PUBLIC SPEAKING - CONFESSIONS OF A WORRYWART

Pitchapalooza!

By susan fishman orlins

It all started after my friend Chris emailed me a link for the Pitchapalooza, which was to occur the following week at Politics & Prose, D.C.’s independent bookstore that hosts frequent book talks by bestselling authors.

Twenty writers would be chosen randomly to give one-minute pitches of their unpublished books. The lucky 20 would receive feedback—“American Idol” fashion (sans Simon)—from the authors of The Essential Guide to Getting Your Book Published as well as from guest panelists, which included a literary agent.

Given my attraction to scaring myself to death by performing for audiences, this was my meat.

Let’s pause here to note that tied with my fantasy of getting published in the New Yorker, is giving a book talk at P & P, if had a book. (If we had bacon, we could have bacon and eggs, if we had eggs.)

Already deep in the throes of writing my memoir, I thought, What an opportunity! Followed by: What if I win? Will an agent make me rewrite my book? What if I don’t even get chosen to pitch?

I had a million questions about the event, three of which I sent in an email to the bookstore, who forwarded it to the authors:

Will it help my chances if I arrive early?

How many writers typically sign up for the 20 slots?

Will we know ahead of time whether we’ll be called or will we be thinking the whole time, “Yikes, I could be next!”?

Author Arielle replied that arriving 20 minutes before the start would be fine. She also said I could look forward to the “adrenaline rush” of “sitting on pins and needles all night,” because I would be called only if/when it was my turn.

Oy, I thought. But really, how many people in D.C. were going to turn out to pitch their books? And I’d only have to get through one minute. I wasn’t going to over-worry this, wasn’t going to put wine in my water bottle to calm my nerves at the Pitchapalooza.

Over the next six days, I worked on little besides trying to unearth the ideal 200 words and arrange them in perfect order.

Casey Listening

I read my pitch to each of seven friends, three daughters and, 10 times a day, to Casey. After each shard of feedback, I tweaked.

On Pitchapalooza day, I was still re-writing and reciting. I added and deleted bits about my dying mom, my daughter’s lost bear and my travel smoke alarm.

I went back and forth between a fantasy of not getting chosen and one in which I end up with a book deal as well as a movie contract.

I dressed in my usual black and white and put on my new bright yellow high tops—the Price Is Right of outfits—fun enough to get noticed without going over the top. Since author Arielle Eckstut co-founded LittleMissMatched, I decided to wear mismatched socks, believing Arielle would notice and be impressed. But all my interesting socks were in the laundry.

Before rolling out the door on my bike, I emailed my pitch to myself in case I were to lose the two copies I had printed out.

I’d had the entire day to be ready on time and arrive 20 minutes early, as planned. But lateness always happens, and I arrived seven minutes before show time; all seats were occupied, people were standing everywhere and the book was sold out (buying the book was required for participants).

A store employee collecting names of prospective pitchers must have detected an aghast look on my face. He stuck a card in my hand and told me I could qualify by hurrying to the cashier and paying to reserve a book.

“How many people have signed up?” I asked. He told me more than 60 writers were vying for the 20 spots.

With trembling fingers I scratched my name on the card and scrunched it, so it would stand out from the others and have a better chance of getting chosen. (At the time I felt okay doing that, but now that I’m exposing myself, I’m worried. Was I cheating? It’s not as bad as sneaking ahead in the left-turn lane, when you know you’ll be driving straight, is it?)

Yellow Shoes

After reserving my book I found a spot on the floor near the front and leaned against a bookshelf, my yellow high tops extended in front of me.

The first name called was not mine, nor was the second, nor the 17^th

Writers pitched and on my laptop I typed notes from the panelists’ critiques:

What is the story arc? How does this change the hero?

Because it’s a memoir about her mom, it will get them on TV

Pugs are good—dog books sell!

Single spinster—good but can’t be both memoir and self help.

Something redemptive.

Oh dear, I’m thinking, Where is my arc? Mom is dead. I have no pug. Single spinster, got that one nailed. Something redemptive—must add that now.

And I began adding something redemptive to my pitch.

“Susan Orlins.”

OMG, that’s me!

I took my laptop rather than my printed notes to the lectern. As I read, I tried not to trail off at the end of sentences:

Confession. I’m a worrywart. In my MEMOIR, Confessions of a Worrywart, I worry about everything from my DOG’S self-esteem to decapitation by ceiling FAN.

A friend calls some of my worries, White Girl Worries, and I WORRY ABOUT THAT.

BUT my anxiety ALSO extends to the COMPLICATED TERRITORY of relationships: with my mother, daughters, ex-husbands, boyfriends and therapists, who are like boyfriends, but who can’t dump ME.

I am more Nora Ephron than Dr. Phil. I blog about worry, then I WORRY ABOUT BLOGGING.

After I looked up an old beau in Paris, he took me to lunch where he choked on a chicken bone. He left abruptly and WENT MISSING for two days; I thought he had died. It would have been my fault FOR TRACKING HIM DOWN.

When your daughter is in Colombia and hasn’t tweeted all day, IS IT EVERY MOTHER’S tweetmare that her kid is locked in the TRUNK OF A SEDAN?

After my divorce, I began searching for my popular, pre-marriage self. After an imaginary encounter with her, I no longer yearn (They stopped me right here mid-add-on sentence. Ordinarily I would never have started two sentences in a row with “after” . . . just sayin’) to be that shallow.

Mothers and others can identify with my real worries and smile at my IMAGINED FEARS.

Who knew it could be SO MUCH FUN TO WORRY?!

Everyone laughed. The panelists said they loved it. They said my pitch got weak at the end, which was the “redemptive” bit I had added right before they called on me. They said my book would be in the humor section. I said something about my essays, because personal essays are my genre—funny at times, but not “humor,” not Erma Bombeck.

“Don’t say ‘essays!’” the four panelists cried in unison. Apparently publishers disdain the word.

There had been so many good pitches that it took several minutes until the authors agreed on a winner, who would receive an introduction to an agent. “And the winner is . . . .” Not me.

The winner’s pitch was good, about his great uncle who was a sociopathic doctor. Among other things, the uncle cut off limbs, for example, of someone with an amputation fetish.

Before leaving, I approached the literary agent from the panel to say one of her clients is my friend. At the same moment, she was approaching me. “I want you to send me something ,” she said as she handed me her card.

I won after all! I thought as I floated out the door and onto my saddle.

susan fishman orlins | CONFESSIONS OF A WORRYWART

The evening had gone so well that I worried I would get in a bike crash on my way home. But I didn’t. Then I unlocked my door all ready to say to Casey, “There you are, There you are,” at a high-pitch, they way I always do when I get home.

But Casey wasn’t there; I realized I’d gotten home safely, because the disaster in store for me—to offset my rousingly successful night—was that my Casey had died while I was gone.

Then, there he was, there he was . . . in his rarely-used doggie bed; I had dodged two bullets.

The next day, I sent the agent a few chapters and links to some of my blog posts. I haven’t heard back and I keep thinking how different they are from the one-liners in my pitch.

I also sent a thank you email to the authors, David and Arielle. Arielle replied appreciatively and then asked where I had gotten my yellow shoes.

Anyone else have anxiety about public speaking? I’d love to hear about it in the comments!

Check out some of my Home Goes Strong articles:

NEW POST:

Celebrity Photographs (Clooney, Lohan and others): Party Time at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner

YOU’RE INVITED (TO MY FIFTIETH), 1995

By susan fishman orlins

With President Obama on the verge of crossing the half-century line, age-wise, I recall my own (embarrassinglynarcissistic) 50th birthday party on Home Goes Strong. I thought I’d share with you the invitation I’d sent.

Author’s note: I no longer pee a droplet whenever I sneeze.

YOU’RE INVITED (TO MY FIFTIETH)

I’m changing colors like autumn trees.

I pee a droplet whenever I sneeze.

My schnozz has grown, I’ve lost a tooth,

Even my earlobes have started to droop.

Errant whiskers sprout overnight;

They’re hard to spy with failing eyesight.

All my hormones are nearly gone

While my daughter’s rage like a summer storm.

I moisturize with religiosity.

I’m awaiting hot flashes with morbid curiosity.

Octogenarian sex no longer sounds odd.

I’m turning fifty! Oh my God!

“You still have your looks,” my mother stated.

Ma, you like how my upper lip’s corrugated?

I guess I actually do look young

When I’m at her Florida condominium.

Although for decades I have seen

That I’m older than models in Seventeen,

Still, I had always been confident

That I’d never be older than the President.

But, listen, it’s not my aging anatomy I dread,

It’s having more time behind than ahead

Worried about my imminent burial,

I consulted tables actuarial

To find out how many waking hours remain

For me to write a book, ride the train, complain. . .

The average American of fifty years

Has thirty-three point one more before she disappears.

From my pre-school age lop off half,

Add six point nine for renouncing decaf,

Compare waking hours since ’45,

With total anticipated till 2035.

(Don’t forget to include the excess–

As you get older you sleep much less)

That’s how I solved the riddle

Of how fifty is only the middle.

Though I turn forty-nine and five-twelfths in May,

I’m having a fete for my fiftieth birthday.

(At this point what’s seven months, more or less, anyway?)

Friday, May 19 join Steve and me to celebrate.

Or if you prefer, we’ll commiserate.

Since my memory’s practically shot,

Can you recount incidents I’ve forgot?

Some trouble I’ve caused–if you’re inspired

(Although I won’t object to hearing what you’ve, ahem, admired).

Enclosed are all the details you could possibly desire.

YOU CAN READ ALL ABOUT MY 50TH BASH ON HOME GOES STRONG

QUINTUPLE TIPS DAY, MEMORY & A DIRTY OLD MAN

By susan fishman orlins

(Whether you are my age or pre-memory loss, please share this with parents and friends who’ve crossed the line.)

What was I was just thinking to write about? Oh yeah, memory loss.

That sounds like a bad joke, but it’s what I actually said to myself when I opened this file to write about my forgetfulness.

Already this morning, I knew I needed to go upstairs but couldn’t remember why (to turn on the humidifier). And there was something else. Oh yeah, I went to my laptop while preparing my shredded wheat—and I knew there was a reason. After a minute I remembered it was to stream NPR while preparing my shredded wheat.

The first time I looked up Alzheimer’s (and it’s cousins senility and dementia) was shortly after I gave birth to my oldest daughter. I attributed my diaper brain to, well, diaper brain.

Still, I needed to put memory triggers into place. So before leaving our New York apartment, in addition to taking the diaper bag, I ran through my mental checklist: Keys, Tissues, Aspirins, Gum, Money. (Memory Tip #1)

That didn’t help the time I forgot to take my daughter out of a taxi; she wasn’t on one of my checklists. Since I’ve never been a fan of purses, I continue to use that same mental list. Except now I include reading glasses and Medicare card.

I’ve grown to accept the Trivia game I play with my mom. We both do it (I saw whatshername on Oprah, y’know the one from California. Maria Shriver? That’s it!).

When I was in 7^th grade my dad took a memory course and would come home after each class and teach me what he learned.

For example, using that mnemonic system I still recall the phone number of my piano teacher, the one with slick black hair and pointy shoes to whom I took a bus downtown from my junior high school. I would mount the steps to his third floor apartment and learn to play “Tears on my Pillow.” To the boogie woogie beat of “Beat me Daddy Eight to the Bar,” he would rub my bare thigh faster and faster closer and closer to my panty line.

Though it was as creepy as it sounds, it never occurred to me to tell my mom and I didn’t want to be impolite and ask him to stop. Funny how my distant memory is sharp as cheddar cheese.

On the other hand it’s almost a cliché to say I can’t remember whether I took my vitamins five minutes ago or whether I was just thinking about it. Yet, I lack the patience to fill one of those day-of-the-week pill holders.

So, after I take my morning vitamins, I separate out the one I need to take at night. And then after I take the vitamin at night, I put it back with the others for the morning. (Memory Tip #2) (Another morning pill I keep with my toothpaste so I remember to take it (Memory Tip #3).)

Then at night I go through my closing up the house mental checklist (Memory Tip #4): Doors (make sure they’re locked), Water (refillable bottle to take upstairs), Phones (ringers off for the night), Thermostat (turn down), Vitamins (as mentioned above).

As for memorizing, it’s not so easy. But the benefit is that it trumps all other worries for a month while you work on it, as I wrote in my post Speak Easy about my stand-up performance in a Valentine’s Day show.

Thank goodness for photographs, because without them my whole life might be as ephemeral as a shadow. Maybe this is why I cling to the notes my girlfriend and I passed in Mr. Ashcom’s 10th grade history class and to letters I received nearly 60 years ago and all the time in between. Though I’m sad about the lost art of letter writing, the Internet has at least saved my Letters Received file and my fireproof memory box (random bonus tip) from bursting.

Agatha Christie’s lexicon decreased significantly as she aged, while her use of vague phrases such as “all sorts of” increased. Scholars believe she probably suffered from Alzheimer’s disease. Generally, though, when writing I feel less challenged than when bumping along in the rest of my life. But do let me know if you notice me slipping into all sorts of uninteresting words and phrases.

What worries me most is that I can’t remember what happened in the short story I was reading when I paused ten minutes ago to refill my cup with hot water. Or when I can’t tell you anything about the movie I saw last week. There’s no checklist for those.

Anyone out there have other memory tips or creepy old man stories?

UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See my latest Home Goes Strong posts (they’re packed with tips!)

SPEAK EASY

By susan fishman orlins

At dress rehearsal with its stomach-turning surprises, like having to dance onto stage, I asked myself What was I thinking when I agreed to this?

At first it sounded like fun to be one of nine storytellers in a Valentine’s Day show, “Sucker for Love.” But I had not signed up to boogie in public, nor had I focused on the “notes not allowed” edict. Now, having flubbed my first line the day before opening night, I remembered why fear of public speaking ranks higher than that of death. With death, there is so much less that can go wrong. With performing, you have to live with the consequences.

When I’d seen Speakeasy’s call for stories of love, misguided or otherwise, I knew I had plenty to say about misguided love, and sharing a story orally seemed a good way to nourish my attraction to the limelight. So I submitted a piece I’d written that centered on an encounter in Paris with a German boyfriend I hadn’t seen for 42 years. Less than an hour into our reunion, he choked on a chicken bone and went to a hospital, after which no one had seen him for days. I thought he had died.

I arrived at the initial show rehearsal uncharacteristically on time. As others drifted into the apartment of Amy, the director, it became apparent that I was the token AARP member among the “Suckers for Love.” After we introduced ourselves, Amy said, “Let’s start with Susan.” Yes! I thought and wondered how I would ever perform without notes in front of an audience 100 strong if I was so anxious reading to this group of only ten.

I have a tremor that becomes pronounced when I speak in public. A psychologist once told me if you begin a talk by saying you’re nervous, it helps deflect the anxiety. So before reading my piece, I mentioned that my hands shake even when I’m not nervous (even though I was nervous).

After I finished, I expected some praise or applause but instead, Amy simply said, “Andrew?” I had figured my literary skills would compensate for my shortcomings as a speaker. But, like me, Andrew was a writer. With perfect timing and steady hands, he read his tale of yearning for his roommate David, “who was not gay.” There was a scene in the kitchen in which David, while slicing eggplant, was wearing nothing but an apron tied in a bow “above his furry, round bottom.” Squirming to get comfortable in the 90-degree angle of Amy’s L-shaped sofa, all I could think was I do not want to follow Andrew in the lineup.

One by one, my castmates dashed the fantasy that my story was at least better-written. Tabbie–with a strong voice, broad arm swings and no notes–told how she greeted her husband on their first Valentine’s Day wearing nothing but a burka, then surprised him with a belly dance until he tackled her when the burka caught a flame from one of the 33 votives she’d arranged around the room. Believing he was in a passionate frenzy, she wailed, “Baby, I’m on fire, extinguish me with your hose!” How could I hold my own on stage with her?

I rehearsed in front of anyone who would let me. My daughter and her roommates listened on speakerphone, my friend Bill was a captive audience while recovering from knee surgery, another friend Robbie critiqued me while getting her hair styled. I performed before 90-year-olds at my mom’s retirement home and before my friend Jackie during her chemo treatment. At a nearby middle school, I did my shtick for a drama class, where my flaws provided that day’s lesson.

For a month, I traded in worry for obsession. When no one else was available to listen, I recited to my dog Casey and, while biking and falling asleep, I went through the lines inside my own head.

Opening night arrived and I didn’t have to follow David or Tabby. The audience laughed at my funny lines as well as at some I hadn’t realized were funny. And, with the benefit of wine instead of water in my metal Kleen Kanteen bottle, even my hands did not betray me.

CONFESSIONS OF A WORRYWART

Pitchapalooza!

YOU’RE INVITED (TO MY FIFTIETH), 1995

SPEAK EASY

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