Recently, a good friend of mine watched an acquaintance give a reading of a short piece at a New York bookstore. I asked how it went, and she replied, “Boring. He read in a monotone voice off a sheet of paper and went on forever and ever.” As someone who’s sat through my own share of dull readings, I sympathized with my friend. I also wondered: why is it that some writers take the oral reading so lightly? Of course, not all writers are performers (many are paralyzed by the idea of reading in front of strangers).
And yet, I’m always shocked when a writer takes a podium only to joylessly keep his head down, droning out sentences without modulation or emphasis, dialogue blending into exposition, one paragraph bleeding into the next. Do they believe the brilliance of their words alone can redeem flat delivery and general listlessness?
There’s something about a theater and a stage that energizes those on it. Maybe it’s the reminder that whatever is happening, whether it’s a simple reading or a full production, you’re a performer whose primary aim is the enjoyment of your audience. When writers read publicly, they become advocates for their stories. As an audience member, I’m persuaded that I need to hear that story–not by an impressive introductory list of credentials–but by an author taking hold of my attention and showing me–by voice, pacing, gesture–just how alive and essential the world he or she created is.
