Breaking Routine

For the last several years, I have opened for David Sedaris on both his spring and his fall tours, selecting about six to eight shows each time. He has generously invited me to do this since about 2018 and I have loved and felt grateful for the opportunity. I’ve appreciated meeting so many people at these shows, lovely Sedaris fans who have purchased my books and been so kind.

I’ve loved the challenge of writing a new essay each spring and fall to hopefully make people laugh. It’s been a centering part of my work life.

But when I got David’s email with the list of shows a couple of weeks ago, I paused. What if I sat this one out, I thought.

(Photo by Vivien Stembridge)

I’m an introvert, maybe the most introverted introvert I’ve ever known. I’m such an introvert that it has been a problem for people close to me. I’m the kind of introvert whose life revolves around scheduled alone time, the kind of introvert who gets squirrelly if left with people for too many hours. Or minutes. And this means that as much as I love opening for David, it takes a lot out of me. People always mention the driving that I do sometimes when I’m opening but the driving is fine. I’ve driven five hours to open, been stuck in traffic for ridiculous stretches, driven home in the middle of the night after long signing lines and none of that bothers me. It’s the socializing. I’m awkward. The signing line is sometimes painful. And I still have butterflies in my stomach when I walk out on the stage. I still imagine myself tripping, my papers flying across the stage.

Once I confessed to my son, Atlas, that my biggest fear was being on stage and turning the page to discover the next one was missing. A whole page of the essay just gone.

“You could just wing it,” he said. “You could just tell that part of the story to the audience and then go on.”

Maybe he could just wing it, I told him, but I was incapable of winging anything. I would freeze and then I would probably need to be carried off the stage. When I am in the wings during a show and David is introducing me, I always flip through my pages, counting them out and making sure they’re in the correct order. It’s the last thing I do before I walk out.

All of this is to explain that I looked at the schedule for this fall and thought maybe I could take a break.

The other part of this decision is that nothing seems funny right now. I thought about what I might write and felt a well of sadness. Had I decided to open, I would have found a way. I would have opened up my show essay notes file, all of the quotes and scenes I’ve jotted down over the last few months and even though the file is sparse, I would have found a way to make it work.

But what if I just allowed myself to say nothing is funny right now and leave it at that. Just for now.

Also, it’s been a lot harder to publish a second book than I thought it would be. I’m working on it and maybe taking the fall off from shows will help.

So I emailed David and told him. I said I’d like to come back in the spring.

Part of me is worried that this is a mistake. I never laugh as hard as I do when I’m in the wings or in the green room listening to David’s new material. And it seems like a bad idea to cancel joy right now.

I’m trying to focus on how nice it will be to stand on a stage in April. I’m going to try not to second guess myself. If you have any tips on moving forward without regret after making a big decision, I’d love to hear it.

Thank you for reading.

I’m going to miss him. (photo by Vivien Stembridge)