Notes from the Road pt. 1

Runnin' down a dream of talking loudly in libraries

I finally quit lying to myself about what I wanted to do with my life 18 months ago. That’s when I turned down a scholarship into Tulane’s MSW program and decided instead to hurl myself into being a storyteller, of all things. And not only was I gonna do this, but I only had about a year and a half to make it work before my financial foundation fell away, and I’d have to succumb to something sensible and steady… y’know, like being a therapist. Anyway, I’d gone to some workshops through the NC Storytelling Guild, and then I won a contest at a big deal storytelling festival and took it as a Sign that this was The Path Forward. Eh, good enough.

I knew comedy clubs weren’t my scene; I didn’t want to just do observational stuff and I also knew my skin wasn’t thick enough for the “Fuck you, make me laugh” atmosphere of open mics. I knew I was working through a lot of trauma from being constantly told I was too loud/fat/unfunny/female/dramatic/annoying since I was a loudmouthed kindergartner doing bits on the playground, and, to find my rhythm in front of audiences, I needed somewhere safe. Sober. Sunshine-y. Somewhere like libraries.

Last summer, I crafted a couple one-hour shows of stories I’ve heard my whole life, and pitched them to libraries at bargain-basement prices just to help me practice being in front of people, find my voice. etc. I did about 12 shows around the state over the summer, sometimes to rooms of 30 people, but usually to less. A couple times, I arrived in remote, rural libraries and just sat with the sole librarian on duty, swapping stories until it was time to move on. I wasn’t getting paid much, but I loved the work: I loved meeting folks in pockets of the state I hadn’t visited and learning their local history. In Statesville, the small group was excited to tell me about Pastor Bobby Henderson who taught all the kids at Vacation Bible School about the Kangaroo Man of Allison Woods. In Southern Pines, the younger sister of a childhood best friend brought her children and I had to choke back tears when I recognized her loudly in front of the group. Every time I got out of an event, I felt alive and inspired, buzzing in a way I didn’t know I could without a dealer.

In an attempt to rehearse, I also finally took my friends’ advice and started CrEaTiNg CoNtEnt, something I honestly never thought I’d fall into. For the last decade, I’ve cringed when my friends have suggested “just put your face on Tiktok and start talking.” I mean, I have a few content creators I really admire, but most of influencer culture has felt vapid to me -a bunch of heavily-filtered folks screaming endless hot takes, trying to sell something, repeating the same viral trends way past when they stopped being funny. And also, I know that the numbers don’t mean much as far as real life audiences sometimes; if it all fell away, would I have wasted my energy?
My entire mindset changed when my teenager - a passionate student of anthropology - observed that social media has become a “digital campfire”, a place where folks convene at the end of the day to share stories, snippets of our lives, etc. Turns out, that was the reframe I needed to just give it a try. Just for practice.

Anyway, after a year of doing this daily, I hit the road again. My follower count has grown exponentially, but I know that doesn’t equate to real audiences; hell, many of these followers could be bots or trolls or you know.. just people who want to watch me while they’re scrolling on the toilet and then forget I exist by the time they’re flushing. It happens.

In April, I was surprised to find that my show at Pack Library in Asheville was… well, packed. The performance space was almost to capacity, which was thrilling and unexpected. Another childhood friend made an appearance and folks lined up for signed copies of my book about a town nobody’s heard of. It felt special, but surely anomalous…right?

So last week, I set out on my first library tour of the year hoping for just a nice time. I was to do five libraries in two days with a day-long break and then another two libraries up in the mountains. This seemed like a fine pace; I was doing these types of gigs no sweat last year. It’s a summer reading tour in libraries, after all. Should be chill.

WEDNESDAY

10 AM
High Point Library.

I leave the house at 7 AM to be in High Point by 9. I assume this will be the most easygoing of the stops - the room is set up for 50 people and besides, it’s 10 AM on a Wednesday - I’m expecting a handful of book clubbers and that’s about it.

By 9:45 there are folks sitting on the floor, along the walls, being turned away. I talk for an hour and a half, loudly, with no mic. (Thank God for this booming voice of mine.)
My audience has stories of their own. One gal has brought literature about how High Point was known as “Little Chicago” at one point because a clothing store named Wright’s used to provide couture to elite mafiosi in an atmosphere away from fed surveillance. Later, I’m discussing the Love Valley Thing, a 1970 music festival held in a faux Wild West town built in Iredell county when a gentleman interrupts from the back “‘Scuse me, I hate to interrupt, but I just have to say that I was there!” This is when another gentleman on the front row turns around and shouts back, “Hey there, Earl!” The two went to high school together. Both were at the rock festival and the one on the front row tells us how he worked to help put together the 30-day festival and was paid only in weed and three meals a day. These are the types of interactions that light me up.

I sell out of all the books I’ve brought with me on the road immediately. A kind couple who stops for an autograph (!??!!??!) asks if I’d like to join them for lunch. They treat me to barbecue at a place called Sweet Old Bill’s before I hit the road.

3 PM
N. Davidson Library

This small branch is in Welcome, NC, and the librarians are kind enough to let me sit in the back room before the show to decompress on a sofa covered in 90’s style tapestry fabric with a library-book print. When I get to the performance space, a gal is already there, with a dozen eggs she’s brought from her farm as a gift. I’ve already been given a few gifts today - some handmade and some thoughtfully purchased - but I’m consistently floored. I worry that my reactions are too gigantic. I worry that all this seems like braggadoccia. I’m just full of gratitude and wonder. I can’t imagine a day where this wears off.

She tells me that she tried to get into the first show but couldn’t make it, so she drove to this one. Another woman who was at my first show arrives and sits on the second row. “Oh my god,” I pose. “Do I have groupies?!” They nod. I am stunned. “Do we need to think of a name for y’all?!?” This is wonderfully surreal.

None of it seems possible, really. I was always told not to talk loudly in libraries and here I am talking very, very loudly in a series of them. I was always told I talk too much or too loudly, that “nobody wants to hear you”, and furthermore “nobody cares.”
Turns out, none of that shit is true. I wonder what other nonsense I’ve been told that I held onto for too long.

I talk here for an hour-and-twenty and then apologize profusely as I sprint out the door. I have thirty-ish minutes to fight my way through the city’s rush hour.

6:30 PM
Forsyth County Public Library
Winston-Salem

This library is enormous - three stories tall with gorgeous atrium spaces and suspended walkways. At 5:15 I park on the street out front and walk into a lobby swarming with people.
‘Oh neat! A busy library! Good for them!’ I think.
A security guard recognizes me immediately and escorts me past a sprawling line into a full lecture hall where an AV team is setting up multiple cameras. There are about 300 people here. Many look at me excitedly.
’…Ohmygod.’ It hits me. I’ve had dreams like this. ‘They’re here for me.’
A kind-faced woman comes up and introduces herself to me, telling me I’ll be getting set up with another smiling gentleman while they’re setting up overflow rooms where folks can watch me through livestreams.

This is when my system goes offline. Sometimes I get too excited or overwhelmed or overstimulated, and my brain goes on autopilot. It started when I was a kid; sometimes in the midst of surreal overstimulation, I enter a strange dreamlike state that never arrives conveniently.

I don’t remember if I guffawed “Holy shit WHAT?!” or if I acted like a professional to this kind lady running around frantically on my behalf. I remember pulling my laptop out of my bag and connecting it to the projector in front of a few hundred folks. I remember chatting with the audience and telling a few family stories while the team was setting up, just before the kind gal came to tell me that they were at capacity and needed to turn folks away. I don’t remember what my face did in that moment. I remember talking for an hour and a half, and sometimes coming back online in the middle of this third performance of the day, the same way you sort of “wake up” halfway through your drive home, wondering how you got so far along and if you’ve missed a turn. I remember sitting and smiling at the line of people who were happy to accept a signed bookplate in lieu of a book and then doing an interview with Library NC who were there to watch. I remember gushing at them like a fangirl, telling them how much of a fan I am. I remember going to dinner with a team from WFDD, the public radio station in the area, who brought me a giant bag of swag and were excited that I’m coming to be part of their fall programming. And I remember, an hour later, falling in the door of an 80’s-themed AirBnb where I was invited to stay overnight. I remember playing Tetris on an old tube TV well into the night, my eyes glazed over as I took deep breaths and tried to return to my body.