While at the On the Brink Conference, I learned to Own some things about myself instead of fighting them. To stop feeling as if I don’t quite Measure Up.
Each of the two sessions had three authors, and each author would rise from their chair, go to the podium, and then read from their book/talk to the audience. I was in Session II. The authors who preceded me and the one who followed me were prepared. They had picked out something special to read and seemed to know what they were going to say to the audience. Guess what Kathryn, ole Kat, ole Boop, did? Guess how she prepared. She didn’t. She never does.
Even during a break before my group of three authors went up to the podium, I didn’t scan through my book to find something to read, didn’t prepare my short talk. I just figured it would all work out. Ungh. “It’ll all work out” is kind of scary when you are to speak to an audience of readers, writers, literary people, bookseller(s), academics. Ungh.
My turn. I went to the podium on rubbery legs, my mouth dry. So, the first thing I told the audience was, “I’m not even going to pretend I am not nervous, for as many of these things as I do, I am ALWAYS nervous. So, just give me a moment to picture you all in your underwear.” Okay, that’s such a clichéd moment, but it helped give me a minute to catch my breath. And from there, I opened my mouth and words fell out: about how we are all creative creatures and about creativity, and then an anecdote that suddenly came to me from when I was a child and some blabbity do dah day spewed—
If I would have had visuals, I’d have shown them how I, for example, see a STOP sign. I can’t see the entire STOP sign no matter how I try—the letters look piecey (sometimes I see Spot instead of Stop), parts of the letters are missing or blurred, the sign is surrounded by white space with these disjointed letters. No matter how hard I try to picture the STOP sign, my black hole brain will not provide it in its entirety. This is how it is with me with anything I try to imagine: white space surrounding pieces. To fight it only brings frustration. But, when I sit down to write, everything calms. Everything is as it should be. There is no frustration. The Black Hole provides. I feel at peace with my chaotic weird brain. We work together, brain and I, instead of against each other.
As I looked out at the audience, I saw one young man staring at me with his mouth in an O of dumbfoundedness, as if to say “What the hell is she talking about? Black holes in her brain. Huhn?” Oh that look he had made me want to laugh. But I also saw nodding heads, interest, smiles.
I then opened my book to a random page and read a couple of paragraphs, hoping for the best, but giving it my all.
When I was done, and after we all were mingling round later in the auditorium, I was surprised at how many people came to me to say they enjoyed my talk; how interesting it was; how they were now inspired to go write or create something. Huhn. Well, who knew? More people were interested in talking about my little talk than asking about my book *laughing* Someone suggested I go round doing these talks—me? And my black hole brain? Talking to groups/audiences? Well, I’ll be.
So, what I learned is: this is how I am no matter if I try to fight it. I have a weird brain. I’m spontaneous and chaotic. I am finally learning to accept this Black Hole brain. I’m learning to accept who I am, weirdness and discombobulations and chaos and all.
Looking out at that audience at Jacksonville State University, I saw all those expectant faces waiting for me to say something magical, and all I could really give them is Myself as I am and hope for the best. And in return, they listened and took what they needed from it and used it to fit in the spaces that needed filling. My black hole brain will continue to suck up things until the day it is full to bursting, then a quasar will burst forth and that will be the end, a spectacular end or a new beginning to a strange and lovely brain.