On performance

Back when the future of humanity didn’t feel so utterly terrifying, I used to play musical saw and ukulele in a couple of bands. I invariably performed in a fairly intoxicated state which stemmed from wanting to numb the nerves. Being on stage was terrifying and exciting in equal measure. I liked dressing up and laughing and being part of a band of funny and interesting people. And I liked showing off and the buzz of the performance and the massive ego boost of people coming up afterwards and saying they’d enjoyed the gig. But boozing it up in order to have enough courage to get on stage didn’t feel great, especially when I forgot the chords or the lyrics or left my saw on the bus.

Photograph by Jack Thurston

Then I stopped performing to have kids, and I didn’t miss it. Very occasionally I’d be persuaded back onto stage to play a bit of saw. Wanting to do a good job but feeling very out of practice, I would get increasingly nervous beforehand. And then it got to the point that I just dreaded being asked to play because the nerves were overwhelming and ruined the fun.

And then I started making books, which I found a much gentler ego massage: all the work is done in private and only sees the light of day when it’s been polished. But then I realised that there’s an expectation to do book events, and that means performing.

My first ever public book event was very friendly but I couldn’t stop myself from having an attack of major self doubt half way through my reading. I hope I disguised it but I had a performance hangover for weeks. I felt I should put myself on some sort of public speaking training course (I actually did one of those years ago and was told that I jump about too much and it makes my earrings jiggle which is offputting).

My second event was in front of 200 tiny children in a school. My editor came for moral support which was brilliant. And I had props including an air canon which I used to blast Invisible Dog Poo smell at the kids. I did spend most of the time on stage thinking “I’m totally unqualified to be here”, but I felt like with a bit more practice I might start to enjoy myself.

Some months later I was booked to do four readings in one day, each followed by a workshop in which the children made invisible matchbox pets (the matchboxes were my brilliant publicist Emma O’Donovan’s idea). As I warmed up over the day I gained confidence, and I noticed that the more I enjoyed reading my book the more books would sell at the end of the event. The whole point of these things is to sell books, but more importantly, if people buy the book it’s because they think it’s worth spending money on, and that’s the biggest vote of confidence you can hope for.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve done three assemblies in two schools, one bookshop and the wonderful Discover Children’s Story Centre in Stratford where, at the end of the reading a little girl came up and silently hugged my leg, which was an honour, and after that a little boy ran up and shouted “SORRY!”. His mum rushed over and said “not sorry, say THANK YOU!” And I realised that I really was enjoying myself. I can tell by how far apart my feet are. It’s my mega power stance!

Maybe the best way to cope with the scariness of the world is to do a bit more singing and laughing and mucking about with lovely people… Do you think there are enough musical illustrators around to form a band?