A really big show

Work has been a little stressful lately. There's a new software release coming up, which means loads of prep work to do before I even get to writing the help. In addition to that, my boss asked me to give a presentation about my project.

My immediate response was to break out in hives. Luckily, he asked me over the phone, and couldn't see the hives, nor the cold sweat that quickly followed. (I'm a writer -- we like to hide out in our offices and write dazzling prose. We don't want to actually talk to people -- we pride ourselves on written, not spoken, words.)

He took my fearful silence as tacit agreement, and ended the call with an upbeat, "Well, it's settled then. You'll present at the next department meeting." I could almost hear him smiling over the phone.

I sweated it out for the next few weeks, planning, re-planning, scrapping plans, and planning anew. I finally felt pretty good about my presentation, until I gave a dry-run to a couple fellow writers. I tripped over words, forgot whole sentences, and pretty much choked. It was ugly -- I started out okay, then tripped over one slide with too many technical words. I lost my momentum, and apparently any prior knowledge of the product I'd just spent the last six months writing about.

But the writers gave me good feedback (more examples, more pictures), and the department head moved the meeting back a week, giving me more time. I used every last minute of it.

The night before the meeting, I gave Mark the presentation. He was very excited to hear it, bless his little heart. He listened to the first few slides, then held his hand up to stop me.

"You need to slow down," he said, channelling my mother.

"You're right," I answered. He told me to take a deep breath, and start again, slowly.

So I did. I read a few more slides, and started tripping over words again.

"Just read what's on the slide," Mark told me. "Stop adding stuff."

"But it's really boring listening to someone read exactly what's onscreen," I explained. "People can read that themselves -- they want more information."

"Well, then use smaller words," he said. "Or say the ones onscreen better."

What's that about everybody being a critic?? I was proud of him -- I thought he'd be bored silly, but he was giving me really good advice! I was so proud of my mature little man, and how quickly he was growing up.

Until he asked the next question, one I was pretty sure no one else would ask during the presentation.

"Can I sit on your lap?" he asked. I nodded.

And so we went through the remaining slides. His eyes finally glazed over, but it was about 10 slides later than I thought they would.

I was still nervous, though. "I totally choked," I told him. "I'm gonna mess this whole presentation up tomorrow!"

But he hugged me and headed for bed. "No, you won't," he called on his way out the room. "Don't get choked out -- just do a good job."

Wise words from a little guy. But I still worried if I messed this up, my boss really might choke me out.

But it turned out okay. I got to work early, and found the server for my demo was down. Got that fixed, paced a bit, bit my nails, and ran to the conference room, which was empty. Time was running out, so I called into the meeting from my office instead. I took a deep breath, imagined Mark telling me to slow down, and gave my presentation.

And didn't choke! The irony was that I did slow down, but the meeting ran late, and I got cut off at the very end during the demo part. But I didn't care, I got through the slides, and the demo worked perfectly. I sighed hugely, and tried not to throw up.

I was grateful to be done. I survived speaking in public (well, over the phone, but still...) I realized that I could do it, and that I owed a big debt of gratitude to a little guy. A little guy who likes to sit on my lap.