Author Talks – Pam Swanborough: Episode 2 – Hear me out...
Soundtrack: Tower of Song; written Leonard Cohen, performed by Martha Wainwright
This winter has all been about story telling. Not story reading or even story writing, but actual, in-the-flesh telling. Reciting out loud, as has been we humans’ ancient way.
I saw The Odyssey movie on the weekend and loved it in the way you do when you’re ready to be overwhelmed by spectacle and darkness and tragedy and beauty, and lots of blood. At some point I will revisit the original to see how the ancient reciters handled the split viewpoints. And practical questions: is the Mediterranean Sea that big? I have swum in it when it was warm and gentle; I don’t recall it looking like the Atlantic. But then, I hadn't just stuck an arrow in Poseidon's ick son. The writer changed the language to today-speak, America-speak – rightly so. Every skilled storyteller adapts their tale to their audience. The ancient Athenians didn't hear any 'thee' and 'thou' and neither should we.
But before that I’ve recently been to, and performed in, several variations on ‘writers reading their own works’ events over the winter. It’s fun (unless you’re felled by those darned butterflies in the stomach, of course) and it’s challenging as a writer and as an audience.
As a writer, you’re naked and adrift on a fragile raft, beset by oceanic waves of doubt, the monstrous Charybdis twisting plot and rhythm into something that makes you wonder who the hell let this through? The Sirens taunting you, mocking you with echoes of what sounded fine in the privacy of home and now is a torment of nonsense echoing round a vast cavern. Scylla snatching the very words from the page, or turning them into a language you no longer know how to speak.
That’s as a writer.
There’s a different risk for the audience.
The range of content means the listener is on a roller-coaster of theme, mood, tone and intent. One minute it’s a lament, then next a comedy, or a bit of politics; reflective self-loathing, or gentle family anecdote. The editing may be tight or completely lacking. The reader might stumble over words with a throatful of saliva or recite as if the story comes from a place of song. It’s a minefield for the listener.
I heard some wonderful stuff. A treat to experience. And I heard some things that should have … uh, let’s say they hadn’t thought it through. I’ve heard the loveliest language recited in a voice as dull as a speaking clock. And I have heard arrant nonsense sweep me away in uncritical delight at the voice itself. All these.
And, unfortunately, I also heard the folks who completely ignored the time limits and went on. And on. And on… which is awful. We don’t care anymore; our attention has long ago left your story and while you’re self-indulgently rambling on, I’m here studying the light fittings, or wondering if there’s still any hot coffee in the urn. And the next reader is waiting and wilting and wishing they were away, anywhere else. So this winter’s lesson: do not go over time. Just don’t. I don’t care how much you want to tell me about why you hate your mother or love the gym instructor. Just don’t.
I did have a goosebumps moment while reading a short story from my Miscellany. I had edited it down to remove any accidental tongue-twisters and to be well within the time limit so I could really lean into the rhythm, add dramatic rushes and pauses etc. I rehearsed – more than once – in the preceding week, so I knew the breaths and the beats I would need to hit, to help the listeners follow the words.
As I read into the mic that night, a few paragraphs into the story I suddenly noticed a total silence. Between the words as I spoke, the usual background hum had stopped; it felt like nothing I’d ever experienced before. As if the world had paused. I stopped reading for just a heartbeat to take it in.
Afterwards I asked my friend in the audience if the organisers had turned the aircon off while I was reading.
‘No,’ she said, ‘we were all just bound up in the horror.’ Quite a humbling moment, if that were so.
Although I still think they had turned the aircon off. 😊
Coming soon, some of us GW scribers and scribblers will be reading microfiction aloud on Radio Pulse FM 94.7 on 9th October, 6-9pm, thanks to some awesome organisation by Geelong Cereal’s resident genius Mel King. Did I say that I’m not nervous? Lol
And next week, something completely different: I’ve been invited to be one of the judges of a middle-school students’ oration competition. Frankly I am 100% delighted. I adore being read to and these kids will be reading out their own compositions, things they’re passionate about, or amused with, or confused by. I cannot wait. I’m fairly sure there will be very little about how they hate their mother.
As for their thoughts on the gym instructor, well, that’s another story…
PS: this edition soundtrack is Leonard Cohen's Tower of Song, performed by Martha Wainwright. It’s not only apposite to the creative life generally, but has the most delightful line ever sung by a middle-aged woman: “I ache in the places where I used to play…”
Arguably Martha delivers the best version of this song; Cohen himself seems to be wearing someone else’s clothes when he sings it.
