Taking the leap to perform
By BusyMrFizzy
Why performing your work to your audience, holds more fear than them reading it.
I think the first time I performed was for a bet. I am not a gambler at all, but like ‘Marty McFly’ in the ‘Back to the Future’ movies, call me ‘chicken’ and you’re about to see how far I will go to prove you wrong. A friend at the time was ‘um’ing’ and ‘err’ing’ over performing their own poetry at the local poetry slam, and somehow, I got dragged into performing alongside her as moral support. The rest, as they say, is history.
One of the most important aspects of performing your own writing is believing in yourself and your work. I was lucky enough to have been given an early indication that I had some talent I could believe in, when I attended a funeral back in my twenties. I did not know this person, not more than to say hello to as we passed on the street, I cannot even remember his name now as I write. He was our local greengrocer, back in a time when this gave you celebrity status in the small market town of Oundle, Northamptonshire, where I grew up. I am not sure even why I attended the funeral if I am honest, I just felt some calling, perhaps now I understand why.
As his bereft partner in life spoke to the mourners of his lost love and the tragedy of bereavement, he asked permission to read a poem. He began, slowly caressing every word with a somber tone of loss. It took me less than the first line to realise it was a piece I had written myself, a few years before, about the loss of a dear friend of mine, Danny. I remember the feeling and as I sit here reminiscing, I can still sense it in my heart. The flattery of another human choosing your words to express their pain and sorrow. To this day I remain flattered beyond any other event in my life.
When someone ‘feels’ your work like that, you cannot deny your ability. That moment gave me the confidence to believe, and I think of it often before I perform.
As a writer is the conduit of a story, the performer is obliged to channel the emotion contained therein. This is where the creator takes a step away from his newborn, and must allow it to almost tell its own story. I look back at what was a beautiful moment at the funeral, where another person was able to put new meaning into what I had written. Something that was so personal, was given a different life when a new love was breathed into its lungs. I take inspiration with this when I perform.
I know what I wrote, I know what it meant and what I wanted you to feel when you read it. But when I perform, I get another chance to play with your perception of my work. I can channel deep down into my memories, I can tap into your thoughts on the subject in question, be it love or hate, and I can twist the words like a knife, deep into your mind. I do this because I feel the work, I believe in it and I know it is true. But, the truth of it all is that when we write our stories on paper, or tap them on a screen, we are alone and we do not hold your hand when you finally read them.
We are not there like I was at the funeral, witnessing our work spread across your hearts and minds. When we perform our work, that is something very frightening for the composer.
We expose ourselves, our inner truths and feelings. We show the raw emotions in our voices, the flicker of pain in our eyes can be seen, and our vulnerability is exposed for a few moments. We are real, and we cannot hide. It is terrifying, because you cannot shelter behind your own work, you cannot use your own truth as a shield. I can be unseen behind the written page, hidden behind the screen of your computer as you read my work. I can vanish in amongst the mourners at a funeral, as you expose my emotions reading my prose. But I have nowhere to go when it is just me, you, and my musings. And that is both truly terrifying, and a great burden to carry when you have such an obligation to the truth of your work.
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