Last night I did a reading at The Depot in Mill Valley, CA. Five minutes before the reading was scheduled to begin, there were only three people in the room, all of whom I knew.
Then a gentleman wandered in, very tall and broad, dressed in a motorcycle jacket. Because readings always breed in me a certain brand of desperation, I walked up to him and said, â€œAre you here for the reading?â€ He looked confused for a moment, then told me he wasnâ€™t, at which point I sort of jokingly begged him to stay. One wants to fill the seats, of course, even at the price of oneâ€™s own dignity.
By the time we began we were up to ten or eleven. Much to my surprise, the stranger in the motorcycle jacket was among them. Because of the small group I decided to forgo the formality of the podium and sound system and do the reading sitting down. It happened that the person sitting closest to me was motorcycle man, and I quickly realized how awkward it is to read to another grown-up face to face, so close oneâ€™s knees could almost touch. Itâ€™s very intimate, uncomfortably so, more like a date than a reading. In this case it felt like a first date, the kind where youâ€™re hoping you donâ€™t say the wrong thing, and I could feel myself blushing as I read the scene in which the narrator encounters someone in a cafÃ© in a foreign place and realizes that she knows him, or has known him, although she canâ€™t place the context: â€œThe thought crossed my mind that I might have slept with him. There had been a period following my sisterâ€™s death when I slept with many men.â€
I worried for the gentleman in the motorcycle jacket, whom I had accosted, and to whom now I felt I had exposed myself completely. After all, there is always some element of truth in the fiction. [Read more...]