I am fascinated by the way a sunset transitions from orange though gold and directly to blue without passing through green.
If writers have a responsibility for how they narrate the world, certainly readers have a responsibility for what they consume and from whom.—Roxane Gay
It is noteworthy to me that Gay takes the writer’s responsibility for granted. I am interested in the writer reading his or her own work and the responsibility that carries when conducting a public reading.
A long time ago I was accepted to The Flight of the Mind, a writing retreat for women. Among the many wonderful things that happened to me during that first week spent writing and reading and listening along the McKenzie River fifty miles east of Eugene, Oregon, was a blooming awareness of audience.
As a writer, I am eager for audience. I want my words to be appreciated, admired. I want to be understood and my stories, fiction or nonfiction, to be heard. I want to have my say.
Audience is all the people who might read my words or hear me read. When I taught The Bluest Eye, I warned students about the challenging scenes they would find in Toni Morrison’s first novel. They could choose not to read the book. They were encouraged to set down the book if it became too painful. It is a particularly appropriate warning for a young reader. It is a choice we all have when we read on the page.
A public reading is somewhat different.
All those years ago, Director Ruth Gundle had a great deal to teach me about who might be listening at a public reading or even at a reading before 80 other committed women writers. Anyone could sign up to read. She established guidelines for choosing work to read which was focused on quality and length, and she demonstrated great skill in arranging readings with a dozen or eighteen or more readers. Was anyone planning to read something distressing? Such pieces were placed within the lineup first—not first to read, but placed first before the rest of the readers and bookended with care. Her goal was to be fair to each reader, but also to lead the audience on a meaningful journey.
The reading should not be too long and never beyond the scheduled time. The reading should be work that has been thoughtfully revised. The audience should be entertained and challenged without finding themselves torn by barbed wire if they have been promised a flower garden. They should not be expected to transfer directly from horror and tears to lyric and laughter. Such emotional transitions must be thoughtfully choreographed.
Audience is the people in the room during a reading. The writer can only rarely predict her audience. She cannot know who recently experienced the violent loss of a family member, who has been assaulted, who feels deep and overwhelming regret or anger or fear or despair. She cannot know what her audience brings to the room.
The writer’s obligation is to bring worthy work to the room.
Long before anyone began writing articles about trigger warnings, Ruth Gundle urged us to ensure our audience felt safe and respected. The audience should not be assaulted, not entrapped or bludgeoned or accosted during a reading. Potentially painful or distressing material need not be avoided, but the audience led gently into and out of such fraught territory. Particularly painful work should be followed by work that manages a gradual release of tension.
The reading is not supposed to be a mind game serving the selfish interests of the writer. The reading is in service of the audience. Surprise, disagreement, even shock all may result from a reading, but these emotional responses should serve the audience, not the hubris of the writer.
Only an egotist tells a story merely to get a rise out of his audience. The responsible writer must put audience before personal ego. Yet some writers are too wrapped up in their power to do that.
On the other hand, if the only way a writer can capture an audience is by crossing lines . . . well, that says something too, doesn’t it?
If you attend enough readings, you will likely have your own stories to tell of inconsiderate writers.
I was trapped in the middle of a long row during a reading so boring (and nearly an hour overtime) that I began reading a book. It was so very boring that the person behind me began reading over my shoulder. Both of us were too polite to simply stand, work our way to the aisle, and leave. The reader was less polite.
Twice, a scheduled reader invited his friend to read after he was done. The friend read the first draft of a bad detective story or a squirm-worthy sex scene. The scheduled readers and friends probably felt quite pleased. The audience was not.
Reading in voices, badly in voices. Intimate scenes may be powerful in context of the novel, but repulsive in isolation because the audience has not been given the opportunity to invest in story or character.
And then readers who were perfectly aware of their audience, who deliberately manipulate and assault the listener. Some writers use drama and prejudices, stereotypes and bias to exploit their audience’s reaction. Powerful writers can do this easily, but like many choices we have in life, the ability to do something hardly provides the justification to do it. It is exploitative. It is bullying, and I think we are all weary of bullies. Aren’t we?
Each Winter term, I require my Writing 121 to attend a local reading. They have an exceptional opportunity in January, and sometimes they are deeply moved. I warn them about readers who might be crude, but they are young and the writers are “famous” and they do not wish to seem immature or naive. When the rest of the audience laughs, they want to laugh as well. They have never complained about what is read.
This year was different.
A public reading is not merely about stroking the ego of the writer or scoring points for writers’ freedom. Long ago, Ruth Gundle helped me and dozens of others to understand that the purpose of a reading is to give something of value to the audience.
Respect to the writer; respect to the listener too.
