andamu

One of the networks with which I am involved periodically presents an event called a Readers Theater. We gather stories about personal experiences around a particular topic; some written by ourselves, others by colleagues and friends, each roughly a page in length.

For the event a panel of readers will read these stories to the audience, usually followed by a discussion around the topic. Not all the writers read, nor did all the readers write, and even if you both wrote and read, you might not read your own story.

For one such an event I wrote two stories. I read two stories as well, one my own, one written by someone else who elected not to read.

My heart ached for my other story, the one someone else was reading. It was humorous, but like so much humor it relied much on timing. Also, because I knew that it would be read aloud, I wrote it with the rhythms of speech: my speech. I wrote it so that it would roll fluently, rhythmically off my tongue.

But someone else wanted to read it - partly because it was the only story that got a laugh in our trials. And I could not find a way to say "No" without seeming selfish and petty.

I would flinch through rehearsals when he would trip over the lines, and murder the jokes with poor timing. The throwaways were over-emphasized, the important points were tossed aside in an almost mumble. But I sat on my hands and bit my lip, and suffered the abuse to my baby.

Because that piece did feel like my baby. The emotions around it were not so much proprietary as protective, materialistic as maternal.

In the end I suppose the experience served some purpose; it certainly encouraged me to make sure that I do justice to the words written by someone else on the second piece I read.