Reading, Writing, and . . . Worrying
By Erika Hoffman
I participated in a reading at a bookstore to promote a writing group’s latest anthology of fiction. My niche remains the inspirational and humorous non-fiction narrative although I’ve penned novels.
I’m never enthusiastic about promoting my work. While jawboning with another nervous writer, she confided that never being praised as a young child explains her lack of confidence. Me? As a kid, I was told I was pretty, smart, witty, athletic, and likeable. My folks encouraged me to participate in many activities from accordion lessons to field hockey; from school plays to debate club; from Girl Scouts to attending high school dances and proms. Never did they make me feel inadequate.
Yet, I get anxious. Before a simple chore like reading my own written words to a group of strangers, I become fearful. Hard to believe I was a schoolteacher; however, highschoolers never intimidated me because I knew I knew more than they. Besides, I was prepared with lesson plans.
Yet, reading my composition to adults on a Saturday afternoon when they’ve given up their off-the-clock time to hear my schmaltz – that gives me pause.
Is listening to my drivel a colossal waste of their weekend?
Before I began to read, I saw cell phones posed, aimed, and ready to record. I stood, made a lame, self-derogatory remark about my short stature, and then I commenced to read, stopping slightly to grab the mic extended to me by a previous reader after I was two-sentences in. All the other readers seemed composed.
Is it that I’m the least published of the group making that makes me feel intimidated? No. I’m prolific. Am I less educated? No, I’ve a couple of degrees. Am I the youngest? No way. Am I odd-looking? Don’t think so. Is my voice grating? Doubtful.
So why am I Nervous Nellie?
I project that my throat will get dry. I worry about mispronouncing a word; feeling an urge to run to the ladies room; tripping over my chair leg; my red lipstick smudging or crawling northward into the wrinkles above my lips; my flashy silver earrings coming unclipped; the muscle under my right eye twitching like an unstoppable tic; a spasm of painful pins and needles in my left thigh; my legs going weak; accidentally spitting as I enunciate; my reading too fast or too slowly… “ Worry is like a rocking chair,” Erma Bombeck said, “ It gives you something to do but gets you nowhere.”
I deliver. I read. Because there was a time limit, I stopped at six minutes and declared: “Well, enough of that!” Everyone laughed. They clapped. I sat.
This event didn’t cause my anxiety. My fear of my story not being well received was non-existent. My caring whether folks liked me or not wasn’t a concern. So why? Why fret?
Genetics. I chalk it up to heredity. Anxiety runs in my family. No matter how supportive your environment is, anxiety can be as salient a part of your make-up as skin color, height, and athleticism.
I spot this characteristic in others. I understand. What to do about it? Mount the horse. Just as I had to do when I was twelve and took horseback riding lessons. Then, I was bucked. Repeatedly. The old German equestrian told me in a stern voice to shake it off and get back on.
You, who like me are saddled with this DNA inkling to worry for the sake of worrying, remember one trait of highly intelligent folks is… anxiety. (I read that on the internet. And I choose to believe those comforting words.) Anyway… that’s what I tell myself as my stomach flips and I cajole my reluctant feet toward the podium.
Erika Hoffman is a happy and long-term resident of beautiful North Carolina. She’s a member of three writing clans: North Carolina Writers Network; The Triangle Area Freelancers; and Carteret Writers. During the past 15 years she’s been pursuing “her scrivener dream,” she has succeeded in getting published 580 times. Often, she teaches an OLLI class on penning personal narratives at her alma mater, Duke University. Although Erika taught in public high schools, which takes perseverance, a sense of humor, and intestinal fortitude, Erika deems her best achievement, besides being married forever, is having raised four functioning citizens. Without a doubt, her proudest moniker is “Ama’ to six grandsons and four granddaughters. She also cherishes the nomenclature, “favorite mother-in-law,” by three wonderful people as well as being designated as a “good friend” to cherished, lifelong, genuine buddies. Mostly, she pens non-fiction narratives, educational articles, travel pieces, and once-in-a-blue moon she’ll compose a fictional oeuvre d’art. Her wares find themselves featured in anthologies, ezines, newspapers, and magazines.