Branching Out

On Friday 20th March 2026, I did my first open mic night. There was no mic. A misnomer perhaps. However, there was a group of open and friendly people. It was a small affair, held in the snug of a local pub which is, as it sounds, a small room not attached to the main bar - a more intimate space. 8pm was the time that it started and my friend agreed to come and support me along with her daughter. I was glad she was there as I was nervous.

And yet, paradoxically, and weirdly, I wasn't.

A time comes in every would-be writer's life where you have to put yourself out there. It's okay having self-belief but if no-one's reading or experiencing your work, there is a little something lacking, I think, despite protestations to the contrary. Can you really call yourself a writer if you're not being read? It's up for debate.

And so, I decided that it would be good to do something different and this was the driver for me, the excitement of something new rather than the nerves. It was time. I have been encouraged by other people, some of them writers, to branch out into other spheres; to stretch my wings and publish elsewhere; to perhaps amalgamate my writings into a book and launch it into the world; to try publications. I have been and continue to be skeptical about this for me. Don't think that I don't believe my work has value - I do. But something is holding me back and I've not been able to do enough self-analysis to work out what it is. It's not confidence. It might be having the time to devote to it, to do it properly and with commitment.

When I saw an advert for "Pints and Poems" on social media, though, I decided that I would find the time. This was new. I felt the surge of excitement at the prospect of an evening where I could read out my works to a live audience held captive. The idea thrilled me. I was ready to share. With just a small amount of hesitation, I pressed the button marked "Interested".

This was weeks before the 20th March. Unlike other things, it didn't go to the back of my mind. I kept returning to it, like a tongue returns to a sharp tooth. I kept wondering what I would read. As the date approached, I imagined the setting, the atmosphere. I indulged in thinking about what I would wear, how I would present myself, introduce myself, these little scenarios playing out in my head.

It felt brave to do it but also a natural progression in my evolution as a writer. I'd shared my ideas with the Vocal world, close family and friends and now it was time to take that further, to an audience even if that audience was made up of strangers in a pub.

Regardless of how it went for me, it was an evening of success. We were all there to listen and read or, in the case of some, recite and act out poems and it was great to be in an environment where this could be achieved. Some poems were written by the people who read them out. Some of those read were by other writers: Pam Ayres, John Donne, Omar Khayyam, John Cooper Clarke - an eclectic choice.

The night started with an introduction from our host. He read out poems written by his mother and published in a book by him, as a gift for her before she passed away. He shared this story in his introduction and started the evening proudly. And then, we all took a turn.

The poems I chose were Little Owl and Summer's End, some of my more recent offerings. I stumbled during the latter, missing a page but recovering enough to realise before I'd gone too far. It was noticed but considerately so.

It was a grand feeling, standing there, knowing that these words I was choosing to read out loud were words that I had chosen to write down. They were all my own and my voice delighted in delivering them to those exclusive few. Receiving the applause at the end was gratifying and I can remember beaming with pleasure and a little relief.

Soon, it was time to chat, eat chips and reflect on the evening. I was approached by a man called James who liked my reading of Summer's End and we talked about his choice of Ted Hughes' The Horses, a poem he studied at school which had made no sense and was boring at the time but which, with time and experience, he was viewing differently and had reconciled himself to actually liking. We shared details of our lives: family, origins, children, likes, dislikes.

And then, it was time to leave this pocket of warmth, this sharing of words and head out into the night. I left feeling accomplished, assured, my belief in myself having taken a boost. My head was filled with kind words and my heart was filled with hope, not just for my writing and having had it validated by a few but also for the arts and people coming together in venues like this and sharing the works of other people for enjoyment in a social setting with drink and fires and good conversation and food and their warmth of feeling for accompaniment. If AI is the future revolution, then I think I'm a 21st century Luddite - and proud of it.

There was one last treat that this night had in store for me and it truly was the cherry on top as I found out later from my friend that someone she knew had loved my poem, someone other than James and that it resonated so much for her that she would really have liked to have had a copy. Maybe a book entitled The Poems of Rachel Deeming is in order after all.

If I'd taken nothing else from the night, then that one comment would have made it all worthwhile.

And one last word on this: if you get the chance to do an open mic night, do it. Share your words around. Listen to those of others. Meet with like-minded folk and bring your work and read it loudly and proudly. Let's not depend on a machine to generate these words for us.

Let's keep the living word of living writers alive.