A few minutes prior to my scheduled talk on the Emerging Writer’s Stage at the Decatur Book Festival, I approach the MC (Chad) to let him know I’m here and offer compliment on the great job he’s doing. He’s been giving all the writers great intros and exits.
Fifteen minutes and I’m up next. The woman prior to me is from Decatur and written about a local pub. She’s very animated and the gazebo fills. Rather than worry about being a tough act to follow, I’m hoping her crowd lingers long enough for me to capture.
I move toward the microphone during the brief interlude and lean against the gazebo railing.
“Ready for your big moment, Mr. McCallum?”
It’s not until I turn that I realize it’s Mary from our days at the AJC. She’s dropped by to hear me speak and say hello. I engage in small talk, not recalling a word I said. I also can no longer recall what my opening line will be.
Chad heads for the microphone.
“You ready?”
“I am.” The truth of that statement now in doubt.
He reads through my festival page bio. I step forward amid polite golf-course applause. Twelve of the 15 folding chairs are occupied. A quick scan reveals my audience.
Front row: Mary, empty, woman my age left over from previous talk.
Second row: Four middle-aged to elderly African-American women.
Third row: two empty and a father with two sons under 10 playing with their toys.
Fourth row: couldn’t tell.
Back row: Mom and Dad.
“I’m sure many of you are familiar with the old wive’s tale that Death… comes in threes. Well, in my book it’s true.”
Now, through my entire preparation, my mind had done a great of job of remembering the last line I’ve uttered, signaling with clarity what my next line must be. But as soon as the words leave my mouth in these next few minutes, my mental whiteboard is erased. It’s like I’m driving on fumes.
Although I have my notes in my hands and a book as reference, I don’t use them. Instead, the story spills from my lips.
“Now, this creature stalking Robbie has a name. It’s Old Coals. It was taken from a comment made by Bill Talbert back in the 70s.”
I feel I’m rushing when I don’t need to be. I pause for effect. I make eye contact with every member of the audience. I’m returned smiles, which isn’t what I expect.
“Most of the town could recite the line like a Biblical passage. Talbert 3:16″
With her copy of my novel, Mary covers her laugh at my reference.
I sway slightly as I speak, an unintended habit from my batting stance, done to keep me from becoming tense while I await the pitch. I notice as I get into the meat of my introduction — when the hook is being set — that a woman has walked across the stage and taken the empty seat in the front row. A mother and her teenage daughter snagged two other empty seats.
I now have a full house as I race toward reading Bill Talbert’s encounter with Old Coals. As I build the drama, I notice the mother has her hand on her daughter’s knee like she’s frightened. The 10-year-old boy who was fidgeting is staring at me wide-eyed. He’s not even kicking his legs anymore. His mouth is open slightly. The elderly African-American woman continues to smile sweetly, making me want to hug her for her encouragement.
When I near the reference to an old 70s song, I wonder if how many in this audience will get it. I pick the woman near my age on the front row and recite the line to her: “He was singing what a fine girl Brandy was. What a good wife she would be” She breaks into a huge grin. She got it. I’m good.
Not a soul stirs during the reading. I continue to pick a face and give them a passage. When I conclude with “They realized that Old Coals was no ghost story.” I expected some applause like other authors had received. Had hoped a few would rush over to the take to buy a copy. Anything. Instead, Chad hollers, you still have four minutes.
Unfortunately, rather than go into a salesmen spiel about it’s not real gory, safe enough for a kid to read etc, I sheepishly admit that’s all I have. My mind’s on “whew” and no longer functioning. My last line was a my closing act. I don’t think to mention the webpage, that we’re on Facebook or that the book is available over on the table or online. I don’t even lean into the mic and say “Today,day, day. I consider myself, self, self, the luckiest man, man, man, on the face of the earth, earth, earth.”
“Anybody have any questions?” I ask.
The dad wants to know how age appriopriate the story is.
“13 and up. My mom’s read it and she didn’t ground me.”
I once again tell Chad that I’m done. I have no idea what I said after that. I was more relieved that I had gotten through my first dramatic reading without flubbing a crucial line.
Cindy, who has sat through two days of speakers and manned the purchases of close to 60 emerging authors gives me two thumbs up. “Great job, Mark.”
Not thinking, I head to the autograph table after setting my note card down on the book table in the gazebo. I had clung to it for the past two weeks, wanting it as keepsake of the event, with all my careful edits as a reminder of the moment.
Instead, I held a better memory. As he placed a book in front of me to sign, the man told me he was passing by the gazebo and got hooked by my words. “I heard you mention that creature and I had to have the book.”
