Very strange night last night at the Literary Saloon. Marina Endicott was an excellent host for an evening of readings by Thomas Wharton, Jocelyn Brown and me, but that didn't stop me from feeling creeped out. We were asked to read from our current work and from something new. Everyone was fine when they read or talked about their old work, but we all seemed quite vulnerable when it came time for the sneak previews.
I found myself in a strange place, barely glancing up and kicking myself for writing awkward phrases and breaking out in a sweat as the crowd grew quiet. I noticed the other authors were also shy about connecting with the audience when they read from their works in progress. I don't know if they felt the same way as I did, but it felt like a room full of literary voyeurs were peeping in on our intimate moments with our virgin manuscripts.
Not saying this was a bad experience, but I would definitely file it away as a weird one.
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