On a Monday Night at the Library
I had a thing.
On a Monday night at the library.
And it was kind of a big deal.
I’ve had several firsts lately—yeses where I used to default to no. As a matter of fact I said no to this.
Look, all I was going to do was go to this class, learn a little about public speaking, bump up my voiceover game. That’s it. But then I was “encouraged” to do the thing. See, Evil Dr. Vines—who I am sure is not evil in the least—was giving our Write Club tips on how to read their work aloud because some of the members were planning to read at Flash Night. But I was not.
I just wanted the free advice and I walked out with a death sentence—or at least, that’s what it felt like when I signed the clipboard.
So. I practiced. And I mean a lot. Every day. Recorded myself. Listened to myself. Slowed down. And my voiceovers got kind of better. And my nerves were shot to heck. The first time I practiced in front of a group, my voice shook uncontrollably and I walked off the stage midstory. Just like that.
But I kept on. And I guess I got better. I worked on eye contact. I trimmed my story in the places I stumbled. I slowed down, improved my cadence.
Then, someone told me my dialogue was flat.
At the dress rehearsal.
A week before the big event.
And it didn’t destroy me.
I nodded. Considered the validity of the statement. And the heart behind it. And decided at this point? The reading was going to be what it was going to be.
And it was. On a Monday night at the library.
I woke up that morning and I cried. Not really sad? Not really scared. Just… overwhelmed. A nervous system that was shot out and a girl who had to keep it together.
This really was an adventure of a lifetime. One of many I’ve had in the past five months. One of many more that are slated to come.
But.
Nothing went as planned.
It was better than that.
I was supposed to go on after intermission. But at the last slot of the first half, I looked up. My name was already on the screen.
No warning. No spiral. Just—go. Mid breath. I had a death-grip on the podium like you wouldn’t believe. I almost laughed at myself halfway through the reading when I clocked my white knuckles.
Then, right at Holy Water Café and Creamery, I stepped outside myself—and the story—looked up at MJ Polk, and smiled.
His Stories from the Jukebox thing is the reason those words were on the page at all.
And that?
That’s something. It will always be something. To me.
So I kept reading. And people laughed. Out loud. At parts I kind of thought were funny.
Not polite. Not quiet. Real.
I almost didn’t know how to handle it.
But I did.
Somehow.
I asked afterward if they noticed my deathgrip. They didn’t. How about that?
Someone asked me if I was proud. And I don’t know about that. I don’t know if I had time to be proud.
Because the night—it was about more than the podium. More than the compliments (and there were some.) More than facing that fear.
It was about this realization: turns out this night contradicted one of my deepest fears. Deeper than the reading. Deeper than the crowd. Deeper than Evil Dr. Vines.
The fear that people won’t really show up for me.
Because. One by one. They did.
Not perfectly.
Not all in the same way.
Not necessarily in the way I’d script it if I could.
But truthfully. Real.
On a Monday night at the library, I found out that I matter.
Not, I might matter.
But that I did.
That I do.
And I have the receipts.
A beer waiting for me at lunch.
An odometer rolling in from South Georgia.
Flowers in my hand.
Front-row faces with intention.
A song sent across the ocean.
People staying exactly as long as they could, when sometimes they can’t.
Laughter in the room. Strangers saying kind things—more than just being polite.
I thought an adventure of a lifetime would look bigger than this.
Louder. Farther away.
But it turns out that sometimes it’s just a Monday night at the library—with a microphone (and a voice) you’re not used to—and a room that doesn’t let you disappear.
On a Monday night at the library, I found out that I matter.
And I have the receipts.