Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I officially love her for all time.
“You’re here to collaborate. Not to audition,” she adds, then sweeps her gaze across the whole class, not singling anyone out as she says, “And it’s okay to be afraid.”
My throat tightens with emotions as I flash back to the time I had to give a speech in my debate class in high school. I’d researched the hell out of the topic, but no amount of research could truly prepare me for the questions portion from the rest of the class. I’d been nervous for the whole week leading up to it. Would I draw a blank? Trip on my words? Would I sound foolish? That morning, I debated with myself – was I too sick to go to school? I was fine, of course. Just nervous.
But then Greta arrived, unexpected, and I answered the door as my father made coffee. She stood there, wild red hair tumbling free, her black flowery scarf tossed casually around her neck since it was always chilly in Maine.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said as I stood in the doorway.
“It’s a good surprise, I hope?”
“Definitely.”
She bent closer, her voice only for me as she said, “I know you’re nervous but it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay, too, if you’re not perfect on stage. And even if you’re not, you’re going to do just fine. And you’re going to tell me all about it when I see you this weekend.” Then she pressed a little charm into my hand. A silver book, like the kind that goes on a necklace. “Here you go. A reminder that it’s okay to be afraid. You’ll get through it.”
She was right. I did get through it. I didn’t fall in love with public speaking. But I survived it. Thanks to those encouraging words from her.
I shake off the fond memory but hold tight to the meaning—it’s okay to be afraid.
Since I suppose I do want to do better at all the things I can’t prepare for. That’s why I’m here. To learn, to grow, to try.
I repeat that mantra till the clammy feeling fades right as the teacher claps her hands, drawing our attention back to her. “Let’s begin. I want all of you to stand up, grab a partner, and get into pairs. Or work with a partner if you came with one. We’ll start with a simple exercise to warm up. It’s called ‘Yes, And…’ This exercise is all about embracing the ideas of your partner and building upon them, no matter how silly or absurd the suggestion may be.”
Curious murmurs ripple through the crowd as she explains the concept a little further. She points to a woman in khaki slacks and a white button-down, then to the man in a polo shirt next to her. “Would you like to start?”
“Sure,” the woman says, with some trepidation in her voice.
It’s okay to be afraid.
I try to send that message to her.
“Great! Don’t worry about sounding perfect. You can be absurd or silly. Goofy or serious. Let’s start. You’re two suburban neighbors competing for the title of ‘Yard of the Month.’”
My brain kicks into high gear as I invent scenarios. Just try to beat my flowers, buddy.
They head to the stage. The man starts off saying his garden with its gurgling fountain is better. She says her flowers grow the tallest. They keep going, layering onto the scenarios to the point where they’re pretending they’re splashing in the fountain with flowers, and I’m wishing for an interpretive dance when it’s my turn.
A little later, the teacher calls us up. It’s okay to be afraid.
With mischief in her smile, she steps closer to the stage, the chime of her ankle bracelet floating through the theater. “You’re two strangers who keep running into each other on the bustling streets of the city. Each time you meet, you start to realize there might be a deeper connection between you.”
Can she read my mind? That was…exactly what I needed.
I look to my scene partner. Wesley gives me a reassuring smile, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. I return the smile, feeling a surge of courage at his side.
“I didn’t see you there,” Wesley begins in a playful tone.
Okay, that’s a softball. Nice and simple. What’s my yes, and? I imagine reading this scene in a book. What would the next line be?
I raise an eyebrow, playing it with some sass. “Well, maybe if you watched where you were going, we wouldn’t keep bumping into each other.”
“Then my days would be less interesting. Wouldn’t yours?” he asks, and it’s a simple question. But it’s also a lifeline—a chance for me to build on what he’s asking.
“Or perhaps you’re just following me around the city for some unknown reason.”
He’s right here with me, offering me another easy response. “Or maybe for a known reason. Like I wanted to see you.”