By: R.L. Maizes

As the salutatorian of my eighth grade class, I was invited to give a speech at graduation. Even as a child, I didn’t like coming in second, but I understood the invitation was an honor. With my mother’s help, I prepared a talk and practiced it for hours. My family was going through one of its poorer phases, so the night of the graduation I wore an ugly hand-me-down from my sister, a pink dress with a high collar that made my neck itch. In a moment of vanity, I left my glasses at home, though I was horribly nearsighted. Standing before a crowd of hushed parents in a dimly lit auditorium, I looked down at my speech and discovered I couldn’t read a word.

Flash forward forty plus years. At a literary festival, I was about to read for the first time  from my debut book, a collection of short stories. I trembled violently, as panicked as my younger self. I was used to people reading my work, if they read it at all, somewhere, anywhere, miles away from me. I’m not a coffee-shop writer, or a library writer, when those venues are available. I work alone in my house, content for days to go by without leaving. But to get the word out about my new book, I had to appear before the public. Even now, as I try to promote my debut novel during a pandemic, I must find ways to reach the public, if only virtually.

As a child, I had craved the attention that came with being on stage. I never missed an opportunity to try out for a school production, only to regret receiving a part when the fear of forgetting a line or appearing foolish overcame me. Working as a lawyer years later, I was able to avoid public speaking, choosing areas of practice other than litigation. I once took on a pro bono case that required me to argue a motion before a judge. I made it through the proceeding, but on the way out of the courtroom, my legs turned to jelly and I had to grab the back of a bench to keep myself from collapsing. 

At the literary festival, I stood under a giant tent, exposed behind slender mic stand. I read for five minutes, through a storm of trembling. With more than a bit of shame, I imagined my anxiety was obvious to everyone. That I would be unmasked as an amateur. It was dark under the tent, yet thanks to the advice of a friend, I had printed out my reading in a large font, and was able to see it. The audience was with me and laughed where I intended. Afterward, basking in the crowd’s generous response, I felt high. I couldn’t wait to read again. A relative who attended assured me no one could tell I was trembling. It’s possible he was being kind. Either way, I learned this lesson: The trembling, though unpleasant, wouldn’t prevent me from reading or connecting with the audience. Perhaps, I could make friends with the anxiety, worry less about worrying.

The first time I gave a full-length talk at a bookstore, I was again overcome with shaking but completed the talk. I was calmer during the question-and-answer period, too busy responding to be anxious about how I sounded.  

Each time I appeared before an audience, a new challenge seemed to present itself. Once, at a reading series, my publicist offered me water. I thought I might be thirsty, but the lectern was slanted, and I didn’t know where to put it, so I said no. Minutes later, experiencing a terrible case of dry mouth, I regretted my answer. My tongue felt as if it were painted with glue. I had to stop speaking periodically to gather saliva. (Gross, I know.) I hadn’t known that dry mouth was a common symptom of anxiety. Like the trembling, it went away during the audience questions. The author who followed me that night had a water bottle. She put it on the floor and reached for it when she needed it. Note to self: do that.

At one reading, I was so anxious to begin, I forgot to adjust the mic. As I addressed the audience, I bent forward over and over trying to reach it, looking, I fear, like a bobbing bird.

One of my greatest anxieties was that no one would show up. In one Colorado town, I had an audience of only eight. The talk was structured as an “in conversation” with a mentor, and despite the audience size, or maybe because of it, the evening was intimate and lovely. One of my favorite talks, as it turned out. The lesson: size really doesn’t matter.

Which is not to say I like surprises. I flew thirteen hundred miles for an event where the audience was much smaller than I had been led to believe it would be. Far more seats were empty than full in the large room where I was to deliver the talk. Having travelled so far to reach so few people, I felt deflated and, without realizing it, I spoke without energy or enthusiasm. I’m sure the audience could tell. Afterward, I regretted that the very people who had shown up didn’t receive my best. What I learned: although it’s great to feed off the crowd’s energy, sometimes you have to muster energy all on your own. That is especially true for appearing virtually, where it can be hard to gauge the crowd’s response.

At one talk, I imagined knocking my water bottle off the lectern. Sure enough, while pulling the mic toward me to adjust it, I sent the water bottle flying. I grabbed it from the floor, saving what little liquid was left. Next to a puddle, wires led to the mic. Would I cause a short? A fire? The audience was seated at round tables with food, and I ran to a table and grabbed napkins. What I learned: visualizing is great, but try to limit yourself to positive images.

Would I ever improve as a speaker? I wondered, as I sopped up the water. Despite the mishap, I didn’t shake, my mouth wasn’t dry, and I spoke with energy. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of public speaking. And yet, it wasn’t my best talk. The audience seemed distracted, perhaps by the food or their friends or maybe something in my performance was off that night. Some of my more anxious talks had gone over better.

Which brings me back to that night long ago at my elementary school graduation. I couldn’t read my speech without glasses, and the audience was waiting. But as it turned out, I had practiced enough that I knew the speech by heart. In the end, despite feeling nervous, it went fine. Nothing could save that pink dress, though, or my poor itchy neck. Which brings me to my last piece of public-speaking advice: wear something comfortable.

R.L. Maizes is the author of the novel Other People’s Pets, and short story collection, We Love Anderson Cooper.