Public speaking ranks right up there with snake handling and death on the list of activities that grown men and women most dread. But unlike snake handling and death, public speaking is something that many people want to do-but don't dare to. I know, because folks tell me so.
When I ask people what stops them, I hear one or another "neurotic fantasy"-their words, not mine-about the hazards of facing an audience. ("You'll think I'm crazy, but I have the recurring dream that I'll be up there and suddenly I won't have my lecture notes.")
Of course, these folks are not crazy. I can offer no glib reassurances about the perils of public speaking. In fact, it's clear to me that if you do enough lecturing, your worst "neurotic fantasy" is highly likely to become reality. (For the particulars of my own experience see previous blog and The Dance of Fear.)
Surely we avoid public speaking for the most laudable reasons. Why should anyone with a modicum of humility and good character feel relaxed behind a lectern, having to act like a "know-it-all" or a "top expert" with no loose ends.
Consider my conversation with a colleague, an expert in divorce and re-marriage, contemplating an upcoming public speaking engagement:
She: I can't get up there. I'm terrified. I don't know enough.
Me: Why is that? You've been teaching about this at the university for years.
She: I'm not worried about writing the lecture. It's the question-and-answer period I worry about. Someone might ask me about something I know nothing about.
Me: So, you'll say, "I don't know."
She: But then two more people might ask me something I don't know.
Me: So?
She: So, have you ever heard a public lecture where the expert said, "I don't know," three
Me: Of course not.
The podium has traditionally served as a place for an elite group of men to reflect themselves at twice their natural size-not a place to admit ignorance, confusion or even complexity. To stand on it is to elevate one self above other humans and to pretend to have the answers, even all the answers.
If good men and women are to approach public speaking with a new spirit of enthusiasm, free from drenching perspiration and heart palpitations, this legacy must change. To this end, I have begun to think more positively about my worst moments in public speaking.
"If you can do it, I can do it!" a young graduate student proclaimed after attending a lecture I gave in her city. During this talk I had dropped and broken an expensive laser pointer, a shoulder pad had crept out from under my blouse, and I said, "I don't know" at least twice in response to questions from the audience. I taught her that public speakers are just plain folks. She could do it, too-an insight surely worth the price of admission.
I grew up in Brooklyn, N.Y. not far from Coney Island. I was both terrified and enticed by a ride called the Cyclone, a daunting, high-speed roller coaster. Over several summers, I watched kids about my age get on and off that ride. I stood by as an observer, amazed by their fearlessness.
One day, a particularly sweet-looking boy strapped himself into the first car. When the ride was over, I approached him. "How did you do it?" I asked bluntly. "How did you get over being afraid?"
"You don't get over it," he told me. "You just buy a ticket."
So that's my advice about public speaking. Terrified? Just sign up for the ride. Of course, you also need to show up at the appropriate time. But don't wait until your anxiety or dread is fixed or analyzed away, or you wait too long.
People who seek your services will be far more forgiving of your foibles than they would if you were a brain surgeon or even, say, a concert violinist. Survival is a perfectly reasonable goal to set for yourself the first dozen or so times you face an audience. Consider your worst mistakes as a public service to your sisters and brothers who, in observing your glaring imperfections, will gather the confidence and courage to get on the podium themselves.
And remember to breathe.
