This is a long one, so get comfortable.
A few months ago I started getting that uneasy, I'm-forgetting-something-important feeling. You know, the one that has you repeatedly paging through your calendar, poking through the trash for scraps of paper with notes on them, and rereading old emails. It took a day or two, but it finally revealed itself: I hadn't read my writing in a really long time. Years. Unlike the dentist, it was something I'd never have to do again if I didn't feel like it, but it was also like writing thank you notes after a party or receiving a gift. You know you should do it because that's the way it's done. For a writer, it's all part of the job (I mean joy, joy!), published or not.
When I say I hadn't read in years I'm not exaggerating. Six years to be exact. My experiences have been fairly positive. I’ve had the usual stage fright, but once out there in front of the audience, managed to make it through without tripping, fainting, or bursting into expletives (who hasn't feared suddenly developing a raging case of Touretts at a moment like that?), but I could have done better. There were times when I let the ending go by whispering it, having already finished the reading in my head and gone home before I actually spoke the last words, when I read too fast, when I made absolutely no eye contact, and when I turned so red I felt like my head would explode. Mostly I felt vulnerable, exposed, and completely untalented once I was reading my own work. I wondered who I was kidding calling myself a writer/poet; the Fraud Police would surely burst in at any moment and drag me away while the audience burned my poems and danced around the fire.
I wanted that to change, to feel more comfortable with myself and my writing and actually enjoy the experience, as well as connect with the crowd, but I wasn't sure how to go about that. Two months later, when I'd pushed the idea away yet again, I came across a notice on a website of a class being given by a writer of short fiction who also called himself a Reading Coach. He was an actor who ran a theatre in New York, and had recently published a collection of short stories through one of the Top Five publishers. I was in Baltimore, but I emailed him anyway, asking if he made out-of-state calls and how much he charged. He wrote back immediately, friendly and enthusiastic, saying he charged $150 for two hours, and that he'd be in town for a non-fiction writers’ conference in a few weeks, in August, and we could have a session then. It seemed fated, so I agreed. He asked for some poems, enough for a reading, and I sent about twenty-five, which was probably too many, but I thought it best he have as much of an idea of my writing as possible.
Peter (name changed to protect me) showed up on a dark and stormy night. Truly. It was pouring outside, and he was coming from near DC where he was staying with friends, so he was driving a long way in traffic in an unknown area in a thunderstorm. It was above and beyond of him to even show up. Early thirties, Italian, he was tall and skinny, with longish, wavy (slightly greasy) dark hair, and intense brown eyes. He was pulsing with masculinity. He was also serious; someone who looked at you while you spoke so you knew they were paying attention, not just to what you were saying, but to how you were saying it--your expression, your tone, your body language. To top it off, he put on these square-framed glasses that were a tad geeky and added to the effect of a young professor or psychiatrist, which, for what we were doing, was appropriate. The room quickly filled up from the center out with his strong, calm presence, while my jittery, giggly one flitted from corner to corner. Because turn giggly I did. It wasn't so much that here was this attractive man focusing intently on my every word and move (for professional purposes only) - okay maybe that was also part of it - it had a great deal with my work and my performance (for a performance it was supposed to be, that was the point) being subject to such concentrated concentration. Whenever I suddenly find myself the center of attention, I regress. I giggle, I blush, I fidget. It's awful. It's kind of like a seizure in slow motion, if you can picture that. What's worse--I can't stop myself. It just goes on as long as it has to; I'm powerless to stop it and always horrified afterwards.
For two hours, with the rain, thunder, and lightning all the while, Peter put me through my paces. I read poems softly, then loudly. I moved from loud to soft and back. I did the same with fast and slow. I stood and did stretches. I hummed and did scales. I lay on the floor and breathed in various ways while he pushed on either my upper chest or my stomach (he made sure I was comfortable with that first - I was) to indicate where I should center the breath. The ultimate was me standing in the middle of the room reading while he circled me in his loose, fluid way of moving, and called out instructions: faster, slower, louder, softer, look at me, pause, occasionally coming over to pull my shoulders back or lift my head. There was a definite male-female energy exchange, but it wasn't about the two of us as people, it was simply the opposite gender effect. Still, it was distracting, and I wished I could relax and be more confident with regard to the value of my work and my ability to present it.
Afterwards, as the rain had stopped, we had dinner at the pizza place across the street, which only heightened the feeling that a strangely intimate experience had just been had, and in a way that was true. And now, to put the proper, respectable spin on it, we were having dinner. He even hugged me goodbye, which was sweet.
I'd have to say that the experience was interesting, but not useful in the way I was looking for—focused and concrete. In an abstract way, I'm sure I could draw upon the techniques he taught me, as basically they were intended to encourage me to focus on how I'm speaking and how I'm moving, to not disappear, pretending I’m invisible, but be aware of myself as delivering my writing in a respectful, inviting, imaginative way, and the response as my audience receives it. A performance. I realized later, though, that it depends on the piece you're reading, whether or not this approach is appropriate. It seems more applicable to fiction than poetry. Poems in performance are technically Spoken Word, and that's not my style or what I write. The best readings I've attended have had two things: a writer with an incredible speaking voice, and one who is the conduit for the piece, allowing it to come through as purely as possible, without interpreting it with 'voices' or gestures. I find these embellishments incredibly distracting, and often embarrassing as not everyone can pull it off. I want to enter the dream that is the story or poem, on my own, without the writer dogging me, waving their arms or hands about, or using facial expressions, or telling me how to listen or feel or understand their work. Once you read something, it becomes your world. You own it based on your own values, history, desires, likes, dislikes, fears. It's a private moment, and the writer should be a ghost; you should feel their caring, omniscient, guiding presence and nothing more.
And did I mention that Peter cost $150 an hour? There was a little misunderstanding with regard to the fee. For the cost of a plane ticket I spent two hours with a very charismatic, attractive man, but that’s truly all. No reflection on him, he was very professional and knowledgeable, but I kind of felt a little like I'd hired a Writing Escort for the evening. My vet charges that for home visits! I chalked it up to a learning experience and forgot about it.
Three months later, I led a session at the Baltimore Writer's Conference on bringing more risk, spontaneity, and imperfection into one's poetry, and saw that there was a Reading Coach at the event whose session was before mine, so I was able to go. David Everett is a non-fiction writer who teaches in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. Where Peter was innocent and enthusiastic, David was worldly, reserved, and experienced. His focus was also intense as he delivered the Rules of Reading as he's determined, but he was gentler, distant, quiet. He spoke slowly and a little softly, but his voice carried easily to the back of the room where I was sitting. I was completely mesmerized, and hoped I’d find out soon that he was giving a reading at Hopkins of his own work, so I might attend and get the full effect. Everything he said was simple and of value; I could instantly see the mistakes I'd been making and felt capable of correcting them. David gave us examples of the techniques by demonstrating them—giving a very brief, but strong reading of the last few paragraphs of Joyce's "The Dead," after which we were all quiet, a little stunned—it felt like were at an actual reading, we forgot for a few moments—then he allowed people to come up and read, after which he workshopped the good and bad aspects, inviting our comments as well. I hadn't brought anything to read, but it was extremely useful to listen to him critique others without being overcome by my own nervousness if I were going to get up there myself.
This session lasted one hour and was free. As I found out from David, he teaches a class on reading your work—a much longer version, with a great deal more practice involved—and this is something that many other writing programs are incorporating as well. My session with Peter now feels like the 'designer version' of what I received in David Everett’s session. Peter’s techniques are best assimilated over the long term, which would require more sessions, something I would enjoy, surely, but couldn't afford, while one could attend a single session with David Everett and walk away with all the tools they needed. The latter worked best for me but, like anything, it's an individual choice.
Here are the Rules of Reading as I wrote them down during the session. I’ve also added some of my own. Start with one or two and work your way up to being skilled at all of them. They should become second nature. Practice alone with a mirror, then give a reading (it can be five minutes) to family and friends and have them critique you. Use a voice recorder to concentrate just on how your voice sounds. If you can stand it, go to open mic nights at local cafes and try out what you've learned. Make mistakes. Forgive yourself. And celebrate the successful readings. Again, it takes practice. Even knowing all these techniques, you'll have good and bad times, where perhaps the audience isn't on the same wavelength as you. It's give and take. Don't try harder to pull them in, be true to your style and your material. Somehow, in some way, however small, you will connect. Even if just with one person, that's what reading is all about, right?
Rules of Reading
1) Rehearse many times before giving a reading.
2) Not all materials lends itself to being read aloud. Dialogue, for example, is difficult. Choose appropriately. If you have something in first person, read that. It gets to the heart of things and really connects with the audience. An action scene is good, background/exposition is not.
3) Read something with a beginning, middle, and end to it. Even a short scene can have an arc. You don’t have to read a long piece to have an impact. It’s how you read that makes the biggest impression.
4) If you do choose to read dialogue and there’s no ‘he said, she said’ in the text, add it for the benefit of the audience so they can follow who is speaking.
5) Set up your reading: “This is the opening of a non-fiction book about___________.” Or “This is a poem I wrote about _______________inspired by____________.” If there's something in the piece (a word or phrase) that they'll need to understand prior, explain it quickly.
6) Practice the pre-reading set up and between pieces set up as much as the pieces themselves. Write it all out on cards if you have to. KEEP IT BRIEF.
7) Keep tone of the reading and the ‘between pieces patter’ in keeping with the tone of the work. (e.g. Don’t giggle and make jokes if the piece is serious.)
8) Don’t staple pages so you have to flip them. It causes too much rustling, which can be amplified by the microphone and ruin the mood. Keep pages loose so they can be slid under one another or to the side as you read.
9) When you begin the reading: look up and pause for several seconds. Longer than you think you have to. It quiets the room, gets people’s attention, creates a feeling of expectation, and helps segue into the reading itself.
10) Memorize the first sentence or paragraph of material so you are looking at the audience as you deliver it.
11) Slow down as you read, but not too slow. Reading too slow eliminates the rhythm of the work, interrupting its natural cadence.
12) Deliver punctuation orally. Pause in the appropriate places.
13) Speak clearly and enunciate.
14) Speak up and out to the audience. Don’t hang your head or (if a woman), hide behind your hair. Let them see and hear you.
15) Pick a place to look and keep your eyes there as much as possible without looking forced. Don’t look up and down quickly or let your eyes dart around. It makes you look anxious. If you’re anxious, the audience will pick up on it and feel anxious too.
16) If your hand shakes, don’t hold the pages. Rest them on the podium and hold the podium to steady yourself if you have to.
17) Don’t drop the ends of sentences. You may drop in tone to indicate an ending, but don’t drop in volume.
18) Allow the audience to smile if it’s called for. Often audiences aren’t sure if or when it’s okay to laugh or smile. If there’s a moment in your material that calls for either, smile so they have permission to do so as well.
19) Fill yourself with the spirit of your work (funny or serious). Enjoy it.
20) Remember: the audience is there to support you. They want you to do well.
I just worked with the participants in my workshops at Creative Alliance on these for our reading last week and they were SPLENDID - like seasoned professionals. This stuff works.
