I am loving, absolutely and completely loving my fiction class. From the writing prompts our instructor has given us, I’ve completed three short stories that I can stand behind. And I finally feel ready to read some of this work aloud.
There’s an open mic next week, specifically devoted to storytelling, and I’m almost positive that I’m going to put my name in to read one of those short stories. That being said, I wanted to read the piece I was considering out loud before going to the open mic. So, at the end of my writing group, I read one the piece out loud, something I’ve avoided for the last six months.
I was nervous about it, for sure. Would my sense of humor come across? Would the changes I made from the original land right or fall flat? Would they be able to hear the holes in the piece? I’ve seen this cycle over and over with me. I question and ponder myself into not doing something.
When I started reading, my hands were shaking. My voice even faltered in the first paragraph and I had to push myself to keep going. But by the second paragraph I was in a groove. It threw me when certain sections caused audible laughter. While I knew the piece had a sense of humor, I didn’t think it was funny necessarily.
It was the right decision, reading my work. I walked away with some useful feedback and a sense of confidence that the piece was at least entertaining. If I do end up reading it next week, I’ll at least know it’s not a complete disaster.