I was reading aloud some of my poems in the new book as part of the proofreading process (it's amazing how many drafts and galleys you can burn through and still find that one duplicated "the" or wayward extra period at the end of the line) and it occurred to me that it has been exactly twenty years ago this month that I did my very first reading. We always talk about important YESes, and that spring was probably a big one. Though I had had my first published poem in print by then, and had several online publications under my belt, I was still very much a fledgling baby poet. I was in the process of putting together what would be my first chapbook, The Archaeologist's Daughter (which would soon by accepted by a small local feminist press who had accepted my very first poem.), I had been in Chicago for about a year and a half when I entered and was named a finalist in a local contest sponsored by The Poetry Center of Chicago. The perks were that all (six?) finalists would read their work based on a sheaf of six poems we'd sent chosen by a fancy pants poet (that year it was James Tate.). Once at the Evanston Public Library. Then again at the big downtown Harold Washington Library branch, during their annual Chicago Poetry Festival, where the winners would be announced.
Taking the train up to Evanston with my sister in tow, I was terrified. I had a little bit of theater background, had taken a whole class devoted to oral interpretation of lit and had read stories to squirming children, hour after hour, book after book, in my previous job. But I don't think anything had prepared me for the terrifying specter of my own words coming out of my mouth in public. Though I knew the poems well, I had no idea how well I could read them (ie if I would stumble or flub, if I would be boring..) I also had no idea if the poems were actually any good at all, despite James Tate and the reading committee having liked them somehow. I was also, in those days, even more anxious about going new places, doing new things, so even getting there intact was a nervous experience and I was still at that stage where I didn't really know anyone at all. I almost bailed, but I made it. And read with maybe one stumble or losing my place. And I, of course, probably read way too fast. But I did it. It was a little easier on go #2, a week or so later. Same poems, but this time, not in a small library multi-purpose event room, but the huge auditorium in the basement of Harold Washington. Because it was a fairly well attended day of festivities (workshops, book fairs, other readings) I'd guess the auditorium was maybe a little less than half full. But it was still terrifying and a huge sea of seats. I can't say it was the largest audience I would read for (that would happen a couple years later at the Guild Complex's Gwendolyn Brooks Open Mic) but it was sizeable.
So I read, and somehow, James Tate had liked my poems enough to award them 3rd Place, which carried a tidy little $75 prize. Those readings, and that nod, were definitely something that pushed me more--to want more--to do more. Two years later, I would stand on that same stage and be awarded 1st Prize (and a heftier cash prize, this time judged by Campbell McGrath.) In the interim, a lot more had happened, including publishing considerably more, finishing a first draft my first book (the earliest versions of the fever almanac), starting my MFA studies. And more importantly taking advantage of pretty much every reading opportunity I could to hone those skills. Open mics in dingy bars, gallery readings, outdoor festivals, bookstores (in 2003, my 3rd official reading, I read to exactly two people at Myopic Books. A few years later, I could at least pull 20 to the same bookstore..lol...) After that second Poetry Center win, I was invited to read quite frequently, including the swanky SAIC ballroom in the fall of 2004, where I showed up with my handful of handmade copies of Bloody Mary, which I was dumbfounded people actually wanted to buy and for me to sign them. I think I was still so shocked anyone wanted me to read at all, or even so much as listen to what I had to say.
What's crazy is that as I thumbed through the galley for animal, vegetable, monster, however many decades, how ever many books and publications and readings later, I still feel uncertain at readings when I have to take the stage. Call it social anxiety. Call it imposter system. No matter what work it is or how I feel about it going in. If it's personal material, especially it's a little like bleeding out on stage. It was a couple years before I felt comfortable reading in front of my parents. Or, even still, people I know outside the poetry world. My last three or so readings have been zooms, which are a different sort of beast in which you can't really see your audience. Usually, I am so nervous before I take the stage. And then, inevitably, kind of socially awkward after. But there is a few minutes there, when I've adjusted to the stage and the eyes on me and the words on the page and coming out my mouth and I am really enjoying it. When my heart isn't fluttering and I've regulated my breathing and I can connect with the audience. Hopefully, as the world opens and things get back to normal, if they ever will, I'll be up there again.
It also got me thinking of my most enjoyable (or memorable) reading experiences, which have happened all over the place, not just in Chicago. The ACM release reading at the Hideaway where I'd had too much beer fighting my anxiety and nearly tumbled off trying to leave the stage. The very high energy, enthusiastic crowd at the Guild Complex. A reading at WomanMade Gallery where I read all of my "shipwreck of lake michigan" poems and felt like everyone in the audience was rapt with attention and they were maybe th best thing I'd ever written (and may still be.). AWP 2014 in Seattle where I was too busy flirting with the bartender who kind of looked like an ex trying to get extra cherries for my jack &coke and almost missed my name called during an anthology reading. I still get nervous and still read to fast sometimes, so maybe in another 20 years I'll have this thing figured out.
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