I recently did a reading of the
first chapter of my novel and several poems to the Morgantown Poets at the
Monongalea Arts Center in West Virginia.
I enjoyed it immensely, and I have always looked forward to doing
readings of my—or anyone else’s—work. I
teach literature and sometimes the best way to study a poem or a prose passage
is to first read it out loud—to absorb how it sounds, how it flows, how the
writer worked with the words, how the passages were chosen and precisely arranged
to get just the right effect. A poem is
like music, and in reading it aloud you can hear the words sing.
But not all writers enjoy reading
their own work. So many of us still get
nervous standing before a crowd, thinking, “They’re all listening to me—to every word I say!” Yes, it’s
intimidating, and, to this day, I still hate walking into a classroom at the
start of a semester and feeling everyone’s eyes on me. Once I get going I’m always fine, but I do know
what it’s like to be nervous, unsure, on display, utterly self-conscious, and
so eager to finish and just get-the-hell-out-of-there.
So because of all that, I’d like to share some pointers. Now that you’ve written and completed your
work, you now deserve to share it in the most intimate, sensory, immediate, and
ultimately controlling way that you
can manage—by reading it aloud.
Here are some tips.
Practice. This is essential
so that you can time yourself and know how much you can read. It’s sometimes
hard to gauge times—I find I always take less time at the event than I do in
practicing. I presume that’s because I
stop more in practicing to “get it right,” while at the actual event I just
keep plunging forward. But know that
practice is the only way to get a notion of how long you’ll take. Also, where
you practice is crucial. You need a place where you can truly read out
loud—not in a library, not at Starbuck’s,
and not near a room where your relatives or friends are watching
television. Find a private spot where
you can close the door—a cellar, an attic, a secluded area in a yard, a
deserted warehouse, an empty swimming pool—a place where you can shout as much
as you want. And then . . . read!
The robins or pigeons or mice might stare at you but they won’t notice
any errors.
Be organized. This goes
without saying, but you don’t want to be splashing through your notes or
desperately trying to find your place—which you “just had”—when you start
out. So have all your passages
marked. Have everything handy and easily
found. And if water’s not provided, then you might need a bottle handy. And be sure you can carry everything you need
to the podium—you don’t want to drop anything along the way. And, if you need them, be certain you can
access your reading glasses.
Check out the setting beforehand.
If you have time, it’s good to survey the environment where you’ll be
reading. Is there enough light? Is the podium
shaky? Can you lean on it without it
collapsing under you? Is the room too
hot, or too cold? (Most likely, you’ll
be too hot—just doing the reading should be active enough to keep you
warm.) Is the podium already
cluttered? Is it slanted enough that
things might fall off? Is there enough
room for all your books and papers--and iPads and laptops? And if you use technology, make sure it
will do what you want it to do. For a
reading I almost never use it simply because I don’t trust it. (A colleague of mine inadvertently entered a
command by just the way he held his
iPad right as he stood up to read, and all his material disappeared.)
When you first reach the podium, look
at your audience. Walking up to the
podium is always the scariest moment.
You might be on a panel instead and won’t have to do this, but let’s
assume you’re a star and have the room to yourself. To overcome that moment at the beginning when
you’re most unsure, here’s what I suggest.
When you get to podium, look at
the audience. Don’t look down and
arrange your pages. You can do that
soon. But take the very first moment to look
inclusively and widely at everyone who’s sitting there. You might see a grouch or two, but in most
cases the people are present because they want
to hear you. You have the advantage at that moment because you are the invited
guest. They’re pulling for you—because
then the reading will be better yet and they’ll enjoy you more. Also, when you look at them directly, you
avoid imagining worse things about them. If you just look down, then the people
remain undefined, shadowy, lurking half-presences that grow more threatening in
your overwrought imagination. So look at
them first, before you’ve even opened your book. You’ll make them real, known, and thus not
scary at all.
But when you first start reading, look at your words more than your audience. That doesn’t contradict what I said in the
previous suggestion. I’m talking here
about when you actually begin reading,
after you’ve said a few words like, “Thank you for having me tonight; I will
read from . . .” I’ve noticed that when
I start the actual reading, especially since I just addressed the people
directly, I mistakenly look up from the book often to maintain the connection
with them. And it’s mistake, at least for me, because when I look up too much
at first I lose my place and trip
over a sentence or skip a word. I’m
connecting with the people but not with the text, and that’s crucial at the
beginning. So, my suggestion, just for
the first few moments of actual reading to prevent any initial glitches, pay
more attention to the book and where
you are in it—you’ll have plenty of chances later to regain that closeness and
get your audience “into” the story.
Take your time. Let me repeat that: TAKE
YOUR TIME! This is the best piece of
advice I can give you. The most common
problem with readings is that readers go too fast. I understand why this often occurs—if you’re
scared, you want to get done quickly. Or
if you have a lot of material (and you haven’t planned or timed it) you feel you
might not get to finish it all. But the
effects of speaking too fast are almost always bad: a monotone, poor enunciation, not being heard
well, and your eyes so locked into the text that the audience sees only the top
of your head. These words are yours.
You know they’re great. So take
your time with them and show them off. Present
them like treasures. You’ve worked hard to get them just right, so treat them
like the precise codes of meaning they are.
Roll them in your mouth as if they’re lumps of ice cream, let the
phrases glide through the air like the aurora borealis, and present your
statements with grandeur because they’re your true findings and conclusions about
life.
Enunciate clearly. If you take your time this should occur
naturally. The more you slow down, the more time you take with the
pronunciation of each syllable. People
have more problems understanding
words than hearing them. So make each part of each word distinct, don’t
“slur” over the words, don’t let your voice drop in pitch and volume at the end
of a sentence. And again, remember, your words are wonderful, so you want to
make them heard—precisely, distinctly, roundly and deeply. You’re conducting a symphony in language, so
make sure the notes are clear.
Make your voice
carry. You’re not reading to the
first row. They’ll hear you no matter
what you do, even if you whisper. You’re
reading for the back row. So you need to speak loudly enough for them
to hear you. Don’t shout, just let your
voice come from deep inside you—from the diaphragm, I’m told, instead of the
throat. If you know your voice is soft,
ask for a possible microphone, or ask everyone to move closer—tell them you
want a campfire effect. (Besides, if
there are any editors or agents in the crowd, they’re probably sitting in back.)
Voices of your characters. You don’t have to be fancy. If you can’t master accents, or gender
differences, or slang, don’t try. You
can suggest differences in characters’ voices by simply changing the pitch,
making one a bit deeper than the other, or a bit higher. Or you can just point your head in a
different direction when you’re speaking in that voice. This helps in dialogue: one person talking slightly to the right, the
other speaking slightly to the left (and, if your hands are free, when speaking
“right” you can raise your right hand to make a gesture, and then use the left
hand when talking “left”).
And ENJOY IT! My last
recommendation, and it’s the best! This
is your moment, your material. Everyone’s looking at you not to frighten you but to share
in your achievement, and you’re showing you’ve worked long and hard for it. Such a chance doesn’t come often. So savor it!
And—I guarantee—the more you
enjoy it, the more your audience will. Pleasure communicates. If you’re having a good time, so will
they.
So get out there and have a
blast.
(See the links in the
sidebar for two brief videos, the first of me reading from my novel at a panel
of Dog Star readers at Confluence, and the second presenting one of my poems to
the Morgantown Poets. Thanks to Jennifer
Barnes and John Edward Lawson for doing
the recordings, and the still photo above was taken by Michael Arnzen during the Morgantown reading.)
