Public Speaking for Those Who Turn Red When Nervous – By Barbara DiLorenzo

Several years ago, I won a writing contest and had to read my story in front of a small group. The crowd consisted of people connected to the contest, friends and family. These people were happy for me, yet I was so nervous and unprepared. I had my text, and painted accompanying illustrations–so I thought I was prepared. But I had no experience with public speaking. I was TERRIBLE at it. Not only did I not know how to read a children's story to a group and make it interesting, I turned bright red from being nervous, which I could feel as heat on my cheeks, which only made me more nervous, which made me sweat more while my face got redder. I sped up my reading to just get through it, losing opportunities to connect with the audience.

FUN! 

While I'm sure this reading was painful to watch, I learned so much from this experience. I never wanted to let down a crowd again, so I walked into to my local library and asked if I could volunteer to read during story time. The librarians were happy to have extra help, and allowed me to add a watercolor painting activity at the end of the reading. While that may sound interesting, it was really just a way to add to the program without singing songs to the toddlers. I wasn't ready for that yet. 

I watched the children's librarian for a few sessions, and noted how comfortable she was reading to the kids, gently guiding the children when they bent the rules, and her ease in switching the activity to singing and dancing when they got wiggly. She made it look effortless. I was in awe. By the time I got to run the story time on my own, I felt I was letting the toddlers down somehow, taking away their fun librarian and putting a sad substitute in her place. I smiled a lot to make up for it. But they were probably transfixed by the tomato-red that my face turned when I was nervous.

I volunteered for years, until a move prevented me from being able to show up on a regular basis. But the librarians and some of the families stay in touch. The change in my ability to speak was so gradual, I don't think I really noticed anything for a long time. I teach art classes too, but somehow that feels different. A reading needs to be entertaining to keep little ones in their seats. If you are boring, they walk away. Simple as that. Adults don't do that, and I was used to adults. 

Most introverts that create picture books (whether author, illustrator or both) are content when puttering alone in the studio. Nothing feels better than a full day with the family members off at school and work, and hours to yourself to write or paint or study books. Or just daydream.

But here's the tricky part – when the work you created in your cozy studio is finally published, you will need to emerge from your safe space, and speak to the public. For many of us, this transition can feel awkward. The good news is that like anything else on your road to publication, these skills only need to be practiced to be mastered–or at least functional. None of us could jump right into drawing characters on the first day of holding a pencil. Nor could we make an interesting sentence when first learning to write. We had miles of marks to make before we felt confident. So to, we need to stand up in front of people and talk a lot to make the transition from creative introvert to creative public speaker. 

While there will always be speakers that you compare yourself to, keynotes at conferences that move you to laugh one minute, and cry the next, comparison is not helpful here. Of course studying what works for others can help your speaking experiences flow more smoothly. But resist the temptation to tell yourself that that person was born ready to both write award-winning material AND to wow a crowd. Instead, admire that their style must have evolved over many experiences sharing their work in public. Assume everyone started where you feel you are today. 

Similar to writing or drawing, take steps in this journey. No cutting corners or magic pills. And no hiring look-alikes to deliver your speech for you. (I'm sure the most terrified among us have considered this option.) Volunteer at your local library! No matter what, you will learn something while helping others. 

As I gear up for this school year and hopefully a lot of school visits for RENATO AND THE LION (so much history to talk about!) I find myself practicing again. This time, in front of children ages 5-18 in the ArtsExchange program at the Arts Council of Princeton. While I used to lead art lessons with somewhat of a dry lecture, I'm learning that I can be fun in front of a crowd. The last few lessons, I've encouraged the crowd to participate with me on designing characters and joke with me about what I was demonstrating. Last night, I didn't turn red at all after doing a blind contour drawing of the HomeFront coordinator. I was so happy when the room erupted in laughter when I revealed the funny drawing. And that's when I knew, if I can learn to get a crowd of young folks on my side and make them belly laugh, absolutely anyone can.

Watercolor activity after reading RENATO AND THE LION. Apparently I forgot to give Renato a fidget spinner.

QUINCY watercolor activity after reading the book. Children drew Quincy's thoughts on his skin.

Note my face starting to turn red...

People too polite to just get up and walk away like bored toddlers do. Thank you people!

Less red at the Books of Wonder author panel on July 16, 2017.

RENATO AND THE LION

by Barbara DiLorenzo

Now booking author visits for 2017-2018!

Barbara is represented by Rachel Orr of the Prospect Agency.

Twitter: @wavepaint

Facebook: @BarbaraWillcoxDiLorenzo
www.barbaradilorenzo.com

My Mom - By Barbara DiLorenzo

When I was in ninth grade, influenced by my mother's journey to publication, I made my first picture book dummy. She and I had taken summer courses together at our local art college–Montserrat, in Beverly MA. While she was already skilled in writing and illustration, I was just learning. Those courses lit a fire within her, and I watched her begin to pursue picture book publication. She told me that once a radio personality read her fortune and said she would one day write a children's book. I think that's what she said. Maybe it was someone else's prophetic words that helped her follow through, even when the journey seemed bleak. Bleak to her, anyways. To me, it was a magical journey. I watched her form a critique group with writers–some published, some not. The women who were published had an air of achievement that made them more beautiful to me. Stacks of postcards with her illustrations printed on the front would occasionally collect on the dining room table, addressed to editors and art directors. Magical! And in high school, she brought me to my first SCBWI conference, where I met Jane Yolen and had her sign my sketchbook–a magical moment I will never forget, though I met her again years later.

The only aspect of her journey I didn't enjoy was when she asked my brother, step-father and I to critique her work. I didn't think my opinion should hold much weight as she could clearly draw and write far better than me. She didn't let any of us off the hook when we praised her work–she had to know what needed adjustment. I delicately explored the work, trying to find the line where I was helpful, but not too critical. If she hadn't been persuasive about finding flaws, all of us would have been in awe of her work as it was. I saw firsthand the torturous life of a creative person–even if people around you think your work is awesome, you can never really rest or trust that it is.

Her first book was HURRICANE, written by Corinne Demas. She took photographs of my brother and I around our family's house for illustration reference, and dedicated it to my grandmother, who passed away right before it was published. I was so proud of her accomplishing a lifelong dream. But she went above and beyond–and had a second book contract in no time! She sold her manuscript MINGO, which was illustrated by Bill Farnsworth. She told this story to my brother and I numerous times when we were growing up. Sometimes when we drove by a particular ocean view, she would remind us about the story of Mingo, the slave who was promised his freedom when the tide held back enough for a person to walk out to Aunt Becky's Ledge. It was a haunting story to hear. But to see it in print, incredible. I think that's where my love of combining history with a fictional narrative was born.

I'm not sure why my mother stopped after MINGO. I know she had numerous other stories in various stages of development–some I thought were definitely ready to send out. She had a great story about Van Gogh. I thought she would keep going, but somehow, maybe seeing the other side of being published, she stopped submitting her work. She taught watercolor painting for years, so I don't think author visits would have daunted her. The feedback and reviews were positive, but maybe she was hoping for more. I can understand that–this is the first time I'm facing reviews, and it's a whole new aspect to publishing that I hadn't paid attention to before. And reviews, even glowing ones, can still include words that sting.

I have questions for her, but she and I have had a long history of a troubled relationship. We have not spoken since 2009. Prior to that, there were clumps of years that we didn't speak, interspersed with years that we did. At this point, I think both of us, and our family, feel that somehow the two of us are better off cooly existing in separate worlds. It's lonelier, but it's more peaceful. No one needs their blood pressure raised after so many years of heartache. But. At this point in time, reflecting on the eve of my own books being published, I honor all that my mother taught me. She sat with my brother and I at the kitchen table when we were tiny, and showed us how to sculpt in clay and paint and draw. She was and is talented in so many different mediums. As was her mother, my grandmother, who passed away before she ever got to see her daughter or granddaughter published. Both my mother and my grandmother wanted to go to art school, but were discouraged. Though I applied to six liberal arts schools and only one art school, the day my acceptance to RISD arrived, my mom was the person who cheered me on, and made sure I felt supported in the decision to pursue art. That support dropped away once I moved into my dorm, but that is the nature of our dark relationship.

While I can't change the turmoil of the past, I do honor the good parts. And in my newborn daughter, (a surprise in my life now that I'm 41-years old), I see my mom's blue eyes. And unlike my son, at only two months old, this child stares at the paintings on our walls, and the picture books that I show her. She is fascinated by books and art already–something my son didn't notice until many months later, and with a lot of encouragement. I wonder if she will carry the creative writing and painting spirit that has traveled through the generations of women in my family. My only prayer is that no matter what I teach her, that my mother taught me, that her mother taught her–we remain friends. When my daughter achieves her lifelong dream, I want to be there to celebrate alongside her.

RENATO AND THE LION

by Barbara DiLorenzo

Come by and celebrate on June 25, 2017

From 1-3pm at Books of Wonder

18 W 18th St, New York, NY 10011

Barbara is represented by Rachel Orr of the Prospect Agency.

Twitter: @wavepaint

Facebook: @BarbaraWillcoxDiLorenzo
www.barbaradilorenzo.com

Finding Your Tribe - By Barbara Willcox DiLorenzo

When I'm not working on my own illustrations, I teach art classes at the Arts Council of Princeton. Over the summer, instead of the regular 6-8 week sessions that include adults, I agreed to teach summer camp. Where regular adult classes meet once a week, camp is 5 straight days, with a morning and afternoon session. These are long days, but it's a great way to get to know the artists and help then grow in a short time span.

This week I'm teaching a Character Design camp, which pairs with the afternoon class of Animation (taught by someone else). Yesterday, I was with 15 students for both sessions. Although normally that would make the day hard to get through, these teens (ages 14-16) were eager to tackle any challenge I put in their path. By the end of the day, the gallery walls were covered in truly accomplished drawings of funny, scary, silly and beautiful characters in interesting situations. I was really proud of them. To relish in their accomplishments, we spent the last 20 minutes of the day critiquing work. I praised them as a group for all they had done. I mentioned that they should all keep artistic friends in their life to give them feedback, and help them feel supported as they continue to make art (some students express a desire to pursue art as a career). And then, on instinct, I said, "Because, sometimes, well-meaning people that aren't in the art world, can say an innocent but dumb comment that totally deflates an artist. It has happened to me." I noticed heads turn, and realized, they too, had most likely already encountered this. So I asked. "Who here has had that happen to them?" Half the class raised their hands.

I called on student after student to share, and an unbelievable thing happened. For every, "Geez, that head looks like a pear," or "Your drawing is horrible," –that students shared–the room was filled with murmurs of support. I could feel the connection between these artists build as they shared their stories. After awhile people were laughing at the ridiculousness of those without the ability to constructively criticize. I had to acknowledge the minor miracle of how each and every artist in the room that had been deflated by a flimsy comment, had moved past the sting, and continued with what they love to do. I let them know that this won't be the last time they endure moments like these, but that the secret is to find others of their own tribe, the art tribe, to give honest feedback with the intention of helping the art–and the artist– be even better.

If the students in camp this week learn nothing else, I hope they learn that. After all, in the fall when I return to teach adult classes, I will come across talented artists that admit they let an upsetting comment prevent them from taking themselves seriously as an artist–decades ago. While art is something any age can excel at, it always breaks my heart to hear these stories. No one should set aside their creative selves based on outside judgements, opinions that are usually not articulate enough to encourage the artist while giving something substantial to make it better.

So if you come across someone that seems on the fence about their creative work, welcome them into the art tribe. There's room at the table for everyone.