Santa, you are free to go now.

            Nothing. Not a smile or a chuckle. Not a peep.

            Okay. Here we go.

            As I open my book, the binding cracks. I begin to read. I stutter on the very first line. I fumble with the layout of the words. What a way to start my reading. I’m not happy with what’s happening, and it makes the entire reading worse. I keep telling myself, if you keep going, eventually your voice will steady, and your words will solidify. Your reading will get better and they will love your story.

            But my reading does not steady. My voice does not solidify. My quiver stays present throughout the reading. And the more unsteady I sound, the more uncertain I feel. By page four I simply want to read to get it over with. I stop trying to add character to my characters. I stop trying to make the book enticing. I realize I’m out of my realm. I just want to be finished.

            Finally, I do finish. I look up and smile as I say clearly for the first time since I started, “The End”.

            Applause.

            It feels artificial. I don’t actually deserve this applause, and I know that. I know this is just etiquette; good manners. People are genuinely polite. Dishonest, but polite.

            I accept a single question. And I sit.

            At least the action of reading my story is over. But the dilemma has only begun.

            Am I a real writer? Do I really belong here? Probably not. My writing is subpar compared with the other readings I heard tonight.

            I’m discomforted. I want to hide. But I need to finish out this party. Etiquette goes both ways, after all. It’s my turn to be humbled and listen to the rest of the group’s readings, and to participate in their applause and their questions. It’s my turn to sit back and listen.

            Have you ever had that feeling of relief after finishing an activity for which you were so nervous going into? The feeling like, "Whew! I'm glad that's over with! Now I get to sit back and relax."

            Yeah. That did not happen for me this night. Instead, I felt isolated, alone. Like I just made a huge mistake.

            Who knows. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. But it’s over now. I can’t tell if it was my reading that was bad or my book. Maybe both. My heart is still not easy. I’m ashamed.

            …or perhaps I’m being entirely too hard on myself.

            But I don’t think so.

            It’s making me question everything I love about my passion.

           

I thought, being a writer, going into this writing right now would help me process these feelings, encourage me a bit, maybe help me to move on. It hasn't I'm still full of questions and pervading negativity…

…it's an opportunity to learn and to grow. Now I just need to take that leap to do so.

And that's the lesson for today – one that I’m currently working on. When you feel less worthy, or when your weaknesses pervade you, learn from them. Grow from them. It’s time for me to take a writer’s class or work on my voice in my writing. Maybe make some necessary corrections in Brinley.

It's definitely not time to rest or to quit. It’s time to persist.

And so I will.

Dreamweavers Coaching