Open Mic

I signed up for “Open Mic” at the Kachemak Bay Writer’s Conference. The only open mics I’ve ever participated in were Karaoke style and I’d had a few whiskeys first.

“Your love is like bad medicine. Bad medicine is what I need – whoa-oh-oh!” I’ve belted out more than once down at Duggan’s Pub in this cosmic hamlet by the sea.

This was different in so many ways, not just because of its lack of liquid courage. These were going to be my words, not someone else’s, that I was going to be reading. Words that had stirred up controversy a few short months ago a few hundred miles away. Words that I was comfortable wearing but wasn’t sure would be appreciated by a roomful of real writers. This is the big league, published authors from around the globe, New York City agents and editors and hopeful authors. I’m surrounded by greatness, confidence, and promise. Mediocrity doesn’t cut it with these folks.

Three minutes. That was the time limit. I wrote my own introduction to be read by published author Sherry Simpson (www.sherrysimpson.net), fine tuned a blog post from February, “The Power of Words” and timed it over and over to make sure it was the right length. My time slot was set for today at 11:30am, just before lunch. As I squirmed in my seat during the morning session, taking deep breaths, wringing my hands and re-reading the piece I was going to read, I changed my mind. At 11:15, I changed my mind. Not about the reading of a piece, but about which piece to read. I carefully considered my audience and decided that something with a bit more action in it was in order. “One Racer’s Story” came to mind. I quickly plucked it from my blog, did a few edits, cut it to what I hoped would fit the time requirement and walked to the podium.

As I told Solomon’s story, I was right back there in Kwethluk. I could feel the blinding wind in my face and see the dog teams racing on the river outside my front door. I was back in my classroom with those three boys as they told me about the corrupt police officer who had shot all of Solomon’s dogs a couple of months prior. My voice wavered and my body shook and I had to swallow hard a couple of times to keep back the tears. But, I told my story to 150 plus writers from around the globe. I told Solomon’s story. I met the time requirement with two seconds to spare but felt like it was the beginning, not the end.

There were gasps of disgust and delight and there were heads shaking in sympathetic despair and there was applause. Many people stopped me at various times throughout the day, in the hall, at the lunch table, sitting in a conference room waiting for a workshop to begin. They stopped to encourage me with, “I loved your reading.” Or “You’re a great writer.”

Today was the day I started telling my story.