A First Time for Everything

Then there are the other, terrifying, stomach-churning firsts, the public side of being a writer, which means coming out of the library, taking out your earplugs, standing up and being seen.

It’s not simply fear of exposure. To publicise my book, I happily wrote articles revealing intimate details of my life. But that was still writing - I was still in control. There was a safe distance between me and the reader, with no opportunity for difficult questions.

I write precisely because I can’t speak – I’m a shy show-off, an exhibitionist who doesn’t like to be looked at. Put me in a situation where I have to be seen, or worse, speak and I’m a wreck.

Catherine at her launch party

My book launch, for example, was filled with my closest friends and family, the easiest audience ever. I knew I would have to make a speech; not a very difficult one, just thanking the people to whom I was truly grateful. But it was a speech, nonetheless, and I was in a state of utter terror. Then there was my first talk to a book group, a sitting room full of the most sympathetic, generous audience, but that didn’t stop me retching behind a garden hedge on the way there.

Then came the big one. Early this year, I receive an invitation to speak at the Edinburgh International Literary Festival in August. As I read the email, I feel a complicated combination of emotions; an enormous sense of flattery at having been asked and cold, palm-drenching fear at having to do it.

I know I must – it isn’t the kind of invitation you turn down. I tell myself to be professional, that it’s months away and I have plenty of time to prepare. I feel calm as soon as the letters arrive, telling me about my hotel, overhead projectors, transport and arrival times, The details appeal to my inner list-maker, distracting me from the real issue at hand. I read the ‘Notes for Authors’ cover to cover, noting that strapless or beltless dresses are not recommended as they make it difficult to clip on a microphone. I go to Covent Garden and buy a high-necked dress with a patent-leather belt.

Outfit packed, I go off on my summer holidays to Italy, where I frolic about and forget all about impending work commitments. But one night we have guests. Chatting about my book, they ask what’s next.

‘Well, I’m speaking at the Edinburgh Festival.’
‘Wow, that’s a big deal!’

The anxiety floods back. I go through Days of Grace, trying to decide which bit to read at the event. I come to realise how hard it is to pick an extract that doesn’t give too much away, or that needs too much introduction. I start to lose faith in the book at all, let alone feel that I am capable of answering any questions about why I wrote it.

Catherine's oak tree

And then the panic attacks begin. I began to wake at 5.30 each morning, sweating and shaking, gasping for breath, my heart hammering. I feel claustrophobic in my little room. The only solution is to go outside in my pyjamas and sit under the ancient oak tree. This oak tree is the scene of many heart-felt chats over the past five years about whether I was really a writer, whether I was doing the right thing giving up my job, whether I would ever get published. It’s a very special place. For three mornings in a row, I sit there, watching the sun rising over the hills, holding a copy of my book in my hands and trying to tell myself I can do it. Safe in the knowledge that everyone else is asleep, I begin to practise reading out loud. But hearing the sound of my own voice makes me blush. After a minute I realise I am speaking in a monotone. After two I can’t bear to listen any longer.

My friends tell me I’m being ridiculous. The boys have spent days constructing a compost bin, an enormous solid wood structure. They are very proud of it and suggest that I use it as a stage.

‘Tonight, after dinner, you can stand on it and do your reading. It’ll be good practice. Go, Caterina della Compostina!’

I refuse.

My sister tells me to feel the fear and do it anyway. I seek refuge in a bottle of red wine.

We have an eight-month-old baby staying in the house. Early one morning her father comes out onto the terrace and sees me under the oak tree. He shakes his head and brings her to me to look after whilst he goes to make the coffee. Holding solid little Francesca calms me down and I decide I’ve found my first audience. With her in one hand and the book in the other, I read the whole thing through, finishing just as her father returns.

‘Batti le mani,’ he tells her. ‘Clap your hands.’ Being an obliging sort of child, she does, and I feel better.

I last went to the Edinburgh festival more than ten years ago. This time it’s very different. My grubby hostel room on the city outskirts is transformed into a four star hotel in the centre of town. As I am taking advantage of a room service sandwich, my friend Sam arrives. We decide to go and check out the book festival and the tent where I’m going to speak. It is quite small.

‘There might only be about three people in the audience,’ I say hopefully.

We call in at the authors’ hospitality yurt, cosy with wood-burning stove, cushions and Turkish rugs on the floor. Everyone is terribly friendly and nice. Sam makes the most of the free sandwiches and we manage to resist the bottles of whisky standing next to them.

Days of Grace

We spend the day of the event searching for a pair of flat black shoes as I have decided my red patent heels make me look tarty and are not in keeping with the image of a serious writer. Sam pretends not to realise that it’s not about the shoes and rises to the challenge. We scour the length of Princes Street, triumphing just before lunch.

Back at the hotel, I am feeling sick and can’t stop clearing my throat. Luckily Sam teaches singing and so is an expert at voice technique.

‘Pinch your throat between your thumb and finger.’
I grab my neck.
‘Not that hard, you idiot! You’ll make yourself choke.’
I release my grip.
‘Now laugh. It’ll relax your muscles.’

All there is left for me to do is panic about whether or not the dress will still fit after a month of pasta and cheese. It does, but only just.

The ‘Notes for Authors’ say you have to arrive forty minutes before your event. I hover in the yurt, shivering in the Edinburgh evening chill. From where I am sitting I can see Carol Ann Duffy having a glass of wine. I feel even more of a fraud. The black shoes have started to rub.

Laura and Lindsay from Portobello arrive, with hugs and smiles and reassurance, and I feel instantly better. They tell me that Edinburgh audiences are lovely, that people are there because they want to hear about the book and that it’s perfectly normal to be nervous. Then they tell me the event is sold out. A whole new wave of panic rises into my throat and I rush off to the authors’ loos.

I am sharing the event with Eleanor Thom, another first-time writer. We exchange shy smiles and looks of terror as we are led from the yurt under a tunnelled awning along to the tent. I feel like a Christian about to be thrown to Roman lions.

Catherine Hall performing at the Edinbugh Festival

The tent is full of people smiling expectantly. We climb onto the stage and sit. I try to breathe slowly as the chair introduces us, forcing myself to look up and see the audience. I know that when she stops speaking it will be my turn to read. The lights are very hot and I begin to pour with sweat.

I find it difficult to remember what happens next. I know I read from Days of Grace, Eleanor reads from The Tin-Kin, we have a conversation with the chair, then we answer questions from the floor. It’s all over very quickly, the audience claps, then we go off to sign copies of our books. I have a terrible feeling that I made absolutely no sense at all. I apologise to Laura and Lindsay.

‘I’m sorry I messed it up.’
Lindsay looks puzzled.
‘Eh? You clearly weren’t at the same event as me. It was great!’

Perhaps, I think, I’ve managed to pull it off after all. The Portobello ladies take us for a jolly dinner. There is so much adrenaline in my veins that the wine goes straight to my head and after a while I begin to believe that maybe, after all, it was ok, that, miraculously, there seems to be no similarity between how I feel inside and how I appear.

Hungover at Edinburgh airport the next morning, I think about the previous couple of days. Despite all the panic and nerves, I realise that I have actually rather enjoyed myself. I resolve that next time, if there is one, I’ll keep calm and carry on. It’ll be easier, I tell myself – it won’t be the first.