Exposed
The street was
lined with cars, so we had to park at the Supermercado down the street. My
friend (we'll call him Andy for privacy's sake) and I listened to 80s music on the way there:
Elton John, Hall & Oates, Kansas.
“We’re
listening to 80s music, by the way,” I said, flipping through my phone to find
the playlist.
“No
shame,” he chuckled, settling into the passenger’s seat.
We
walked in late. They said it wasn’t supposed to start until 7:30, but they must
have started early because someone was at the podium reading when we tiptoed
in. There wasn’t anywhere to sit, so we stood in the back corner by the door.
The sunlight pierced my eyes until it descended below the building across the
street.
I
figured it was too late in the person’s story for me to understand what was
happening, so I took to examining the room instead. The exposed pipes and
electrical outlets on the ceiling matched exactly how I felt in that moment and
throughout the entire night: exposed, vulnerable, an outcast. Everyone in the
room looked like they belonged there, with their dyed hair, beanies, and
fashionable clothes, unlike me in my oversized plaid button-up, black skinny
jeans, and converse. Next to them I felt naïve and inexperienced.
I
still don’t know why I felt this way. I was part of the Writer’s Workshop, just
like them. I even recognized a few faces from classes. But something about the
atmosphere made me feel as if they were living in a whole other world that I
wasn’t welcomed to.
When
someone would finish reading their piece of prose, I always thought the same
thing: I wish I could write like that.
“I’ve
never read anything you’ve written, but I bet you’re better than eight out of
ten people in that room,” Andy said later as we got into my car to leave.
“I
doubt it,” I said.
All
night long, I kept glancing up at the bare lightbulbs overhead, trying to tell
my brain to stay focused on the reader. If I stared too long, the bulb would
leave a bright imprint on my eyes so that, when I turned my attention back to
the reader, their head was an orb of light, a faceless voice.
As
my mind wandered, I wondered what the people walking by thought of us, a bunch
of young hopefuls huddled together in this small space, reading for the sake of
hearing what our written words sounded like as they rolled off our tongues. Most
of the people that walked by had headphones in or were on their phone.
Whenever I felt my
mind begin to stray off track, I checked my phone for the time. I wasn’t
itching to leave, but I was worried that Andy wasn’t enjoying himself because
this wasn’t really his scene. He clapped when appropriate and only checked his
phone in between readers, but I got the vibe that he would rather be somewhere
else. So would I.
I thought that
this experience would instill confidence in me, that I would want to participate
in something like that one day. But it ended up doing the exact opposite. I
couldn’t picture myself reading my stuff in front of people in a million years.
I would much rather keep my writing tucked away in the little manila folder on
my computer desktop, safe from judging eyes.
I know that this
isn’t practical. I know that if I want to be a writer, I have to eventually
share my writing with others. It’s just so hard, allowing myself to be
vulnerable and exposed to the immediate praise or rejection of the
personalities in the room. I always tell people that I would much rather sing
or read in front of 10,000 people than 10. Intimacy and rejection: two
petrifying words that I have yet to conquer. Maybe I will, someday. But not
today.
