Open Mic, Insert Pen; or, Notes on the Editing Experience

As I shifted uncomfortably in my hard chair the other evening, it occurred to me that sometimes my experience of attending an open mic is not dissimilar from my experience, at times, of the editing process.
I approach with a mixture of anticipation and dread.
The lights go down. I can’t see clearly.
I eat a cookie.
Poems are going on and on.
I feel like a small ogre in the dark, thinking things to myself like: “No, no, no.” “Cut that line. That one two.” “Stop there. Stop. Stop.” “What are you going on about now?” “Nooo.” “What on earth are you talking about??” “Too long! Too long!” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I feel uncharitable. Can’t I be more open-minded to these poems?
One cookie is not enough. I eat a second cookie.
Sometimes I think things like: “Hm, that wasn’t half bad.” “Hey, something really interesting is going on in this one.” “Oh, wow, now THAT is a poem.” “That was interesting. I could learn from that.”
Sometimes I laugh out loud.
Two cookies is too much.
Often I forget a moment later what I thought was interesting.
I forget what I had thought I learned. I forget the idea I had. I become confused and overstimulated.
After a while, I get physically uncomfortable, my body stiffening in the chair, my feet shuffling around underneath me in an excess of unexpended energy and cookie sugar.
I feel lonely in the dim light, the cacaphony of words.
It’s a relief to finally just go home and go to bed.

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