There is nothing about a student reading that is fun. Except for the flirting, wine, and appetizer spread.
Actually, the whole thing is fun.
The reading itself can be a little challenging. It isn’t the fault of the students. Any speech is tough, even by a name-brand pro. Unless you are Garrison Keillor, writers just aren’t very impressive. They have funny, nasal voices. They speak too fast, hoping to hide behind an avalanche of words. Or too slow, as though careful enunciation will dignify their work.
It won’t.
I recently attended a reading by MFA students. I don’t know why they make students do this, stand at a podium and recite their unfinished work. Everyone is terrified. But they paid, in the form of tuition, to present their writing to the public, and here they stood. My bet is most would pay not to present their writing to the public, but that wasn’t an option.
We sipped wine and smiled as one student after another read poetry or a snippet of fiction. The audience was small, thank goodness, maybe fifty people. As a group we emitted a forced ooh or aah after a particularly strained metaphor. We provided a scattering of muted laughter at obscure jokes. Then polite applause with the end of each reading, the author sprinting from the stage. None returned to their seats. They headed for the hootch, in back. You would too.
The honest clapping came when the last writer finished.
Back to the fun. We milled about and I spoke to some writers I knew. It’s funny how I know writers, but writers don’t know me. Anyway, I was curious what was next, and spoke to Emily and Derek, standing together by the hors d’oeuvres. I think they have something for each other. But this is neither here nor there.
“What do you mean?” Emily asked.
“What’s next?” I said. “A visit from Colleen Hoover? A tour of Simon & Schuster? A hot air balloon ride?”
I don’t know why I said that. Derek piped in. “We have a retreat coming up.”
“A retreat?”
“In Denfield, at the Blue Dragonfly. No classes, no seminars. Nothing to do but read and write.” I saw him glance down at Emily. She is very short, very dark, plump and attractive. Something told me there would be more to do than read and write.
“There’s also hammocks and canoes,” Emily corrected him. “And swimming. And the food is supposed to be fabulous.”
“It better be,” Derek said. “For what the whole thing costs.”
She leaned a half-inch his way. “Lighten up Derek. Have some fun.”
He would. “There’s only one thing bugging me,” he said. “At the end we have to read again. In Dragonfly Hall.”
This was a buzz kill. “Another reading?” Emily almost gasped. She had experienced a most unpleasant day, her voice shaking at the podium.
“Oh don’t worry,” I told her. “Just memorize a short poem. Look at the back of the room. Really belt it to them. Then get out of there.”
Blinking, she looked somewhat relieved.
“Emily, Emily,” Derek said, tipping a little more wine into her plastic glass. “Everyone will love you.”
Well, one person would. Most certainly so.
It wasn’t one of my recommendations, but that wouldn’t hurt. Not at all.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com