So, I hadn't intended to take a break from telling you about cat and dog antics, but last night I lived up to my usual dorky self. It was awful.
Normally, I don't write about being a writer. Oh, it's a fourth wall kind of thing, you know, when Jim Carey looks straight into the camera and says, "Kids today, so desensitized by movies and television." I like to respect that fourth wall. I like to pretend I'm an ordinary woman who doesn't plan on writing four pages every time something awful happens to her.
"It makes life easier, you know," she says, looking directly into the camera. "Whenever bad things happen, we can turn it into art."
When I said there was an open mic in Redmond last night, Mike said I should go. I think he looks forward to having the living room alone sometimes, without me bouncing off the walls and trying to talk to him in the middle of a great video game mission with his friends.
So, I headed off into Redmond even though my new cataract makes night driving a little more challenging and I felt a cold coming on. I was just looking for excuses, my inner critic whispered in my ear. I was a wimp, a chickenshit, a pussy.
My inner critic is a bastard. In one breath, he tells me I'll never write a decent word and in another he says I'm a chickenshit for being afraid to stand up in front of people to speak or sing. He doesn't even care if he's inconsistent. He just keeps up the hateful language.
Sometimes, I mentally shrink him and put him under a bell jar so I can suck out all the oxygen. Silence. Silence is a wonderful thing for an artist. Over time, my inner critic's influence has been reduced but now and then, he pries up a corner of the bell jar and begins to whisper in my ear.
"Chickenshit. Nobody's going to be there anyway. You can't even stand up and read a bad poem in front of twelve other writers. Pathetic."
I hate being called pathetic. So I gathered a couple of my spare books in case magic happened and someone wanted to buy my book and I headed off into the dark night.
I got lost finding the place, VALA at Redmond Towne Center.
I pressed and held the button on my phone as I drove.
"Get directions for VALA," I said realizing before I was finished that I'd have to be more specific.
"Allah," my phone typed where my words were supposed to appear.
"I'm not prepared to talk about such deep topics," Siri said in the male Australian accent I set for it. The woman's voice grated on my nerves. Annoyed, I clicked the button on top of my phone and tried again. Wouldn't it be nice to have someone you could talk to about Allah?
"No. Get. Directions. For. VALA, at Redmond Towne Center," I repeated doggedly, fixing my error.
"Right. Directions for Bella," he said. Dumber than a doorknob. I clicked the button and tried again.
This cannot be what the police had in mind when they clarified that I could press one button to answer a call and after that I could get a ticket.
"DIRECTIONS. FOR. VALA. AT. REDMOND. TOWNE. CENTER!"
"Getting directions for Fairfax, Virginia," he said not reacting to my tone.
"Fuck!"
"Is there something else I can help you with?"
"Fuck, you stupid fuck!" And I switched him off before he had a chance to respond. The nice thing about AI is that you can end the conversation without having to be polite.
I pulled off the road and typed VALA into the map app that came with my phone. It said it knew just where I was going. I'd be there just as the party started.
"Drive 1.7 miles and your destination is on your left."
I started to breathe a little easier. I parked at the old REI lot and continued following directions on foot.
"Proceed to the route," it said.
Suddenly, VALA had skipped a half mile down the road. I returned to my car and prepared to drive. The location of VALA shifted to somewhere by the underground parking. Okay, so I drove into the parking garage.
"Proceed to the route. Drive 18 miles west on Redmond Way. Your destination is on your left."
I knew this wasn't true. I'd seen the words Redmond Towne Center on the website. The Universe was trying to keep me from going to this event. I knew it was fucking with me.
Still, I wasn't late yet, so I got back into my car and drove around the outside of the parking garage where VALA was supposed to have been. There is upstairs, downstairs, and upstairs off the parking garage. I finally parked my car on the west side of the garage and got out. It looked like VALA sat where Eddie Bauer used to be. I walked upstairs and then back down. Nope. I went past the new bookstore where they make me feel stupid for being an author who self-publishes. When I looked in the window, I felt stupid for a moment. VALA had shifted to the east side of the block. I got to the center of the Center and looked at the directory. Nothing. I took the elevator upstairs. Too tired to take the stairs. Nothing there. I went toward the parking garage and looked at the businesses there. VALA could sit on the east side of the block and be there. Nothing. Then, I walked east and looked at the businesses directly across the street from Macy's. Clothes to the right. I walked back down the steps. Subway.
I was about to give up when my eye was drawn to a nice open space with art on the walls. People were in there. A signup desk sat near the door. VALA. Finally.
Before I could reconsider, I went in, signed up for the fourth or fifth spot, and found a seat. This was not so hard, I thought. I didn't even have butterflies the way I usually did before I read at an open mic.
The featured speaker was Mary Dispenza, an activist for equal rights and the protection of children. She read from her book, Split: A Child, A Priest, and the Catholic Church. I wondered how much Mike would give me grief if I bought her book. He's always saying that I'm supposed to sell my books instead of buying everyone else's. I know that, but I also get interested. I love new books. Plus, I feel an obligation to support other writers who may be in the same position I am in, trying to market their work.
When she was done speaking and the moderator, Emily, announced a break, I walked around looking at the art on the walls. It seemed to emphasize that I didn't know a soul in the room. So, I sat back down and surreptitiously reconsidered the poems I was going to read. I'd selected one about a sailboat. That was good, had a nice rhythm. It was sensual, but not overtly so. Then, on a whim, I switched my bookmark to a MeToo poem that would suit the tenor of Ms. Dispenza's talk. I could do that. I wrote that poem over eighteen years ago. Piece of cake.
Other readers stood and read their work. They were good writers. Why hadn't I joined them before? Some of them stuck with a MeToo theme, something I felt a great deal of passion about since I have more MeToo stories than you can throw a stick at. I felt even more certain of my choice in my old poem.
My turn was coming. Between readers, I reached into my bag and looked at it one more time. Yes, it was the right thing to read, a little bit brave, parallel with the experiences of other readers.
I felt a single zing of nerves before my gut settled back into listening. I was here to listen too.
Then, Emily announced me. I was up with my book in my hand. I hoped people could see the title on the cover. I hoped I might see a single spike on Amazon in the next day or two where someone liked what they heard enough to buy a copy. Only $4.99 for a paperback, $2.99 for kindle, a good deal, right?
"Hi," I said. "I'm going to read the easy one first."
And then I read about the sailboat with the red sails, hearing my voice fill the room, feeling the reverb, something I lived for when I was in front of people.
I had learned to feel for that reverb when I sang in church. It always made the butterflies settle in my stomach, especially when I put my hands on the piano and could feel the vibration there.
My hands weren't on a piano, but this space was great for reading aloud to people. You couldn't set a mixer on a better vibe. The first poem came to an end. There is a quarter-second when you're about to read a difficult poem when you could possibly make another choice.
No, I barrelled on. I turned to the MeToo poem I had inadvertently written more than eighteen years ago and resurrected in this moment with all these strangers in front of me.
I began to read. This was good. I got past the hard part and the part where I said "she balled him good."
And then, the veil dropped. Suddenly, I knew with certainty that no one would be fooled that I wrote in third person.
She was me. I was her.
And like the nightmare dream everyone has before the first day of school, I stood naked, figuratively, in front of a crowd of strangers.
Tears welled into my eyes. I couldn't speak. I looked up at Ms. Dispenza, down at words I could not read, and up at another person in the crowd.
I was the child who stops playing piano at her recital in the middle of a piece.
Emily, the moderator stood up and came to where I stood. She leaned her shoulder into mine. It helped. I blurted out two more lines.
Then it came. Ugly crying, sobbing, the moment when a person has her mouth open and nothing comes out. I lifted my shaking hand and pointed to where I had stopped. With my eyes, I asked if she could finish.
With a quiet voice, she finished reading my poem while I stood in front of a room full of strangers and sobbed.
When it was over, she hugged me in that way that my grandma used to do, long and comfortable and done when I needed to be done and not before. It made my breath catch in my throat again to feel my grandma's spirit in that room with me. Emily has a gift. If she ever hugs you, you will feel the blessing of it.
Then, I made my way back to my seat, mortified still that I had made such a spectacle of myself. People on all sides patted my shoulder. They caught my eyes and nodded to me when I found the courage to look up from my knees.
When the readings were over, a woman passed a note into my hands and quickly left. It was a note of encouragement, to keep reading, to keep writing. It helped. Ms. Dispenza came and talked to me. I don't remember what she said except it was a message of continued work to untangle the mess of the MeToo movement, to 'write it into right.' That helped too.
I had hoped I could slip out the door and never show my face to these people again. But as she and I talked other people wandered into the conversation. I was not alone. They shared their stories, their struggles. It all helped. We talked of our daughters, of our sons and the awful legacy, of breaking the chain of abuse. It was wonderful, but I still felt awfully exposed. Most of my friends hadn't even known this much about my history, perhaps hadn't wanted to know.
And before I left, Emily hugged me again. With it, I knew I'd be able to show up to this group again. I'd be able to read again, maybe something funny next time, something not so incredibly awful. With those hugs, and the woman's note, and all the conversation afterward, I knew I could come here again.
This is how you walk into a room full of strangers and leave a room full of friends. I don't recommend it.
Thank you for listening, jb
Normally, I don't write about being a writer. Oh, it's a fourth wall kind of thing, you know, when Jim Carey looks straight into the camera and says, "Kids today, so desensitized by movies and television." I like to respect that fourth wall. I like to pretend I'm an ordinary woman who doesn't plan on writing four pages every time something awful happens to her.
"It makes life easier, you know," she says, looking directly into the camera. "Whenever bad things happen, we can turn it into art."
When I said there was an open mic in Redmond last night, Mike said I should go. I think he looks forward to having the living room alone sometimes, without me bouncing off the walls and trying to talk to him in the middle of a great video game mission with his friends.
So, I headed off into Redmond even though my new cataract makes night driving a little more challenging and I felt a cold coming on. I was just looking for excuses, my inner critic whispered in my ear. I was a wimp, a chickenshit, a pussy.
My inner critic is a bastard. In one breath, he tells me I'll never write a decent word and in another he says I'm a chickenshit for being afraid to stand up in front of people to speak or sing. He doesn't even care if he's inconsistent. He just keeps up the hateful language.
Sometimes, I mentally shrink him and put him under a bell jar so I can suck out all the oxygen. Silence. Silence is a wonderful thing for an artist. Over time, my inner critic's influence has been reduced but now and then, he pries up a corner of the bell jar and begins to whisper in my ear.
"Chickenshit. Nobody's going to be there anyway. You can't even stand up and read a bad poem in front of twelve other writers. Pathetic."
I hate being called pathetic. So I gathered a couple of my spare books in case magic happened and someone wanted to buy my book and I headed off into the dark night.
I got lost finding the place, VALA at Redmond Towne Center.
I pressed and held the button on my phone as I drove.
"Get directions for VALA," I said realizing before I was finished that I'd have to be more specific.
"Allah," my phone typed where my words were supposed to appear.
"I'm not prepared to talk about such deep topics," Siri said in the male Australian accent I set for it. The woman's voice grated on my nerves. Annoyed, I clicked the button on top of my phone and tried again. Wouldn't it be nice to have someone you could talk to about Allah?
"No. Get. Directions. For. VALA, at Redmond Towne Center," I repeated doggedly, fixing my error.
"Right. Directions for Bella," he said. Dumber than a doorknob. I clicked the button and tried again.
This cannot be what the police had in mind when they clarified that I could press one button to answer a call and after that I could get a ticket.
"DIRECTIONS. FOR. VALA. AT. REDMOND. TOWNE. CENTER!"
"Getting directions for Fairfax, Virginia," he said not reacting to my tone.
"Fuck!"
"Is there something else I can help you with?"
"Fuck, you stupid fuck!" And I switched him off before he had a chance to respond. The nice thing about AI is that you can end the conversation without having to be polite.
I pulled off the road and typed VALA into the map app that came with my phone. It said it knew just where I was going. I'd be there just as the party started.
"Drive 1.7 miles and your destination is on your left."
I started to breathe a little easier. I parked at the old REI lot and continued following directions on foot.
"Proceed to the route," it said.
Suddenly, VALA had skipped a half mile down the road. I returned to my car and prepared to drive. The location of VALA shifted to somewhere by the underground parking. Okay, so I drove into the parking garage.
"Proceed to the route. Drive 18 miles west on Redmond Way. Your destination is on your left."
I knew this wasn't true. I'd seen the words Redmond Towne Center on the website. The Universe was trying to keep me from going to this event. I knew it was fucking with me.
Still, I wasn't late yet, so I got back into my car and drove around the outside of the parking garage where VALA was supposed to have been. There is upstairs, downstairs, and upstairs off the parking garage. I finally parked my car on the west side of the garage and got out. It looked like VALA sat where Eddie Bauer used to be. I walked upstairs and then back down. Nope. I went past the new bookstore where they make me feel stupid for being an author who self-publishes. When I looked in the window, I felt stupid for a moment. VALA had shifted to the east side of the block. I got to the center of the Center and looked at the directory. Nothing. I took the elevator upstairs. Too tired to take the stairs. Nothing there. I went toward the parking garage and looked at the businesses there. VALA could sit on the east side of the block and be there. Nothing. Then, I walked east and looked at the businesses directly across the street from Macy's. Clothes to the right. I walked back down the steps. Subway.
I was about to give up when my eye was drawn to a nice open space with art on the walls. People were in there. A signup desk sat near the door. VALA. Finally.
Before I could reconsider, I went in, signed up for the fourth or fifth spot, and found a seat. This was not so hard, I thought. I didn't even have butterflies the way I usually did before I read at an open mic.
The featured speaker was Mary Dispenza, an activist for equal rights and the protection of children. She read from her book, Split: A Child, A Priest, and the Catholic Church. I wondered how much Mike would give me grief if I bought her book. He's always saying that I'm supposed to sell my books instead of buying everyone else's. I know that, but I also get interested. I love new books. Plus, I feel an obligation to support other writers who may be in the same position I am in, trying to market their work.
When she was done speaking and the moderator, Emily, announced a break, I walked around looking at the art on the walls. It seemed to emphasize that I didn't know a soul in the room. So, I sat back down and surreptitiously reconsidered the poems I was going to read. I'd selected one about a sailboat. That was good, had a nice rhythm. It was sensual, but not overtly so. Then, on a whim, I switched my bookmark to a MeToo poem that would suit the tenor of Ms. Dispenza's talk. I could do that. I wrote that poem over eighteen years ago. Piece of cake.
Other readers stood and read their work. They were good writers. Why hadn't I joined them before? Some of them stuck with a MeToo theme, something I felt a great deal of passion about since I have more MeToo stories than you can throw a stick at. I felt even more certain of my choice in my old poem.
My turn was coming. Between readers, I reached into my bag and looked at it one more time. Yes, it was the right thing to read, a little bit brave, parallel with the experiences of other readers.
I felt a single zing of nerves before my gut settled back into listening. I was here to listen too.
Then, Emily announced me. I was up with my book in my hand. I hoped people could see the title on the cover. I hoped I might see a single spike on Amazon in the next day or two where someone liked what they heard enough to buy a copy. Only $4.99 for a paperback, $2.99 for kindle, a good deal, right?
"Hi," I said. "I'm going to read the easy one first."
And then I read about the sailboat with the red sails, hearing my voice fill the room, feeling the reverb, something I lived for when I was in front of people.
I had learned to feel for that reverb when I sang in church. It always made the butterflies settle in my stomach, especially when I put my hands on the piano and could feel the vibration there.
My hands weren't on a piano, but this space was great for reading aloud to people. You couldn't set a mixer on a better vibe. The first poem came to an end. There is a quarter-second when you're about to read a difficult poem when you could possibly make another choice.
No, I barrelled on. I turned to the MeToo poem I had inadvertently written more than eighteen years ago and resurrected in this moment with all these strangers in front of me.
I began to read. This was good. I got past the hard part and the part where I said "she balled him good."
And then, the veil dropped. Suddenly, I knew with certainty that no one would be fooled that I wrote in third person.
She was me. I was her.
And like the nightmare dream everyone has before the first day of school, I stood naked, figuratively, in front of a crowd of strangers.
Tears welled into my eyes. I couldn't speak. I looked up at Ms. Dispenza, down at words I could not read, and up at another person in the crowd.
I was the child who stops playing piano at her recital in the middle of a piece.
Emily, the moderator stood up and came to where I stood. She leaned her shoulder into mine. It helped. I blurted out two more lines.
Then it came. Ugly crying, sobbing, the moment when a person has her mouth open and nothing comes out. I lifted my shaking hand and pointed to where I had stopped. With my eyes, I asked if she could finish.
With a quiet voice, she finished reading my poem while I stood in front of a room full of strangers and sobbed.
When it was over, she hugged me in that way that my grandma used to do, long and comfortable and done when I needed to be done and not before. It made my breath catch in my throat again to feel my grandma's spirit in that room with me. Emily has a gift. If she ever hugs you, you will feel the blessing of it.
Then, I made my way back to my seat, mortified still that I had made such a spectacle of myself. People on all sides patted my shoulder. They caught my eyes and nodded to me when I found the courage to look up from my knees.
When the readings were over, a woman passed a note into my hands and quickly left. It was a note of encouragement, to keep reading, to keep writing. It helped. Ms. Dispenza came and talked to me. I don't remember what she said except it was a message of continued work to untangle the mess of the MeToo movement, to 'write it into right.' That helped too.
I had hoped I could slip out the door and never show my face to these people again. But as she and I talked other people wandered into the conversation. I was not alone. They shared their stories, their struggles. It all helped. We talked of our daughters, of our sons and the awful legacy, of breaking the chain of abuse. It was wonderful, but I still felt awfully exposed. Most of my friends hadn't even known this much about my history, perhaps hadn't wanted to know.
And before I left, Emily hugged me again. With it, I knew I'd be able to show up to this group again. I'd be able to read again, maybe something funny next time, something not so incredibly awful. With those hugs, and the woman's note, and all the conversation afterward, I knew I could come here again.
This is how you walk into a room full of strangers and leave a room full of friends. I don't recommend it.
Thank you for listening, jb
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