He was flabbergasted, or whatever 15 year old kid equivalent is to flabbergasted.
"I
was going slow!"
Ah, but to us, out here, you were not.
So we explained to him about ones' tendency to read fast, and how you need to slow it down to what may seem a ridiculous amount, for your audience to be able to process everything you're saying.
And he had a lot of cool shit to say. And had put a lot of work into what was on the page in front of him. People
needed to be able to hear it, to process it.
I had looked at what he had prepared, along with 1/2 dozen or so others. in advance of them being read aloud.
Every single one of them looked like a solid block of words, no breaks, no paragraphs, no spots... for breathing. The kind of writing that my lazy, aging brain balks at.
"I don't wanna have to read this, and figure out where to insert commas and paragraph breaks and ellipses. "
Oh, brain. Quit your
whining. And no more crossing your arms and stomping your feet. Grow up.
It's why I would suck at being an editor. I don't want to read anything that's in need of actual editing.
He read it from the podium again, slowing it down
just enough.
"That sounded really funny to me." he remarked, upon finishing.
Ah, but it only sounded funny in your head.
Growing up, my brain would frequently be moving so fast that my mouth couldn't keep up, and words would stumble over one another on their way out, to none's benefit.
So I slowed down. I became unnaturally (for me at the time) deliberate in my speech, so that others could hear and process what I was saying. It only sounded funny in my head for a bit. People could understand me more consistently, but I often was afraid that I'd lose my train of thought trying to play catch up with my brain.
I know this was going somewhere, when I started the sentence... huh.
Next it was stagecraft. Blocking. I think we used to call it cheating. Cheat a little bit upstage, cheat a bit to the left when... The crazy kids thought they should interact with one another in a natural manner, facing one another to speak... crazy stuff like that.
Crash course in trying to look natural to people watching you, when it feels completely unnatural.
Turn your bodies away from each other, aim them to the front, just turn your heads to interact with one another. And for gods' sake, never turn your back on your audience.
It only feels funny in your head.
Life's hard like that.
Behaving in ways that don't seem genuine to you, because of to whom you're trying to communicate.
The idea that
what you say or what you write isn't, by itself, enough, no matter how good it might be. The idea of catering message to audience.
The kids don't realize that on some levels, they've already been doing that, even if not by name.
That's the nature of any effective communication you hope to have for the rest of your life.
Understanding your audience.
The notion that folks are going to be watching what you do with your body when you're interacting with others, and might lose interest and connection, if you do something that is seemingly insignificant.
the idea that the worst thing you could do is to turn your back on those with whom your trying to connect.
Life
is hard like that.
I suggested to a couple of them that if they were going to go home and do a bit of editing anyhow, to write the whole thing out like they were going to read it. Spread it out. Space it out. Use larger type. That densely packed 1/3 of a page... turn it into two pages. Don't worry how weird it looks.
Because you're going to look up for second, and when you look back down, you'll have to find your place again, and everyone will be watching, and the time it takes to get back on track will feel like tortuous forever.
Even if it only seems like tortuous forever in your head.
So that was my evening, helping 1/2 dozen kids work through a sunday service that they were responsible for totally planning out and, in 36 hours, executing.
Perhaps it was only profound in my head.
