The Gift of Listening

There is something pretty wonderful, nay, essential about being read to. As a child, my mother, Australian, read to me nightly from all sorts of books I may never have encountered without her. My favorite amongst the many she offered was "Snugglepot and Cuddlepie," by May Gibbs, a surprisingly ahead of its time, beloved Aussie tale of two "gumnut babies," little cherubs that live in Eucalyptus acorns. In all this time, the book has never once gone out of print.  Perhaps incidentally, it was a very environmentally conscious tale of all the creatures in the bush and the evil Banksia men (humans?) who invade their idyllic life. "Environmentally conscious" was a term that did not exist in 1918 when the book was first published, but how rapt I was imagining a world where there were seahorse races, art made on Eucalyptus leaves,  and small creatures with their own magic in Nature.
When I read from my own novel last night at Mrs. Dalloways bookstore in Berkeley, in order to be relaxed and banter more, I reminded myself: EVERYBODY likes to be read to. What a treat to sit back, open your ears and have someone read you a story. Do we ever outgrow this? When I lived in New Mexico, I had a long commute between Santa Fe and Albuquerque to work at my antique booth, and I started checking out books on c.d. from the library. If the reader was a good one, the words would come alive and the hour's drive passed in no time. Note to whoever read the Dickens classics: thank-you.You are a very talented reader.
Last night was a successful event: full seats, attentive audience of old and new faces, and some books sold. That old adage we writers hear that: "You can't tell if something is working unless you read it aloud" is never more striking than when you're at a podium reading your own words!  Thanks to all who came for opening their ears to my words.