It feels a little like whistling in the dark here. I come to this screen, sit and make myself write for the group, yet I still feel quite alone. I suppose the real reason I've been doing this is the feedback I've had from the other members. There's something of a reward in the little comments left on my entries. Yet, there's also a reward in knowing I've done the task that I sat and wrote today. There's a reward in sifting through the collective memories and experiences of my life like an archeologist. I'm shaking out the dust and brushing off the grit. I'm seeking to uncover some gem so far unturned, unrevealed to my writer's tools.

There's a reward in this seemingly banal activity. Maybe the reader isn't always rewarded, that could be the case here. But really I'm writing for myself alone. I'll admit to enjoying those responses. It's certainly better than writing in this vacuum of home with the chores of housekeeping and the baby's bottom to clean. The endless what's for dinner cycle. The baby crying in his cot because he's refusing to go off for a nap, even though he has everything done for him already.

Writing to any audience at all delivers a satisfaction quite unlike anything else I've ever experienced. I remember the first time I ever read in public. I don't mean amongst a group of writers at a workshop. The very first time I did that I cried, and the content didn't even justify me reacting that way. What I do mean is the first time I read at a public reading. My nerves ate at the inside of my stomach. I heard the other readers with their funny work. I watched them perform their pieces and felt the deadening of my heart.

I could not do that. I simply couldn't act out the parts of my tale in that way. Simply being there was making me sweat and this was in early spring. As my turn drew nearer my hands began to tremble. My mouth went sandpaper dry. When I heard my name I hardly remember how I got from my seat to the front. There was no microphone, no podium to raise me above the crowd. I simply stood and read, raising my voice as best I could, but I didn't once glance up to the audience.

The chitter chat of their voices stilled as I read. A listening silence emanated from within each person present. I felt them collectively lean toward me. Even though nothing had really changed as I read I relaxed a little. I let the voice of my character take over and no longer did I really feel like myself standing there. I was the character and had a story to tell, a yarn to spin and found a captive audience.

I felt myself step aside from the scene and watched as the people sat in awe of the words coming out of my mouth. It wasn't so much that my story was so well written, or that I was performing it in a way that grabbed their attention. They were simply under the spell of story. My words spun a web and they were delightfully caught in that web.

That feeling was like a drug. It only took that one time and I was hooked. Any chance I got I read to a crowd. My skills improved along with my delight in sharing these stories of mine with others. To see their rapt expressions. To hear their collective caught breath at just the moment I reveal the pearl. I can only describe it as satisfying beyond a meal or the high of drugs. To give that to another is where the magic of storytelling really begins.

Anyway, that's me for tonight. Hope some of the others update their blogs, too.