Last night I read an abbreviated chunk of a memoir piece I wrote this semester. With my workload and tendencies to procrastinate, I found myself with just under three days to completely rewrite the piece, develop some different themes and ideas, and then revise and practice. Coping with death is probably one of the most cliché topics a writer can tackle in terms of personal memoir, but I really wasn’t interested in reading any of my essays. This particular piece, dubbed “A Man of Light and Stone,” was written while I was plunging into the grieving process. The original intent of the piece was criticizing how my family was attempting to define my grandfather’s life with kitchen-table metaphors. What I didn’t realize is that was exactly what I was trying to accomplish myself by writing the memoir in third person and by removing names and myself completely from the piece. I had somewhat of an awakening towards my own intent with the piece, and now the draft I’ve read and am working with has been shifted into first person, and pages of needless detail have been stripped. The chunk I read last night contained only two real themes: identify writing as a coping mechanism and issues with parental figures. The seven pages I did read were covered in black pen, trying to smooth the piece out before the reading.
I’m not very pleased with my performance, but I think that the revision itself is heading in a good direction. Right now, I feel that I need that more than keeping track of my eye contact with the audience.
It’s been a rough semester.
Stage Fright 