Speechify. It might surprise some of you that this is an actual word, well defined in the Webster’s Third International, Random House, and American Heritage dictionaries. It goes back to at least the early 1700’s and has been commonly used in America ever since. My North Carolina mountains grandfather used it more than once in my presence. And looking up this word to confirm its legitimacy is just the kind of thing I will do a hundred times between now and that fateful evening when I have to give a speech of sorts to a small gathering (hopefully not too small, but then again, not too large either) of friends and the merely curious who appear at my first ‘reading’ for the novel HOUND. Looking up words and doing ‘research’ has always been a good ploy to avoid harder work–like practicing aloud before a mirror.
The first and last time I ever gave a speech was as best-man at a friends wedding about 20 years ago. I seldom heard from my friend afterward. This worries me greatly now. The approach of this occasion freezes my innards. (‘Innards’ is also a legitimate and underused word which was frequented by my grandfather).
It must be done. People expect something for their money I suppose. Or is it just a matter of manners. If I am so willing to foist my efforts onto the public stage, I should be willing to hoist it into the light—fluorescent or otherwise. It is my own petard after all. In any case, it is the path I have chosen. I suppose J.D. Salinger and Thomas Pynchon gave readings when they first began. Sorry I wasn’t there.
I expect that the audience will be kind. People are generally kind. I have been known to say rude things myself, but never at someone else’s reading. During the first ten years at Avenue Victor Hugo we used to have readings regularly—mostly poetry—but occasionally a novel or memoir, and once a travel log. I vaguely remember the travelog. That person had gone to India I believe. About fifteen people came to the store that night. We sold one book. I was mortified for the author more than myself. But then, I suppose the fact that I don’t remember clearly where they went might be telling.
My knees rattle. I suppose it could be a loss of cartilage. I have been a big walker all my life. But this worries me. I have a weak voice. My father, who trained his voice for the stage, used to try to get me to speak with the full baritone he could muster at will—especially when I had done something wrong. But I have a shallow tenor. And when I attempt dramatic phrasing, my voice comes off its track and words collide in the air.
I have spent much time searching the text of my novel for the right thing to read. After due consideration I have chosen the first chapter. This could have been predicted by an average child. It’s best to start things at the beginning, don’t you know. But I have decided to add a small preface to that. A bit of speechifying. Mostly because I have been asked more than a few times whether Henry Sullivan, the hero of the HOUND, is me in some small disguise. He is not…much.
In addition, I am surprised to find that even people who have known me for twenty or thirty years are unaware of some basic facts about me. Like how mortifying it is for me to stand in front of an audience, however small. I suppose my too frequent expression of opinion in public has led them to assume otherwise. It is true, I am easily lifted by the flow of emotion to say what is better left unsaid. And then, of course, there is that front counter at the old Avenue Victor Hugo Bookshop. It was raised up about a foot above floor level so that the clerk behind the counter—most often myself—could sit and look incoming customers in the eye. This dais left a subconscious impression I am told.
Writing has always been my preferred means of expression. I like the choosing of words and the freedom to edit my own thoughts. My tongue is a poor editor. It stumbles. It mumbles. And it frequently uses words poorly attached to my intended meaning. So I have written my speech to give my tongue guidance and chosen the portion of my novel which might spark some interest in an audience willing to read the rest of the book, and now I must stand in front of the mirror and deliver. Why do I always look back at myself so skeptically?
I can’t go on writing about speechifying. Perhaps there is something else I’ve been meaning to address here as well. Or I can look up ‘necrosis.’ I saw that word listed there beneath ‘mortify’ and I am not yet sure exactly what unpleasant thing it means.
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