A Virgin Reader

It is only a matter of time before they call my name.

Part of me wants it to be now, part of me wants it to be never.  I grip the folder tighter between my fingers, feeling the slide of sweaty leather allowing it to escape a little before I realise my actions and release it again, wiping the wetness away with gentle hand.

She calls my name.  It is my turn at last.

How long have I waited to do this?

I stand slowly, allowing those around me to realise that it is I who will be reading for them next, and smiling my apologies as I squeeze past them to the centre of the packed room.

How long to stand before a group of total strangers who have collectively forgotten more about stories than I can ever know, watching me with an expectant openness I was not anticipating.

What if I let them down?

They are expecting a story on the theme of love, on the theme that ‘Love is in the Air’.  I don’t read that kind of thing, I don’t write that kind of thing.  My version is more along the lines of ‘Love is in the Air … and it is coming to Kill You.”

I should say something first.

They are expecting someone who can stand up and tell them a story without having to read it to them from shaking paper and sweaty folder.  I explain I am merely a humble crime and thriller writer, and that this is a love story, but a very twisted one.  Someone interjects that all love stories are twisted and I laugh, but it does not ease me.

I find my spot and stand, legs trembling wildly as I try to focus on the words before me and tell them the name of the short story I am about to read to them, then take a deep breath … and jump.

I begin to read to them, slowly at first in an attempt to calm my heaving nerves, carefully so that I will not race past the important parts, trying to leave a small pause after something I want them to understand about the world we are in, and the people we are with.

I feel them leaning in, watching, waiting for the next words to take us forwards, a few nods and murmurs as we continue, and I am beginning to sound like I can tell a story.  The meaning flows from the words and I feel that they are with me, getting to know the characters.

Waiting for the twist that they know is coming.

Were they expecting one so horrid, so bloody, so sticky in its gruesomeness that I can feel them moving away again.  Did I do this?  Did I draw them in only to push them away again?  As I continue to read I am aware of movement behind me, and think I see the hostess looking at her watch.

Am I taking too long?

I panic as I realise that I am only two thirds of the way through and begin to edit as I am reading, feeling my legs shake worse as I shift from one leg to the other, skipping the parts that I think I can leave, beginning to hurry towards the final page where I can relax again and read the final words to them, “Don’t Let Go”.

The hostess echoes the words back to me as a wave of clapping takes me back to my seat, and I am not sure how they feel about it as the hostess moves them onto the next storyteller of the evening.

If I could have seen their faces, what would they have showed me? 

That they were not expecting a story of such love turned to bloodshed?  That I had them and then repelled them with something they could not accept in their vivid minds?  Did I really have them?  Did I lose them?  When did I lose them, if I did in fact?  What did they really think of it?

These questions will remain forever unanswered, but two things occurred to me during that night.

One, that I had found a group of people with whom I could tell stories out loud, but they may always be repelled by my choice of material.  If I am able to conjure the feelings in them that I seek to bring forth within others, they may eventually decide my stories are not for them.  It showed me that I have much to learn from them.

And Two, that I was no longer a virgin reader.