Of course now I have a whole stack of books I have to pick up to find out what happens next. Everyone was so funny and sweet and excellent. I do so love being read to. Much better than doing the reading . . .
Three years ago I talked about my very first readings and how not fun they were. I’ve read many many many times since then. I no longer experience blind terror, at this stage the terror has eyes and can spot all the people in the room yawning and looking bored, and instead of convulsing my whole body (particularly my vocal chords) the terror just messes with my hands. I also hardly ever throw up or feel like I’m going to now. A vast improvement, no?
I still don’t really enjoy reading.
The hardest part is the minutes just before I read: the waiting-to-read part. I find myself in this strange hyper uncomfortable space not entirely capable of hearing what is going on around me, except my own name, cause when I hear it that means it’s time. I pick up my papers, read the words, sometimes the wrong ones, sometimes skipping a few, aware that my hands could get so out of control that the pages go flying, or I’ll spill water everywhere, or my stomach could revolt. For the last year or so none of those things have happened. I’ve gotten to the end without making too great a fool of myself. Progress!
My reward is the after-reading feeling. A lovely adrenaline rush that stay for ages and makes me feel like I’m floating and invincible and witty and charming. I can get by on that buzz for hours.
I’d still MUCH rather be read to.
How about you lot? Anyone got any horror stories of readings gone wrong to share?