I recently finished a six-week singing performance workshop. Six weeks, two hours a week on a Wednesday evening. Why? I used to sing quite a lot, in high school, then in a choir, but for the past two years, I’ve taken a break. And I missed it. I heard about the workshop from a friend and after a little bit of hesitation, I signed up.

As the date of the first workshop drew closer, I began to have second thoughts. Did I really want to do this? I haven’t sung for ages. The class is probably going to be full of awesome singers who are just going to sniff at how little I can do.

Man singing with headphones.

Nope, it’s not me. I sing with my eyes open. Image courtesy of imagerymajestic / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

To make matters worse, we had to choose a song to perform first up. I agonised over what to sing before eventually settling on Joan Baez’s The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down. I went along, barely able to force myself through the door.

Then came the greater shock. It wasn’t really a singing workshop; it was a singing performance workshop. That meant getting up on stage, in front of these 12 people, singing into a microphone, moving, interacting, relating. And to make matters worse: we’d be filmed for our own viewing pleasure.

The panic rose.

I didn’t go first. Or second. I was about sixth and despite everyone, even the really good singers, expressing fear and trepidation at singing in front of a group of strangers, there was nothing that could really calm my own fear.

But I got up there and sang my song. I thought I was flat. And the song seemed to drag. Finally it was over and we got our feedback. Some good, most constructive, none of it bad. I went away, happy that I’d done an ok job, determined to do better. The fear had passed though I was sure it would come back.

But the next week something interesting happened. I was sitting, watching others struggle with their own fear, their own doubt (and it was really interesting to hear the language used. “I can’t…” “But it’s always…” “I’m never…”), I had a realisation that, in the end, fear was the only thing holding me back and it was bloody irritating.

Sure, nerves are fine. No one wants to fail. No one wants to make a fool of themselves. But in that workshop, there was no need to fear. I decided I was there to have fun, to learn, to grow. And performance, even if it’s hard, is a huge thrill. There are these people listening to you and hopefully liking what you come out with.

After that first week, I didn’t mind getting up on stage. And making mistakes, though disappointing, wasn’t the end of the world. There were false starts but always opportunities to redo. Whenever I doubted myself, that’s when the problems started. If I doubted I was going to get through the song, doubting I was going to remember the words, then I was sure to stuff-up.

When I thought, “Hell, I know this. Let’s get this done,” then I was comfortable on stage, sang on key and engaged with the audience. And it was fun. In fact, it was a shame when it ended but I’m so glad for the experience.

It made me think about writing and how fear pops up to hold me back.

“What if it’s crap?”

“What if nobody likes it?”

“What if I never make it?”

All these awful “what if” statements that just put up more barriers between me and my goal.

Who cares if it’s not good? It’s a draft. Drafts are meant to be steaming and smelly.

Not every person is going to like what I write. In fact, writing about gay love stories and paranormal creatures is probably going to get me a whole lot of derision anyway so screw worrying about it.

The other lessons I’ve learned from the singing workshop is that practice always makes perfect, and a great critique is worth its weight in gold.

In the end, I’ve just got to do it. And keep doing it.

(And no, I’m not going to post the videos.)