THE DOCTOR IS IN

LOU READS

This week, Lou Reed visited my local independent bookstore to publicize his new book, The Raven. Or that was why I assumed he was coming; after having seen him I'm not sure why he was there.

I was admittedly not the target audience for this reading. There was a period in my youth when I thought he was a genius, and I still find much to admire in his songs and his stance. And I'm grateful to him for serving as a gateway to the Beat poets, Rimbaud and WS Burroughs, all of whom provided me with entertainment, inspiration and courage at difficult times in my life. But I'm older and more tired now, and the only reasons I attended the reading were that my friends wanted to go and the bookstore is a quick walk from home. So I was in a good position to observe the audience-author interactions from an outsider perspective.

I have attended many readings in which authors have presented as anxious to please their audiences, going out of their way to respond politely and in detail to such questions as, "What is your favorite color?" and "Why didn't you write about [fill in pet topic]?" I have even attended a reading at which the author was actively hostile to the audience, ridiculing their questions and accusing members of not knowing how to read. But this was my first encounter with a writer who seemed completely indifferent to the other people in the room.

He read in a monotone that was at times difficult to understand, and instructed the employee in charge of the accompanying slideshow to linger on or return to his favorite illustrations so that he could meditate silently on them. He dismissed questions, not with anger or contempt, but simply, apparently, because they did not appeal to him. And although I could not wait to leave, the rest of the audience seemed entranced. (And no, very few people appeared stoned. That was my first thought too.)

I was especially attuned to this because I am scheduled to give two performances this week, neither of which is high-stakes, but about both of which I am extremely nervous. Both my musical theater teacher and a friend who is a professional musician, to whom I have been neurosing ("I know there is nothing to be afraid of--the same way a child knows there aren't monsters under the bed, but doesn't want to turn out the light") insist that nerves are a good thing--that a lack of complacency makes us work harder, and provides that all-important charge between performer and audience.

I'm thinking, too, though, about a wonderful acting teacher who used to tell us, "Don't cater to the audience. When you cater to anyone--a lover, a child, an audience--you lose them. Do what you do based on who you are, and the audience will find you there."

I think there is wisdom in both stances. But I have to admit, I would have appreciated a little nervous energy the other night.

 Susan O'Doherty, Ph.D., is a clinical psychologist with a New York City-based practice. A fiction writer herself, she specializes in issues affecting writers and other creative artists. She is the author of Getting Unstuck without Coming Unglued: A Woman's Guide to Unblocking Creativity (Seal, 2007). Her Career Coach column appears every Monday on Inside Higher Ed's Mama, Ph.D. blog, and she is a regular guest panelist on Litopia After Dark. She can be reached at Dr.Sue at mindspring dot com.