Or that’s how it felt.
For 45 years I’ve given speeches--and
not once did I come unprepared. Right in
front of me on the podium I invariably placed my notes, a few brief reminders
in case I unexpectedly lost my way. Sometimes
I needed them, sometimes not.
But last Saturday was wildly
different.
For starters, I was asked to be an additional
speaker for my gifted student, Bob C., , who was being feted for his first published
book. We were also to help as fundraisers for the local library.
Since the audience would largely
consist of Sixtyish readers, Bob and I had agreed in advance that I’d speak on
the topic, “Turning Your Real-Life Experiences Into a Book.” To both of us, my topic seemed obvious. Clearly we’d be addressing a typical, mature,
memoir-writing audience. As usual, I’d
provided detailed handouts for all those wannabe writers to follow along.
Bob went first, and then it became my
turn. As always, I started with a brief,
humorous story, and after the laughter
subsided, and almost as an afterthought,
I asked, “How many of you are writing, or expect to write, your
memoir?”
Dead silence. And then one woman raised her hand. I scanned the room, back and forth and into
the far corners. But she was the only one. To my horror, my prepared talk had
just become totally irrelevant.
There I stood at the podium, facing more than a hundred people, all giving
me their undivided attention and each expecting me to give an inspiring, half-hour talk. And now, unexpectedly, I was caught in what is
well-known to be one of life’s terrifying moments, being asked to speak before
a crowd . . . but in my case with absolutely nothing to say.
I noticed immediately that my mouth had
dried up and my heart rate increased. Will I even be able to say anything? Out of a jumble of useless thoughts, I came
up with an opening sentence: “Well, I
see we’ve got a roomful of readers, and almost no writers.”
A few people smiled and nodded.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to go in a
different direction.” Like, for instance, what?
I plowed ahead. “I noticed Bob mentioned that his favorite
book was To Kill a Mockingbird. Well, that’s also my favorite.” Oh
good, you’ve managed to say something.
From there I continued with little-known stories about Harper Lee, and how, as a budding writer, I’d taken her
book and my typewriter up into the hills near my home and sat in my car studying
her words while I tried to figure out how to be a decent writer.
From there I segued into my early
writing attempts, how, at age 12, I’d
received two typewriters for Christmas, then on to endless rejections, and finally into today’s wicked world of
publishing. I managed to quote—sort
of—the famous editor at Simon and Schuster, Michael Korda, who wrote the book, Another
Life which detailed the decline of traditional publishing . . . now, sadly, turned
into a bottom-line industry. From memory, I recited his bitter laments about
today’s big-time editors: “God forbid that they should ever read a book.”
Okay,
you’ve recovered, just keep going. By now, the audience was clearly with
me. Next I spoke about keeping my rejections in a ratty shoe box, and how one day, when published, I’d dump
them all out, because my image of myself as a published writer was always
“When,” but never “If.” (When United Airlines finally gave me a check
for $350, enough for a flight to Hawaii, the rejected items numbered 129.)
God, you seem
to be doing okay! I said some
other things about writing. Finally as an illustration of the all-important beginnings
to books, I read a few paragraphs from HIGHER
THAN EAGLES.
Just
then, ready to read briefly from another book and then stop, I felt the M.C. closing in at my side. Clearly, he was shutting my down . . . me who
twenty minutes earlier, imagined I’d been struck dumb.
The
outcome was everything an author could wish for: a few congratulations about
how I’d recovered my mo-jo, then readers
enthusiastically buying 23 books.
Best
of all was my private assessment of what had happened. After
that descent into hell, you managed to think on your feet. In my own eyes, I’d suddenly become years
younger.
