Fiction for Poets
in which one poet writes to other poets about writing fiction
Prose Writer Approaches the Open Mic, aka Dead Man Walking
All right friends, it’s time we chat about one of the most sacred – and safely guarded – experiences in the poetry world: the public reading.
Imagine if you will the opening sequence from 2001: A Space Odyssey (or Barbie – choose your frame of reference, either will do). Instead of a monolith or a giant Barbie doll, an enormous mic stand suddenly appears. The prehistoric creatures marvel; they approach with curiosity and trepidation; and upon realizing its power to amplify their voices and force others to pay attention, they quickly battle over who will take control. After millions of years of evolution, they find a way to order this chaos: they create sign up sheets, impose time limits, and enlist MCs. They design the open mic poetry reading, and all hums along with relative ease.
Sure, there’s that guy who always reads for 10 minutes when he’s given five. You know the one, he turns to the MC and asks, “I have time for just one more, right?” But he’s not really asking, and “one more” is really three. Then there’s the woman who doesn’t want to go over her time but also can’t sacrifice a single piece, so she races through seven poems in three minutes. By the end she’s panting because she didn’t let herself breathe between the words, and no one has the heart to tell her they didn’t understand anything she said. There’s the whisperer, who speaks so softly even the microphone can’t help, and the impatient audience member who then screams from the back, “We can’t hear you!” (which only intimidates the whisperer even more). We have yellers, who bring their mouths too close to the mic and then unleash their angriest poems with booming voices that nearly burst our eardrums. We have over-explainers, who spend four minutes introducing a four-line poem. We have entertainers, who can’t decide if they’re poets or stand-up comics. We have legends (in their own minds), who believe they’re doing us all a favor just by showing up. And, finally, the passive-aggressives, who criticize everyone who’s gone before them, casually mentioning all the things they won’t do with their three minutes. (“I’m only going to read this one piece, and I’m not going to talk too much about it. I know there’s a long list. I’m sorry I’m not very funny. Can you hear me? Thanks. I don’t want you to have to strain.”).
For the better part of 17 years, I hosted poetry readings, literary events, and open mics, and when I wasn’t hosting, I was sitting in the audience waiting to read my own work. I know this scene – it’s egos and eccentricities. And lest you think I hold myself apart, I will freely admit: I have been every one of those characters above at some time or another. Recently, I’ve even had the chance to be the most loathed open mic-er of them all: the prose writer.
Have you ever felt an entire audience cringe, as they inwardly wish for your immediate spontaneous combustion? Step to a mic and say, “I’m going to read an excerpt from my story….” The disdain is palpable.
Unfair as it feels, it’s not an unfounded revulsion. Too many prose writers have no idea how to read their own work. To be clear, many poets aren’t very good at it either, but at least they’re familiar with the rules of the game. So much of poetry is based on sound and musicality that most poets (at least most of the poets I know) read their work aloud as they write, so they are well practiced when it comes to speaking the words in front of an audience. Prose writers, not so much. Stories and essays can be beautifully written, poetic, and musical, and the best ones are. But they’re also full of mechanical maneuvers, necessary to develop characters or propel plot, and some of that stuff just isn’t pretty. Important, yes. Beautiful when read aloud. Um… no.
And I believe this is why prose writers are often flummoxed by the time constraints of an open mic or public reading. It’s hard to figure out how much story fits into three minutes. They want to introduce characters. They want to set up suspense. They want to pique our interest. But they fail to understand that if they take up too much time and test an audience’s patience, none of those things will matter.
So, here’s what I’ve learned about giving public readings: If you’re going to read fiction, read it like a poet. Many of the best prose readings I’ve heard were given by writers who began as poets, and here’s what they do. They pick the beautiful passages: the meditative descriptions, inner monologues, reflections. They pick the pieces that show – scene, character, situation. They don’t worry so much about “what happens,” as how it sounds. They read sections of their work that flow naturally, elegantly, sections that seem to rise out of the chest, float through the mouth, and pass easily across the lips, as unpracticed as an exhale.
Of course, if you’re going to read prose, you must practice. You need to hear the words out loud, find the stumbling blocks, and awkward bits. You also need to time yourself. In fact, time yourself a few times reading a few different sections – and variations of sections (starting here or there, ending there or here). Give yourself options so you can change things up based on the mood in the room, just as you would if you were reading poems. Don’t take for granted that you know how to do this. But also, trust that you do. This is one of those places where being a poet is a great advantage in the prose world.
It’s also an opportunity to turn an entire room on its head. When you trust your poetic instincts and let them guide the way you read anything aloud, most times I suspect those cringed faces and tight shoulders will soften, and that skeptical (if not downright hostile) audience will grow mesmerized. If you’re really good, they may even forget you sullied their sacred poetry reading with your dreaded story.
Please drop your thoughts in the comments. Or email me: autumn@autumnkonopka.com.
Autumn Konopka is a writer and teaching artist who enjoys coffee, running, and reggaeton. She's currently working on her first novel, which she expects to publish in early 2023. Find her online: autumnkonopka.com.