On Friday I returned to the writer’s group for write and read night. Once again, we contributed five words (my was regret) and then we read some of our work. I volunteered immediately.
I pulled out my latest book, the third of the trilogy. I chose a chapter I really liked that seemed to encapsulate the conflict between two opposing persuasions: ridiculous fashion tips versus quack health remedies. My characters faced off to the tune of Barry Manilow’s “Copa Cabana.” What could be more amusing? Nothing, am I right? I thought so.
The chapter turned out to be longer than I expected and really hard to read out loud. I would make a terrible audiobook narrator. I slurred and stumbled, my tongue gottwisted. My overactive saliva glands overactively salivated. Good information, in case I ever get asked to do a book reading. I digress.
A few paragraphs in, I knew I had the wrong target audience. One or two listeners made some sounds that I interpreted as chuckles, but mostly there was silence. I am pretty sure had I been able to look up as I sped through my dialog, I would have seen the group pinching their foreheads between their thumb and forefingers with their eyes squeezed shut. The reason I know this is because that is how they listen to the writer who reads from her asteroid mining company sci-fi tome. I digress.
I ploughed through the chapter and finally finished. Nobody had anything to say. Not a surprise. I bludgeoned them with jokes that would be funny only to someone who grew up in Portland and spent twenty years in L.A. That is to say, me and my one and only fan, who grew up in Portland and now lives in L.A. Yes, I write for an audience of one. I digress.
I knew these aspiring writers were not going to be my ideal audience, any more than I am theirs. Still, as uncomfortable as it was, I knew I had to do it, just once. To join the group, to be on the inside, I had to show them who I was, which in this case meant I had to reveal to them the kind of work I write. I didn’t want to. But I knew I had to. Better to get it over with up front.
Now it’s done. I can relax. Next time we have a write and read evening, I can settle in, listen to other people’s endless drivel and never again have to share my own endless drivel. This was my self-imposed hazing ritual. I am now innoculated against the requirement to disclose my writing to anyone who won’t appreciate it. Now I can keep writing for me and my wonderful fan.