I recently had the opportunity to read one of my stories, "Skittish," as part of the Peninsula Literary Series.
I was especially glad to be asked because the first time I read the story out loud, in the basement of a small bar in San Francisco, it was a disaster. Live band upstairs. No microphone downstairs.
This would be different. This would be in a quiet art gallery in Palo Alto. Nothing to it.
But noooo ...
I was interrupted, time and again, by someone with a dry hacking cough—a cough that kept getting worse.
I swear I could barely get through three paragraphs before it would start up again ...
The fact that the person coughing was me only made matters worse.