When words don’t speak for themselves
When most of us get in front of an audience, the first thing we see is our own impostor syndrome staring right back.
Next time you’re on a bus or train, or walking down the street – anywhere with a reliable supply of strangers – pick one*.
(* Disclaimer: in your mind only, please. This is an exercise in writing and speaking, not in kidnapping.)
You’ll almost inevitably have gone for somebody who was interesting to you for a particular reason or in a particular way. Maybe there’s an aesthetic you admire (or the opposite, you can’t imagine why on earth anyone would choose to look like that). Or perhaps it’s something interestingly incongruous: an item of clothing, say, that makes you wonder about the story behind it; how that person and that thing could have ended up together. Or maybe the person just has an expression or conveys a mood that appeals to you, captures your interest or imagination. Maybe they’re very calm, or very frazzled, or very something else that speaks to something in you.
I’m going to ask you to write about the character you’ve just invented. (Alright, alright, you didn’t invent them in the sense of make that person exist in the world. On the other hand, every thought and every judgement and every association and expectation you’ve already brought to that picture you saw in the world is your own, not theirs. It’s about you, not them. And it’s yours to transcribe into the first draft of a new character and a new story.)
Transcribe the thoughts in your head, so you can see your raw material on the page. Who they are, what they’re doing, where they’re going or working or living, and any other thoughts you’d had so far. Ask yourself more questions as they occur: what is important to this character? What activities or people or life choices do you instinctively imagine in their backstory, as a result of looking at that person you don’t know? And how do the choices and emotions you feel like you’re seeing relate to your own? It’s amazing how quickly our own comparisons and judgements creep in when we imagine the lives, choices, thoughts and feelings of other people.
That’s what makes this a public speaking exercise and not just a regular writing prompt.
When most of us get in front of an audience, the first thing we see is our own impostor syndrome staring right back. It’s wearing the faces of strangers, but its main ingredients are the memories and imagination we’ve brought along to our own performance, presentation, interview, panel or reading. We see what we perceive is wrong with or lacking in ourselves, and fill in what’s right with everyone else in comparison, and so project our own versions of the lack of worthiness we feel in ourselves on to the void of unknown that is the audience we’ve created in our minds. “They’ll hate me.” “They’ll see through me.” “I don’t belong here.”
When the low-self-esteem fairies whisper this horribly convincing nonsense, one of the things that happens is we become more conscious of ourselves than we are of our material. Self-consciousness, the bitchy cousin of self-awareness, is the result. Instead of focusing on sharing the message, we worry about the appearance of the messenger. We worry about being disliked, rather than about being clear.
It’s one of the reasons even very experienced authors can speak at speed, or in monotone, when reading their work to an audience. It’s those low-self-esteem fairies, creating an erroneous sense that the way we add value is by shortening our stage time, so we can’t accuse ourselves of boring people – so we prioritise saying what we came to say and getting away as fast as possible. But the truth is that with shortening our time we also shorten our connection, whereas dropping words into the pool like pebbles and letting the rings of meaning and silence sink in, in their own time, is what brings connection – and connection is what brings value.
At best, our reason for treating our audiences this way is about having more confidence in our writing than in our speaking. We expect the words to speak for themselves. On a page, that’s a pretty reasonable expectation. But out here in real life, and more specifically in real time, the brain receives words in a different way. As readers, when we hear an author’s words in our heads, sure, our interpretation may be different to the theirs. But that doesn’t mean the writer can achieve that same freedom of effect from one reader to the next by speaking in one tone to an audience the way the typeface in in the same font for every reader.
Allowing the words – even and especially words you’ve written yourself – to start in your head, ‘leak’ out through your face and into your voice, means giving an authentic reading. It’s the first thing I do with performers from the children I’m coaching for their first LAMDA Exams to the experts giving their first TED Talks. It reassures and reminds us all that an audience relationship is not about funny voices or parlour tricks: it’s about the courage to be telling yourself the story in your mind first; allowing yourself to experience the story the way you re-read a favourite book or re-watch a favourite film: as if every time is the first time.
Whether you’re published or unpublished, and whether you want to build your skills for work, art or life, come and join me for Public Speaking for Writers, 6.30pm UK time on 14 June. The two-hour workshop will give you the tools and tricks to bring the fun into sharing your words, strengthening your confidence and enjoying your time in the spotlight. Join me here.