Last week I stood on a stage in front of a room filled (mostly) with strangers.

There was a microphone and people who bought actual tickets with real money to see this event.

 

 

But let me go back a little farther than last week.

It was maybe two months ago. Ish?  Six weeks?  Through my work Instagram account I responded to a post by a local representative for the Greenville News looking for stories for an upcoming project.

A conversation started and progressed and led to that microphone and me and no notes or paper on which to rely.

Like so many situations in my life, I bit off more than I could chew, dove into deeper waters than I intended, agreed to participate in something that ended up larger than I thought.

I actually did not, at the time I agreed to participate, fully grasp the depth and range of what I was saying I would do.

(And not at all because Dave explained it poorly.  No.  Just because I compartmentalized the entire thing incorrectly.)

First, Dave and I had a phone interview where I told my story to him.  The project is called the StoryTellers Project and it is part of a partnership with the Greenville News and USA Today.  Several times a year, people from all areas of life share stories along a particular theme.  This project’s theme was “One of my Nine Lives”.

After our initial phone conversation, Dave emailed me his thoughts and suggestions for honing my story into the right time frame and keeping it progressing smoothly for clarity and meaning.  In a few weeks we had a second phone interview scheduled.  During the conversation, Dave listened to me retell my story with his suggestions incorporated.  When I finished, there was silence between our phones.  Then he said, “Remarkable.  Great changes.  Did you write that down?”

To which I replied, “Of course.”

Dave asked, “Did you read it to me just now?”

Again, “Yes, I did.”

“Right.  Well.  We really encourage our story tellers to just tell a story.  To not have any notes.  Just to stand there and talk to us.”

This was my first realization that I was swimming in waters where I didn’t want to be.

No notes?  No reading my story?  It was one thing to decide to share my story in this public format – on a stage and not behind a computer screen.  With my actual mouth and accent and mannerisms and face and body.  It was entirely another thing to share this story without the aid of words on a paper in front of me.  Was this what I had agreed to do?

Fine.  Alright.  I’m in this deep already.  I’ll do what Dave says.  I’ll do what I apparently signed up to do.  I’ll swim without a life jacket.  Whatever.  It’ll be a good personal challenge.  Sometimes I like to ask myself to do hard things occasionally for personal growth.  Okay.  Fine.  I’ll go without notes.  I don’t like it.  But I’ll do it.

Then, a few days later, a text arrives from my friend Addy.

“Congrats on doing the StoryTellers Project.  I’m proud of you.”

What?

So far I have told exactly ZERO people about this event.  I have not mentioned it to a single friend.  Not to a child in my home.  Not to my dad far away.  No one.  Just me and Dave know about this.  I assume.

And then Addy tells me she bought tickets and invited a few of my friends.

I send a couple of emojis appropriate to my feelings and laughingly tell her that I’d prefer to do this with no one I know in the audience.  (Yes. I told her she should not come.)

Then I asked her how she even found out.

Uh.  There was newspaper article that promoted the event.

Oops.  More lack of paying attention on my part.

Basically, I wanted this to be just a secret little thing I tried.  And with an audience of strangers, if I forgot everything, even my own name (which felt like a distinct possibility), then no one I love and care about would ever need to know.

Maybe you think I would not be terrified of public speaking.  But I am.  

Give me a screen all day long.  But not actual people and immediate feedback and actual human response.  I need to edit and read over and delete.  I really did ask Addy not to attend.  (She’s apparently a better friend than she is a listener, because she showed up with my friend Hilary.)

So now we’re caught up to last week and me and the stage and a microphone and paying strangers at the Comedy Zone.

Wait – right before I actually arrive, there’s the chaos of home.  The girls had a writing club and the timeline was close to pick them up and get me to the event on time.  Naturally.  The class ran a few minutes late, it was starting to rain hard and I needed to change.  The outfit I had planned suddenly looked three inches too short and I felt like a teenager with a closet full of clothing options but nothing to wear.  In my panic, the only dress I think will work is the exact dress I wore to the rehearsal for this event the week before.  I was convinced that the people sharing the stage with me would remember and think I only owned a single dress.  Finally, with the clock ticking, it was a chance I had to take and I threw on the exact same outfit I wore last week and took my chances.  (I like to really help boost my confidence level with these sort of ridiculous last minute decisions.)

There are seven of of us sharing stories that night.

Addy tells me, “I hope you get to go early in the line up so you don’t have to stay nervous.”  I agreed.

I arrived at the venue.  Reserved seats are along the front for the speakers and their guest.  I didn’t bring a guest, because – you know.  So I used my extra chair for my bag Walter Mitty.  He’s a pretty faithful companion.

 

 

Dave hands us all a program with the line up.  I scan for my name to find the order so I can decide when I want to get really nervous.  Last.  My name is last.

 

 

Fine.

The stories are really interesting.  The audience warm and encouraging.  Hilary and Addy are sending good vibes.

By the time the person right before me is delivering his story, I am pretty much entirely convinced that I cannot even recall my own story, that I have no idea what I am about to say and that I really should consider leaving through a side door.

Dave introduces me and I take the stage.  (Wearing my lucky Frye boots because I need all the help I can get.)

And you know what?

I told my story without notes.  I didn’t bring the house down or change anyone’s life, but I got through the start and the middle and the end.  I didn’t stutter or falter in major dramatic ways and I think the audience even laughed a couple of times.  I didn’t trip when I exited the stage and  i didn’t forget my own name after all.

 

 

I won’t be going on tour any time soon but it was surprisingly exhilarating to conquer something I believed was unconquerable.  To dive into the deep end and swim to the other side.

And since the event has already passed, it’s easy now to talk about.

 

 

 

And easy enough to share too, since it’s too late now to go back now and fix any of it.

Turns out, it was a recorded event (just another aspect of which I was unaware.)  (I think you have to scroll through the stories to find mine but it’s in there.)

 

 

Maybe the lesson here is actually to pay closer attention to what I agree to do!

 

 

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