Big, Kick-Ass Day

Yesterday was a breakthrough day for Melanie The Artist. It started with our morning workshop, where I read two sections from my book and received the group's critique.

My instructor Bill's opening statement: "This is a book and it will sell." Yesssss.

There was some good debate about voice – not sure if you've noticed my casual, conversational style? Some people dig it, some don't. So the question is, do I change it? I could probably trim a few 'you sees' and 'I guesses,' but really, it was more interesting to see who didn't like it vs. who did. Seeing what kind of person responds to my work and what kind doesn't only helps me define my audience. A good thing.

Hoping to stretch my bravery a little further, I signed up for the evening reading. These readings are in front of the whole of our program: the travel group, memoir group and poetry group, plus Banff Centre staff and some people from other programs.

At lunch, I floated the idea of reading Crotch Management. (Read the new comment on the post.) Everyone at the table said, 'Yes please.' Of course they did. It's the title. Gets 'em every time. So, off I ran to my private mountain-view office to work on the piece.

Because upon re-reading Crotch Management, I discovered that it is a) not a finished piece of writing at all, b) not a memoir, and c) written in this strange second-person who-the-hell-is-"you" style that I'm sure worked well in the context of this blog, but stick it up in front of real writers and I don't think it would fly.

So, from 1:30 pm until 7:30 pm, I re-wrote and rehearsed, hoping that I didn't have my head up my ass and that it would be an entertaining piece.

While I laboured, I received a lovely little treat. Remember that epic writing day I put in recently? The one where 2,000 words about my divorce took me seventeen freaking hours? When Nightowl Boyfriend went to bed before me for the first time in three years?

The editor accepted the piece. Yessssss. Victory #2 of the day. The publisher still has to accept her manuscript, but she's accepted mine, so that's one hell of a start.

And it was a fabulous lift on my way to the evening reading.

Which kicked ridiculous amounts of ass. I went second after a travel writer who read poetry – much to the consternation of the Program Director, who really thought we should be reading from "our own" forms. I got up to the podium with a heart rate in the high 190s and began to read.

Friends, the value of rehearsing a lot before you got up there cannot be overstated. How else could you properly deliver such lines as: "Since my therapist didn't specialize in non-consensual relations between humans and sporting equipment, I thought I'd better try something else." And the classic: "Apparently Sexy Lance and the other elitist pricks at the bike shop were too busy jerking each other off with chamois cream to give me the heads-up."

As far as talking about my crotch in public goes, it went very well.

Afterward, Bill delivered another of his succinct assessments: "That's publishable. That's a finished piece." I love you, Bill. I love you very much.