Writing prompt from Sunday Scribblings.
As a young adult I wanted to perform: music and/or acting. However, I was so shy that when I stood in front of an audience I would freeze up. One time I tried to sing in front of a small audience, which included members of my family. My voice lost its luster and I sounded like a frog croaking.
I confess that it was very hard for me because I burned to perform. I think that is why I love to write. I have an audience, but it is not face-to-face. I don’t even have to think about anyone else while I write.
When I was about nine years old, I would edit my grandfather’s poetry. We used to write back and forth so that I could tell him how his works sounded to me. Many times he would thank me publicly for my help. Even then I would be shy from the attention.
To be born with the need to perform, but to be unable to perform: how can I explain this need without sounding sentimental or corny? To stand before a crowd and feel the adulation … many artists have given their souls, their families, and their very lives for that feeling.
I confess… I confess… give me absolution from my dark need.