On camera

There are certain perks to a career in newspapers. For starters, you can always depend on an inexhaustible supply of fish wrap, packing material and papier mâché. But the real reason most of us writer types have settled into a life in print is the fact that we are horribly and deathly terrified of public speaking. I guess you could call us the weenies of the media world. Sure, we may put our names out there on a daily basis, but we get to hide behind our keyboards, our faces remaining anonymous. (OK, I know there are a few columnists who break with this tradition by running a “mug shot,” but it’s a little-known fact these are really professional models. For example, few people know that Dave Berry is actually a little old lady from Yonkers.)

And, as anyone who has ever peered behind the curtain into the disappointingly drab members of a newsroom knows, we writers shun the limelight with good reason.

See, most of us started out secretly wanting a career in broadcast media. Unfortunately, this realm is reserved only for the select, lucky few – those with straight teeth, perfect hair (or any hair for that matter) and the uncanny ability to accessorize. The rest of us – you know, the ones who buy Clearasil in bulk and find it hard to get dressed without the aid of Garanimals – were shepherded early in our careers away from lives in front of cameras to ones sitting behind keyboards.

This would explain why most press conventions contain more polyester than Neil Diamond’s wardrobe. Furthermore, the mere thought of public speaking produces stammering, cold sweats, hemming and hawing, nervous twitches and extreme dry mouth among us. Ask us to write on any topic, and we can wax on for hours. Put us on stage with a microphone, and we clam up like a rusty old steel trap. Remember when Cindy Brady became hypnotized by the red light and stood there like a complete dummy on national television? That’s my worst fear. In fact, I became so tongue tied during a toast at my sister’s wedding that I was nearly disowned by my family.

Fortunately, over the years I have come to accept and even embrace this fate. And I have become quite good at avoiding such awkward situations by shirking any and all public speaking. However, occasionally I must make an exception to this rule – as was the case with a recent appearance at a City Council meeting, where I agreed to speak as a favor to friends and neighbors. Some of you may have seen this appearance live, as it painfully unfolded like a train wreck (no pun intended). And if you missed it, don’t worry. It is now being played in perpetuity on City Span. Seeing as how I am currently TV-less, I have not viewed my disastrous television debut and was hoping it might quietly be forgotten like a bad nightmare. However, it seems a good many folks do have TV and actually have nothing better to do than watch reruns of City

Council meetings. And they have spared no detail in critiquing my performance.

In the interest of damage control, allow me to recap that fateful evening’s dastardly events, starting with the disclaimer that I was extremely ill-prepared and suffering from severe sleep deprivation. However, flying blindly in the face of reason has never stopped me before. And, buoyed by the eloquence of my predecessors on the podium, I soon found myself getting up from my seat and approaching the stand. But before I could utter a single word, black and pink spots clouded my vision and I grew feverish. My hands went cold and limp like two dead fish, and I developed an uncontrollable bottom-lip quiver. To top it off, my vocal cords seized up, resulting in an unfamiliar voice, not unlike Tiny Tim’s. It was at precisely this time that I left my body and started speaking in tongues – which would explain the perplexed looks on the councilors’ faces when I finally regained control of the senseless noise coming from my mouth. But by then it was too late. I decided to cut my losses before they came after me with the cane and abruptly ran back to my seat.

All this and my butt probably looked big, too.

It took several hours for my heart rate to return to normal and at least a week for the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach to subside. A week or so later, once I thought it was safe to go out in public again, someone on the street once more reminded me why I shouldn’t quit my day job. I began to apologize profusely for my buffoonery, pointing out that public speaking was not my forte. I was about to add that I also suspected I had been the victim of a drive-by acid dosing, when he cut in.

“Hey, man, all that matters is that you socked it to the man,” he said.

And for the first time, I remembered why I had gone through with it in the first place. OK, so maybe it was more of a wiff than an actual “sock.” But the fact was, I overcame my fears for a few moments to step up to the mic and make myself heard – thereby participating in one of the most basic and empowering parts of the American democratic process. Somehow I doubt this will lead to a lucrative career on the talk show circuit – I’ll take the comfort of my office chair, thank you very much. But every now and again, it is good to get out and stretch the legs and stand up for yourself.

– Missy Votel