I'm used to trying and failing. It's not even really a badge of honor anymore; it's the mustard stain on my tshirt during a lapse-of-judgement-street-food-evening. I expect it. I wouldn't know what to do if I didn't have it.
I went to Beaverdale Books this evening to do a reading for the Season of Story. I was up first. I'd typed everything on an 8.5x11 piece of paper, folded it, and read aloud. What a clod. Honestly, if I have a superpower, it's completely misunderstanding things. When I go to a deli, I can't spit my order out before they pass me over for someone else. When I go to a buffet, I only eat one thing. When I try to run my snowblower, I leave the choke on the entire time. And when I attend a storytelling function, I bring a typed piece of paper. I am the proto-rube. The mythical Ignoramus.
So storytelling involves more than reading from a paper. One should be engaging the audience, spinning a tale before them, using hand motions and sound effects. The kind of thing Uncle Randy does when he's had five too many whiskey sours. The whole family gathers round him to hear about his latest disgusting exploit because he tells such a damn good story. Some people are BORN storytellers. Christ, I'M a born storyteller. You'd think I would have had this in the bag.
So out of maybe six contestants, I didn't place. The 16 year old girl who told a story about why she loves cats more than boys won 2nd. Second. Rhymes with fecund. Huh...
I'll get back on the horse, though. Everyone has given up pointing out my mustards stains, and I refuse to buy new shirts. These are still comfortable. And so is coming in last. When you're in last place, you get to watch everyone else's hot ass shake. Booyah.