I spoke live on stage; and didn't die.

When I signed up for the Apollo Bay Wordfest ‘Poetry and Pies’ event I was picturing a cute little pub scene, but that wasn’t what I walked into….

Two months ago I asked myself, “who would I be if I wrote a poem, every day for a year?”

That question sparked a little blue notebook and hundreds of words. Most written softly in pencil, some vigorously erased, and others, well, others etched their way into my heart forever.

I never considered myself a poet, I simply wanted to get more intimate with my own process of creativity. A process I had been dipping my toes in and out of my whole life.

So when I stumbled upon an open mic night I was shocked that my body said YES!, even as my mind said HELL NO!

I mean logically speaking, I didn't even think I could do that, I’d been writing poetry for mere weeks, and most of them were only half finished thoughts! To share them, with others, what blasphemy!

Fuck it. That’s what I said to my coach. I have words to share and I’ll be damned if I stop myself from sharing them. Who cares if I mess up, or if no one likes what I have to say. Art isn't supposed to be polished or perfected, it's mean to be shared.

So I drove an hour and forty five minutes. I walked into a room [alone], and what I saw gave me great pause. There was a lectern with a microphone, up on a stage with lighting, oh and roughly 120 people, all sat in neat rows staring up at the stage. This thing felt professional, more than I thought I had any right to be involved in.

Still, I wrote my name on the list of speakers, even as my mind scrambled to get me out - you can’t do this, you’ve never spoke into a microphone, there’s too many people, your poem is too much, don’t embarrass yourself!

I found a seat, and waited. My entire body shook.

They called my name and my heart dropped into my stomach. I whispered ‘oh fuck’ as I got up and walked to the stage.

I wrung my hands behind the lectern, I took a deep breath and I spoke.

No intro, no context, no ‘hi, my name is’ - just me and my words, intimately shared with a room full of strangers.

People clapped. I didn’t die. And when I sat back in my seat, I cried.

I did it.

This one moment, where I decided I was worthy to do the thing that would move the needle in the direction of my desires, was gloriously simple. The world didn’t stop, I didn’t sell a million books, no one asked me for my autograph, nothing changed - externally. It was just me, with my integrity intact and my fellow humans congratulating me. (And to think! I thought going alone meant I wouldn’t be witnessed. How silly of me! I lost count of the amount of people who sought me out afterwards to share a kind word.)

There’s something immensely powerful about making moves quietly, keeping the promises you make to yourself, and showing up when the universe puts something in your path that will stretch you.

So, friends, do the thing, speak the words, share the art.

Even if you’re terrified and your voice shakes (or in my case, even if your whole body shakes).

Do it, and watch what happens.

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Read on to see the poem I recited.

‘that little girl’

how fucking dare you
take that little girl and tear her
down and drag her
through the dust of your own fervour

oh, your fists never touched her
flesh or her face
not how your words
punched and kicked their way

through the trust of those
who were supposed to protect
instead teaching her things
like hate and neglect

well, lucky for her
now that little girl sleeps
safe in the arms 
of a man God keeps

patiently strong
full of grace and heat
that never burn her
the way your weakness did