A Reading

Call me ridiculous. I just drove 45 minutes—45 minutes to and from—to participate in a reading. I was one of nine authors. The reading was at a local library. I had 13 minutes to read. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

In fact, when the facilitator was reading my bio, I thought, Ellen, why don’t you tell the truth? Skip the bullshit about “Pushcart Prize” this and “William Faulkner Contest” that. Delete the “Best of” list and all the other bona fides. Go straight to the heart of the matter. Tell them what you what them to know. Tell them you love writing.

Yes, I wanted to support the organizer in what he’s doing. Mark Burr’s devotion to creating a writing community here on the Mississippi Gulf Coast is admirable. You only do that, expend that energy, because you care about writing. You care about other writers. Read Mark’s story here. Or, if you’re on Facebook, you can follow what’s going on with the reading series. I love this statement of the why of it: “Stories connect us. Readings bring us together.”

That comes close to being a “Lady Bountiful” explanation: I’m so gracious, doing this to support someone else’s passion. I actually do it for myself. This whole writing business isn’t for me if it’s not done in community. Oh, and ha, ha—I sold a copy of When We Were Murderous Time-Traveling Women.

Do you read your work in public when you have the chance? How do you feel about attending readings? Are you part of a writing community that’s important to you? What keeps your heart in writing?