Public Speaking: A Necessary Evil

First School Visit - 2000

“According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two? Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.” ~Jerry Seinfeld


Unless you're name is J.K. Rawlings, or Stephen King, and you get a huge advance and sell millions of books, there isn't much money in having a book published. That's so important that I'm going to say it again. There isn't much money in having a book published. Your royalties are merely a pittance.

Add to that the fact that you only get a royalty check two to three times a year, and you can quickly see why most writers and authors don't give up their day jobs.

I've met a lot of authors through various writers' groups and communities, writing conferences, book signings, readings, and other writing venues. Every author that I've met agrees: the real money lies in the speaking engagements. That's what you, as an author/writer, should be doing if you want to make any money with your writing.

That is, unless you're content to merely pass out your books to friends and relatives, or are equally content just see your name printed on a book. Don't laugh, you would be surprised at the number of authors I've met who feel exactly that way. That's enough for them. Period. They want nothing to do with publicity, or speaking to any size group of people.

"But, but, but", you say. "I want to make money. I just can't get up in front of people and talk. I'm too shy!"

First off, let me assure you, there is no one reading this article who is, or was, any more terrified of public speaking than I was.

When I was a child, I was so shy that I would cross a street because I saw someone I knew in the distance walking towards me. I was so afraid I might have to say 'hello' that I bolted. As the years passed, that fear did get a little better, but I digress ...

When my first book of children's poetry was published in 2000, I was living in New Hampshire. The press releases went out to newspapers all around the country and, of course, it was also in our own local papers.

As a result, for my first paid public appearance, I had been invited to speak to a Parent Teacher Association (PTA) group in an auditorium on the evening before my very first school visit at a large local elementary school.

I was excited to have been invited. I was even more excited that I was going to be paid for it. But, neither of those things mattered, once I peeked through the curtains from backstage and saw the packed auditorium.  I had a total meltdown. I was more terrified than I had ever been in my life.

Then someone said something that turned everything around. This is what I want to share with you. I think it will help to put things in a different perspective for you, just as it did for me.

After peeking through the curtain from backstage, I ran to the ladies room and threw up. After my second trip to the ladies room for the same reason, my husband (at the time) asked me how I was doing.

I told him there was no way I was ever going to be able to speak to that huge group of people. I said I was going to back out, give the people in charge my apologies, and then go home where I belonged.

I told him, for one thing, there was so much combined education sitting out there in that auditorium that even Einstein would feel outclassed. Who the heck was I? What possessed me to think I had anything worthwhile to say to a group of educators, let alone the parents, whose children I would be speaking to the next day?

My husband gripped my shoulders firmly. He lifted my face up to his by my chin, looked me squarely in the eye, and told me I could do this. He said anyone can speak to a group of people, no matter how large the friggin' group is, if they are the expert on the subject they're going to talk about.

He said, "Cath', you wrote the damned book! You are the expert on your book! And I'll tell you something else. You're worried about all of the combined education 'out there'. Well let's get something else straight. You've done something that none of them have done. You wrote a book, found a publisher, and you're a children's book author.

You're looking at it ass-backwards! You envy their combined education and college degrees. Well, Lady, they envy your writing talent, your determination, and what you've accomplished.  Now, BUCK UP!  Get out there, put a smile on your face, and be the expert you are and talk about your book!"

It was amazing, suddenly seeing it from a new perspective. I honestly did an about-face in how I saw things from that minute on.

I took a deep breath and walked out onto the stage as I was being introduced.  I could feel the adrenalin start to pump. I put a smile on my face and, as I looked out into that sea of faces, I saw that they were smiling, too.

I had never had so much fun as I did the night I spoke to that PTA group. Now I love public speaking and, somewhere along the way in the years I've been doing it, I've found that I'm even somewhat of a ham, especially with the groups of children during my school visits and poetry workshops.

There's only one downside to it. The adrenalin rush is incredibly addicting and it isn't long before you start to crave your next speaking engagement.

If this article has helped even one other person get over their fear of public speaking, then it was worth it. I want all of you to feel the same rush that comes from talking about your book or your writing.

Don't forget, YOU ARE the expert.

Oh, and smile!  It's a tremendous ice-breaker with a crowd.

I wish you success!
~CJ



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Open Mouth, Change Feet

Lisa "Picker"

"Be sure brain is in gear, before putting mouth in motion." (Author Unknown)


Until just a few minutes ago, I didn't know what I was going to write about today. But things change, and very fast, sometimes.

I was swapping funny stories with a friend this morning and we were having a good laugh at his most embarrassing moment, which happened when he was in the Navy.

He then asked me what my most embarrassing moment was.  (At my age, I have had a few) ... and I remembered this doozy.

This was years ago, when we lived in Indiana, and my three daughters were six, eight, and ten.

We had this little neighbor girl who always came over wanting to play. She was nice and always well-behaved -- and her mother was the head of the PTA at the same elementary school where my youngest daughter went to school.

There was one problem. Lisa always had a runny nose and one of her fingers up there, mining for I don't know what ...

Needless to say, her visits were not looked on favorably by my girls and they had a secret nickname for her ... as in, "Oh no, Mommy, here comes Lisa 'picker'.  Mommeee, please tell her we're not home."

I assured them they didn't have to play all day with Lisa, but they were not going to be rude to her, either. She was a nice little girl, even though she was a bit different. I told them they would be nice to her and reminded them that they might be the only ones who were nice to Lisa all day -- and that was important.

(To be honest, I could hardly blame them, because her visits had become a daily ritual).  I tried to help as best I could while Lisa was there, by putting a box of Kleenex near where they were playing.

Then one evening, I had to go to my youngest daughter's school for a PTA meeting. After the meeting, I was talking with several other mothers at the refreshment table.

Suddenly, greeting me warmly at my elbow, was Lisa's mother, the head of the PTA.  The other mothers were waiting for an introduction, since we obviously knew each other.

I started to introduce her to the others, "Ladies, I would like you to meet Jane...Puh--Puh..." I stopped, horrified.  Oh no!  All I could think of was 'picker!'  Crap, what was her real last name?  My mind was racing, trying hard to remember, but the name was gone.

The blank look on my face must have given me away, because Jane kindly broke the uncomfortable silence by graciously holding out her hand and saying, "Hello, I'm Jane Palmer. I'm so glad to see all of you here."

To protect myself from further embarrassment, the names were changed to share this story ... open mouth, change feet.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

To a Homeless Man:

Homeless Man - But for the Grace of God, go I

“Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.” ― 14th Dalai Lama, [The Art of Happiness]

To a Homeless Man:

Homeless man,
I watched as you
lined a deserted doorway
with Maytag boxes. 

Like stark cardboard monuments,
their Fed Ex labels
and signs point 'This Side Up',
sad reminders of what is,

...and what could be,
but for the Grace of God.

I wondered,
if I wished
hard enough,
a Fed Ex truck
might spirit you away
on a magic carpet ride

to a place where you
wouldn't be invisible
for those who take the time
to look and really see,

to a place where someone
would offer you a job
with no Catch 22,

first telling you to shower
and wear clean clothes

for an interview

and you with no money 

for either, 

without a job.

I wished and I prayed.
But for the Grace of God, go I.

[From the book, "Anatomy of a Poet", by CJ Heck]

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Children's Poem: Windows in Heaven

Windows in Heaven ...

Years ago, a woman contacted me through email. She told me her husband had recently passed away and her five-year-old son was having a difficult time accepting his father's death.

The boy couldn't understand why his daddy would go away without saying good-bye. She said he even wondered if he had done something wrong.

She told me she had been to my website and searched for something, anything, that had to do with a father dying, but she could find nothing.

I told the woman I was sorry, but I didn't have any poems that addressed the issue, but I would try and write one for her.

So, from a child's point of view:

Windows in Heaven

I know sometimes that clouds bring rain,
in wintertime it's snow,
and spring is good because it makes
the pretty flowers grow.

I know that God is everywhere
and angels all have wings,
that dogs can't talk and bunnies hop
I know so many things.

But why do daddies go away?
It makes kids and mommies sad.
Are there windows up in heaven?
Did I do something bad?

Mommy said it's not like that.
Children all are good.
Sometimes daddies just can't stay,
even though we wish they could.

She said Daddy loved me most of all,
not to think he didn't care,
... and he sees me from the windows.
God just needs him more up there.



[From "Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)" by CJ Heck] 

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Circle of Life

The Circle of Life

I was having my coffee this morning and thinking about my grandchildren.  I have eleven now, from sixteen all the way down to seven months.

I find it fascinating, how children go through so many age-specific stages, beginning with the "terrible twos". Then, from about four on, everything in their world is either black, or white. 

There is no grey area, where things can fall somewhere in between. I'm not sure when the grey area develops, only that somewhere along the road to growing up, it always does.

To a child, there is only right or wrong, good or bad, funny or not funny, nice or not nice, and the kids at school are either friends, or bullies. 

A bad guy is ... a BAD guy, and a bad guy does things that are wrong. Dad is a good guy, because he does things that are right. A mom is another good guy, and so are policemen, mail carriers, doctors, and that nice Mrs. Johnson next door, because she bakes cookies and shares them.

Their view of what's funny is unique, too.  Being teased is not funny, if they feel they are being picked on.  But when someone says 'fart', or 'butt', that is funny.  Even something we adults consider not at all funny, can be very funny to a child -- like, blowing up a marshmallow in the microwave.  You'll know who did it, because the child will be laughing [or trying not to].

Nothing ever smells, or tastes, 'okay' to a child. Again, there's no grey area.  Gasoline and flowers smell good, and feet and swiss cheese smell bad. Brussel sprouts and black jelly beans are 'yukky', but a piece of chocolate cake? As my nephew used to say, "I could make a whole meal outta that."

I think pretending is what comes, just before the grey area begins.  Then life just naturally expands beyond the black and white. 

We learn our parents aren't perfect, teachers don't have all the answers, and our friend will be hurt if we tell him his feet stink. 

Our tastes change, the little mysteries of life are solved, and we find a lot of our questions can be answered by an encyclopedia, or our friends.   

As our view of the world further expands, we shed our childhood innocence. We pretend less and less and enter into the maturity of the grey area, where we stay through all our adult years. 

I was thinking, too, when you get to be my age, everything suddenly turns around.  Ironically, things seem to be heading back to black and white and pretending again.  

Being old and getting wrinkles is bad.  Life, love, children and grandchildren are all good.  And pretending?  Well, I'm pretending I'm going to win the lottery ...



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Cranky Old Man

Old Man - Young Soul

This was written by an old man living in a nursing home.  It was found among his personal things by the staff, after he had passed away.

The next time you meet an older person, think about the still young soul that still lives down inside of them.

The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched. They must be felt by the heart.

Cranky Old Man

[Author Unknown]

What do you see, nurses? What do you see?

What are you thinking when you're looking at me?

A cranky old man, not very wise,

uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes,

who dribbles his food and makes no reply?

When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!

Who seems not to notice the things that you do,

and forever is losing a sock or a shoe?

Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,

with bathing and feeding.  The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?  Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse, you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still,

as I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten, with a father and mother,

brothers and sisters, who love one another;

a young boy of sixteen with wings on his feet

dreaming that soon now a lover he'll meet.

A groom soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap.

Remembering, the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five, now, I have young of my own,

who need me to guide and a secure happy home.

A man of thirty, my young now grown fast,

bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,

with my woman beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,

again, we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me.  My wife is now dead.

I look at the future and I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing young of their own.

and I think of the years and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man and nature is cruel.

It's jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor, depart.

There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass. a young man still dwells,

And now and again my battered heart swells

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

and I'm loving and living life over again.

I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,

and accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people, open and see

I'm not a cranky old man.

Look closer.  See ME.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Melissa Venema: Il Silenzio

In Honor of Memorial Day 2014

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Freedom is Not Free

Eagle Bowing in Reverence

Freedom Is Not Free

by Kelly Strong

I watched the flag pass by one day.

It fluttered in the breeze.

A young Marine saluted it,

and then he stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform

So young, so tall, so proud,

With hair cut square and eyes alert,

He'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought how many men like him

Had fallen through the years.

How many died on foreign soil?

How many mothers' tears?

How many pilots' planes shot down?

How many died at sea?

How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?

No, freedom isn't free.

I heard the sound of TAPS one night,

When everything was still

I listened to the bugler play

And felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times

That TAPS had meant "Amen,"

When a flag had draped a coffin

Of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,

Of the mothers and the wives,

Of fathers, sons and husbands

With interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard

At the bottom of the sea

Of unmarked graves in Arlington.

No ... freedom isn't free.

About The Author

This poem is important to Kelly Strong because he wrote it as a high school senior (JROTC cadet) at Homestead High, Homestead, FL. in 1981. It is a tribute to his father, a career marine who served two tours in Vietnam.

Kelly is now an active duty Coast Guard pilot living in Mobile and serving at the US Coast Guard Aviation Training Center. He has three kids and a great wife, Najwa, who just completed work at the Miami VA clinic as a physical therapist.

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck