I'm not a performer. I've performed, yes, and enjoyed it quite a lot. But my heart does the crazy Ukrainian jig every time I'm in groups anyhow. When I'm in front of groups and they're watching, it's like Reno right now in my chest.
I know this is a surmountable problem, but I'm not in a surmounting place right now, so, hence, not doing the performer thing. Which is sad because writing is sort of not enough when no one's reading it. I'm not purely a paper and pen gal. I want to storytell and the storyteller needs the storytellee. Or, um, the storyhearer? I don't know. Audience. I read some of my work out loud in front of persons in New York, and I liked it because no one nodded off while I was reading, which, honestly, I do. That's my main goal. Don't cause somnia.
In any event slip and slid through the Steve Martin book today. Liked it much more than his weird little novels (no offense, Stevie). I like that he worked his rear end off to get to where he got... but he did get his first gig in writing from having dated the right girl. Sigh. SIGH.
I got an inflatable ball from an auto dealer's booth at the Sherman Oaks Festival a few weeks back. It is one of my nicest non-literary-related possessions.