Public Speaking!

Y'all, I have always loved giving talks.

What I mean by a talk is standing up and telling 30 minutes of war stories, plus reading a few pages from one of my novels and then taking questions.

What's not to love about doing that?

This morning, however, I went to a session at a Duke alum seminar weekend ("Money, Sex, and Power") on giving more powerful presentations. I was one of the four who volunteered to give a talk and then get a critique in front of the sixty others in the group.

Oh, shit, I was terrible!

(I'm going to recover from this. I really, really am. I've just left that auditorium and come straight here to the library to blog about this experience.)

It was bold! I'll give myself that much credit. The three who went before me performed quite creditably.

The assignment was not to offer amiable personal anecdotes, but instead to make a three-minute presentation with a beginning, middle, and an end. I've done that only once since high school and I had a teleprompter then.

I won't bore you with details of how my effort this morning was a mess. Except to say that temperamentally, I'm a novelist. I communicate in units of 100,000 words, with lengthy flashbacks. Just believe me... (And it got worse as I realized how badly it was going. Perhaps from people's expressions of faint puzzlement and alarm.)

Now, here's the good news. I learned a lot. The teacher -- Joy Javits -- was terrific. She managed to say some nice things that I actually believed. I wound up feeling comfortable and redoing some parts in front of the group, using Joy's suggestions.

And I left with one tip that I know will stick with me: don't just skim my eyes across the whole audience, instead make lingering eye contact with one person after another.

Now, here's the clinker. I have a mid-day talk scheduled for Monday, at Edenton Street Methodist Church in Raleigh. My plan has been my usual rather informal chat. That's likely what I'll do, as usual. It goes over well. (In 39 years of giving little chats, it has gone over horribly only once --at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan--and semi-badly only twice, both in my hometown at UNCW where my father was a trustee. Thirty-nine years! Hear that, Joy? )

However, I may well pursue with Joy this business of learning to give a short pitch that's to the point. I need this skill so that I'll be prepared should I ever get an Oscar.

And now that I've told you all this, I feel much better. Really rather good, in fact. I couldn't immediately get my soothing and encouraging psychologist husband Bob on the phone to debrief, and turned next to you.

I'll let you know how the Monday talk goes.

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Hacked! And Inspired!

Someone sent 2,096 of my friends and colleagues an email Friday trying to sell electronics devices. If the message made it past your spam filter, sorry for the intrusion.

I discovered this state of affairs tonight--didn't pay much attention to my email over the weekend.

But I stayed unusually cool...all on account of an inspiring manuscript I'm reading. A young writer to whom I provided only the slightest bit of help sent me her completed novel asking if I'd consider writing a blurb for her brand-new agent to send out with the manuscript.

First, it was exciting to see what she'd done. Then I spent most of the day reading it: and the book so inspired me. The story, a whimsical delightful romantic fable, put me in the mood to relish the minor difficulties of life as part of the big game.

I'm not always inclined to take that attitude. The last time I played a driveway game of pickup basketball, some decades ago, I got irritated because people kept waving their hands in my face.

Today's delightful reading reminded me that the waving hands and other obstructions are part of what makes the game.

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Pulitzer for The National Enquirer?

The long-scorned tabloid, The National Enquirer, is reportedly in the running for a Pulitzer prize. The Pulitzer folks have allowed them into the race, submitting the stories that broke the John Edwards story. (This news was broken by the Huffington Post and then reported in The New York Times, and of course The Enquirer.)

The Enquirer deserves to win, and not just because it's thrilling to see an underdog rise to fame. They did an extraordinary job of reporting and I'm glad to see prejudices and outdated images of the publication give way to recognizing this excellent newspaper work.

Bold updated admission of my own: I have a glance at the Enquirer website most every day I'm at a computer.

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"Presto Book-O"

Steve Almond, the guy who wrote Candyfreak (and how could a true candy freak be anything but virtuous and wholesome?), has an interesting piece on The Rumpus about self-publishing a book of one-page pieces that he couldn't rouse a lot of industry interest in.

What he's doing is mainly selling it through his readings,making it a rare and thus-to-be-cherished item.

It's not my ambition to proceed this way, and it's not his only outlet. He has a book coming out through Random House. Nonetheless, I like his innovation and his cheeky style and wish him well with This Won't Take But a Minute, Honey.

Thanks to Mary Moore for the heads-up on this. I welcome stories of inspiring boldness, in small matters and large -- please let me know when you have one to pass on.

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Il Fuoco Nelle Vene

Flipping through an old Allure magazine a few nights ago (I'm into Old Allure), I came across a breakout quote that seized my attention: "...il fuoco nelle vene....) which means "fire in the veins" and refers to living with passion.

The story was about the style of Italian women, at least some of the more flamboyant ones. The writer adopted that style and found it liberating and pretty thrilling to be mistaken as Italian.

I found interesting the responses of a few other online personalities to this quote:

It's Q's World says the phrase is "... an Italian expression for women carrying on in an over the top way (more referring to a Gaudy look, obvious makeup, extra jewelry buxom big hair , and I truly I do feel I'm living like that, well that and my Tits Out, big Heels, lots of gloss and eyebrows and legs out approach to life, with Fire in the Veins, is what the Italos call it, I need more eyeliner in my life to finish pulling the look But I'm almost there!"

Fuck Yeah, Tattoos!: shows the phrase wrapping in elegant cursive around a bare midriff.

Actor-singer Demi Lovato on CelebrityTweet: "So, blood is fire pulsing through our veins.. We're either writers or fools behind the reigns..."

Erin Ashley has posted a painting of hers on the theme: "The Italians have a name for their rapturous approach to life: Fuoco nelle vene."

One blogger admired the philosophy and its "rupturous approach to life."

I have a more subdued approach myself, not so rupturous as some of these. Even so, the fire-in-the-veins image and the very sound of the Italian phrase feels pleasingly intoxicating.

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A Daring Writer Reads in Raleigh

At the admirable Quail Ridge Books at 7:30 tomorrow (Thursday) night, Joe Ashby Porter will read from his new book of short stories, All Aboard.

A Shakespeare scholar and teacher of creative writing at Duke University, Porter has earned many awards for his work, including an Academy Award from the Academy of Arts and Literature, with the commendation: "No writer of his gifted generation has shown greater daring or has earned higher praise."

And from the Quail Ridge description of All Aboard: "Porter ventures into new, sometimes unprecedented territory, from the luxe restraint of 'Merrymount,' through the stops-out eroticism of 'Pending,' to the distilled heebie-jeebies of 'Dream On.' Here, reading, travel, and sexual orientation (and disorientation) loom larger than before in Porter, and the dialogue gives new play for what Harry Mathews has called Porter's 'golden ear.'"

Do come if you're in the neighborhood.

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A Magic Cottage in a Coastal Village

My inventive and creative brother Franc Payne has taken a little old house on Core Sound, behind the North Carolina Outer Banks, and turned it into a magic cottage with big screened porches. He did it himself on weekends over a couple of years.


















It's delightful (I painted a couple of doors myself) and situated in the town of Atlantic, which is a village a lot like Ocracoke was many years ago.

Should you be in the market for a magic cottage in a coastal village, this one's for sale at $189,000. Contact: Franc.Payne@ForTheBestRate.com





Even the facilities are charmant.

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Behind the Refrigerator

An event high on my scale of domestic boldness: this afternoon Husband Bob and I moved our fridge and cleaned the coils in the back in the hopes that this will take care of a popsicle crisis.

I am devoted to consuming coconut popsicles (up to three a day) of the Whole Foods house brand called 365. Lately these personally important items have been getting melty in our freezer.

Before tackling the fridge coils, I tried a different experiment. Two weeks ago, when there was snow here, I buried a popsicle in snow. My fallacious logic was that the snow was frozen and would therefore refreeze the popsicle into a solid item.

Not so. What I dug up was a sack of unappetizing milky liquid.

So I did some Internet research and learned that the problem might be dusty coils. For a person who doesn't dust things that are in easy reach, this is large.

Also, we live in a semi-old log house with two mastiffs. The layers of dust on the floor behind the fridge had to be scraped loose with a sharp object.

I'm eager to see if this cleaning thing works. Will report. If it does, it could encourage further domestic boldness.

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The Bad News, The Good News

A radically mixed day: two pieces of bad news and one piece of good news. All coming from different directions and none of them my story to tell. The bad news is about friends' very difficult situations.

So I have today the challenge of holding hot and cold in my hand at the same time. Dealing with each requires different strategies.

In practice, this adds up to flicking back and forth, back and forth, in my attention.

It also adds up to: very preoccupied. Tried to drive to the Post Office and passed it twice before I remembered to turn in. Keep staring at my laptop and waiting for it to do things I haven't told it to do.

I have to say that sadness is getting a whole lot more time. That and a feel of dislocation: shiftings just beneath the earth's crust.

I guess my plan is to keep on with the back-and-forth -- let it have its way -- and drive carefully.

--and then, of course, I googled and found an idea worth considering. I didn't agree with everything in this health blog post, but I did like the idea of focusing on feelings of love for all concerned.



If you like this post, please bookmark it on del.icio.us, share it on StumbleUpon, vote for it on Digg. Thanks so much.

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Wisdom from Mystic Pizza

As I've often mentioned here, I have a K&W cafeteria lunch once a month with half a dozen people with metaphysical interests: Mystic Pizza.

Today was the day and here's the report from the lunchtime mystics (three of whom are pictured below.)
*Instead of flight or fight in a moment of confrontation, try gently shifting your weight from side to side. One could consider this dodging. But in fact it's just giving yourself a bit of room and activity other than darting away or getting in someone's face.
*Things work out better if you let people do you favors and you pick up some of their slack. (Some of the assembled have a hard time with this in practice.)
*Tiny little barely-conscious thoughts can cause our intended actions to get hung up. Invite the thoughts to show themselves.
*Stay fluid.

Sounds more like a self-improvement, how-to-live group, I know. But the discussions included much about the mysteries of energy.

Mystics here with me at this shot at the K&W. Thomas Griggs, a leadership consultant, and Rolfer Marsha Presnell-Jennette. Photo by author, shaman, and computer person, Kelley Harrell.

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All Us Chickens

Just came from the final celebration of my 61st Jubilee. It was the winter-quarter birthday brunch of six buddies who have been celebrating our aging since most of us were in our twenties.

One gift I received was particularly bold and imaginative: fresh eggs from Stephanie's chickens. She keeps them in her mid-town backyard, as pets. I like that.

After all, where is it written that we should be limited to cats and dogs and ferrets and iguanas as animal companions?

She did have to re-home a rooster after it took to waking central Raleigh far too early. But otherwise, she's found them very good company, clucking and burbling and strutting around.

I learned this morning a few things about chicken care: mainly that it's important this time of year to make sure that they're combs don't get cold; they're prone to frostbite.

I'm tempted to knit a few hen hats for the next round of birthdays. But that might be sliding past bold to eccentric. Can't have that.

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The Fine Example of Lord Keillor of Wobegon

Last night Husband Bob and I went to see a live TV showing of Prairie Home Companion at a local movie theatre: a perfect celebration of Bob's 68th birthday yesterday.

It was sublimely good and completely heart-warming: a winning combo that Garrison Keillor produces weekly without fail.

Here's why I mention him again on a blog broadly devoted to boldness and marching to your own drummer, artistic and otherwise. GK has made an immense success and ongoing contribution based on an idea that at first probably didn't sound like a sure-fire national hit. Think about it: a two hour radio show about an imaginary Minnesota town, two cowboys, a lovelorn private eye, ketchup, duct tape, and hopeful gospel music. A show based on one sorta odd guy being relentlessly himself. I'd hate to have to pitch it in a meeting.

And I'm continuously inspired as well as delighted by both the show and the example.

Encore performance of the HDTV showing: Feb. 9 at a theatre reasonably near you.

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Dabbling in Retail

Recently I decided to sell some clothes on consignment. In the past I've taken my physically or emotionally outgrown items to the Goodwill. This new possibility felt to me a small enticing adventure. I grew up in the midst of the clothing business. My parents owned stores in Wilmington, NC. And I feel I know a tiny bit about merchandising.

Well, dammit. Neither consignment store I tried wanted a single piece. One place said that my items were "too matoo-ah." The girl there pointed out that their target audience is high school girls. It is true that I'm 61, but my husband thinks I dress like a high school girl.

So I went to a consignment store for classic clothes, thinking surely they'd like my tastefully mature collection. There, I was given no reason for the total rejection, and didn't ask for one. Apparently I'm neither a high school girl nor a classic.

Next stop is either the back door loading dock of the Goodwill-- or Sotheby's. I'll show 'em.

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The Driving Decision

Still snowy here in the unaccustomed South, and we each have to make the decision about when it's safe to drive. It varies, of course, with the vehicle and the address.

To get from my house to a paved and cleared road, requires covering the long downhill curving driveway with woods on either side, followed by a hard right onto a second dirt road. Should one slide straight across this fork while trying to turn, one enters the woods airborne and enjoys a three to four foot drop when a tree finally intervenes.

The second dirt road leads across a curving dam with a pond on one side and drop-with-creek-and-woods-at-the-bottom on the other.

Next is the winding uphill for another half mile, followed by a turn onto a paved-but-not-scraped lane, and then a three mile paved-but-not-scraped country highway.

I've never gotten around to getting a four-wheel drive -- it freezes here so rarely -- so it's just me and the dainty floral Carmella Camry making this trip. I take a fairly conservative approach. Not what anyone would call bold.

As usual, I consider this minor matter a metaphor for larger decisions. At what point, does cabin fever trump risk? When do the risks outweigh the gains? Well, it's almost never clear. So we just decide and act and, ideally, don't look back.

It's the hidden boldness of daily life, these little decisions.

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My Snow Experiment

We have the rare pleasure here of snow these last few days. It was two and a half days before I could get from our house on a hilly dirt road through woods to the main road. So I've had a cosy few days, with a little cross-country skiing, up until the bindings broke on one of my 20 year old skis.

Seeking other ways to play in the snow, I hit upon my experiment. I decided to do the garden fertilizing I'd neglected to do in October, figuring that the slow melt of the snow would remove any need to water.

This isn't the right time of year, and some of this fertilizer is the weekly type, some the acid type, and some is the kind that burns if it isn't watered enough.

We'll see how it goes in the spring, if I remember what I put where. This is what I mean when I say in my website bio that I'm a slapdash gardener. Given my approach, I think it's bold of me to keep at it at all.

But I've always felt that anything worth doing was worth doing badly. Otherwise, how would we ever get started at anything new?

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