I am unaccustomed to public speaking. Even the simplest public address takes its toll. The very act of standing up before a sea of silent anticipation, even if that sea is a tiny inlet of family and friends, has the effect of letting all the carefully prepared words, that are stored in my head, drain down and out through my body so quickly that I am only able to catch a random mouthful, spit them out and sit down again.
I am also unaccustomed to public writing yet, because there is no roar of the crowd, the smell of the greasepaint attracts me. I can fashion written words like the elements of a picture. The stuttering uncertainty of the first moments are hidden behind a screen of fluency. Pity the speaker, standing silent before his audience, who suddenly realises the weakness of the words starting to spill from his mouth, mentally edits them, loses all known vocabulary whilst simultaneously confirming, from the dampness of his brow and his sodden shirt, that the human body is composed nearly entirely of water and his audience entirely of detractors.
The writer sits alone, atop of a pile of crumpled sheets of rejected thoughts watched by an impatient and critical audience of one – himself: but he can sit there in his underpants, eating a plate of buffalo mozzarella with tomatoes and olives which would be impressive, but less acceptable, in a public speaker. And it’s very PC – Phucking Comfortable.