On Sunday, after a trying morning, I coaxed myself to attend a poetry/short story reading at the Whistler. The bar was warm and friendly, small enough to feel cozy, but large enough to move around. And, as an added bonus, it also has a patio! There are so many hidden gems within my neighborhood, and after Sunday evening, I must add this place to the list.
I have always enjoyed being read to and this was no different. Storytelling is a lost art, a sad relic of a time before television. When stories are read to me I become entranced; the child all comfy in my footed pyjamas waiting breathless for what will happen next resurfaces. I believe the crowd felt something similar...
There is something special about hearing people's work, something they are clearly proud of, being read by them. They know where they wanted certain intonation and tone. They know the color of the story. Without having to question the author, the listener shares in the secrets of the author's thoughts. Some funny, some absurd, some melancholy, but all wholly the author's.
One of the authors reading that night was Davis Schneiderman. He provided us with a taste of his book Drain, a futuristic story about the drying up of Lake Michigan and the colony of peoples that moves in. Sounded to be an interesting read.