I wanted to address that, so I wrote this book.
Everything in this book I learned the hard way, from people much wiser and more experienced than I. It contains a ton of things that I wish I had known at the start of my journey. They worked for me, and I think they will work for you, too.
If you feel this book doesn’t help you become a better and funnier speaker, I am happy to give you a full refund. To claim it, please send a link to a video of your not-so-great speaking performance, along with your receipt, to [email protected].
Ten percent of my proceeds for this book will go to Arash Bayatmakou via Help Hope Live until he is fully back on his feet. Thereafter, the 10 percent will go to one of the many facing the same challenges after suffering a severe spinal cord injury.
My heartbeat races many beats above normal as I stand, feet firmly planted, on the Castro Theatre’s dark hardwood stage, whose construction has stood the test of time. The theater, a historic San Francisco landmark with a Spanish Colonial Baroque façade, has all the grandeur and style that one would expect to accompany its ninety-three years’ worth of celebrity performers—one of whom I am very much not. If you had the distinct misfortune to shake my hand before I took the stage, you would have felt like you had been assaulted by a semi-defrosted mackerel.
Despite my distinct lack of fame, eight hundred unfamiliar faces are looking back at me from the assembled crowd. When I arch my neck slightly to look toward the large, stretching ceiling, I am met with the curious gazes of another six hundred faces in the lavish upper-tier balcony. All eyes are firmly on me. On either side of the stage stand large organ grills. Even though I have the musical ability of a dead pigeon, the idea of playing a few notes at this point seems distinctly more appealing than allowing my vocal cords to do what science intended—simply emit words.
To those fourteen hundred pairs of inquisitive eyes in the audience, I probably look calm, collected, and confident. This is far from the truth. Turbulence is sweeping through my insides. I am so nervous I could lay an egg. I am, however, not just expecting to talk without imploding, a challenge enough in itself for someone with a distinct fear of public speaking—I am going to try and be funny. Moreover, I expect to be so funny that I believe I will not only make these strangers laugh but keep them fully engaged for the next several minutes.
The really crazy part is that not long ago I had never told a joke on stage. I had never even really been on a stage. The truth is that public speaking was, and still is, my single biggest fear. Even more than a stare down with a shark.
Byron Bay, Australia. I took a deep breath and swam within a few feet of the resting shark. He sat oblivious to my attention twenty-five feet below the surface, next to the Wollongbar, a sunken ship that lost its tie to the old Byron Bay Pier during a cyclone in 1921 and sank. Long abandoned by its intended occupants, the wreck is now home to Wobbegong sharks, which can grow to ten feet in length. They are the pit bull terriers of the ocean. Their often sleepy demeanor makes them appear passive, but they can leave a serious, lengthy, and rather painful impression.
In February 2004, a snorkeler named Luke Tresoglavic learned this the hard way. Bitten on the leg, Luke swam a thousand feet to shore, walked to his car, and drove to the local surf club . . . with the shark still attached. Luckily for Luke, the shark was young and just two feet long, and he only suffered puncture wounds to his leg from the shark’s razor-sharp teeth.
The target of my attention was a bigger creature—an impressive seven feet. I carefully detached my snorkel pipe from my mask and used it to reach out and tap the shark gently to initiate some movement. It obliged, rising and thrusting into motion with the same labored enthusiasm I do whenever I have a 4:00 A.M. flight to catch. As sunlight reflected through the clear waters, I looked upward toward my friends, only to glimpse a sea of bubbles and panicked limbs as they fled the scene of what I am sure they thought was about to be my untimely death.
Most people are afraid of sharks, it seems. I love them. Always have. The story has always rung true in my life: what most people are afraid of, I have been drawn toward. Danger, risk, and fun have always been intertwined for me. Skydiving, cliff jumping, bungee jumping, free diving, poking wild animals—these are exhilarating to me, not terrifying. I don’t chase the things that do scare me because being scared is about as pleasant as a cliff jump gone wrong. (Incidentally, when my cliff jumping did once go wrong, it led to a shattered leg on an isolated island, where the only form of medical assistance was a vet. I am thankful that despite his prior experience, he didn’t put me down.)
One thing, however, has always had the power to turn me into a shaking, sweating bag of wobbly jelly: public speaking. To say I hate it would be a huge understatement. For me, it’s everyone else’s shark, dentist, spider, and mother-in-law rolled into one big ball of terror.
So that’s why my being on stage in the San Francisco theater that night in front of fourteen hundred people is so crazy. I was a specialist in running away from stages at high speed. The times I did end up on them, I was a true Jedi Master at embarrassing myself. I have several such occasions to consider—all opportunities for me to shine that went south quickly.
“My name is Mustafa, and I am an exchange student from Southern Yemen.”
That was how I started my college Human Resource Management class presentation. Introducing myself as a person I clearly was not, from a place I was not, to a group of people who already knew me. Why? If only I knew. It seemed like a good idea after taking down four bottles of Corona in quick succession before taking to the podium. Before the presentation, I had walked into a group meeting with a six-pack in hand—two of which were already empty—and proceeded to drink two more while prepping for my turn to speak my brilliant opening lines. When speech time came, the lecturer understandably didn’t take kindly to my lighthearted approach and lightheaded comments. Don’t get me wrong—I am no alcoholic and your intervention is unnecessary. Drinking just seemed like a good idea to relax my nerves before speaking to the class. Had I known then what I know now, I certainly would have quickly vetoed my own plan.
That year, my final year at one of Ireland’s top schools, I received first-class honors in all subjects but one: Human Resource Management. Seventy percent was the magic number—it defined a first-class honor and was generally the highest mark one received at University College Dublin. My beer-soaked presentation had knocked me into a lower percentile and I graduated with a second-class honors degree. I felt bitter about it but only had myself to blame for my near miss. Damn fear of public speaking.
I took a year off to work and travel in Australia before returning to earn my master’s degree. I selected the same course with the same lecturer in order to correct my mistake and do better the second time around. The lecturer certainly hadn’t forgotten me or my terrible public speaking ability. For the second time running, she gave me the exact same grade. Again, it was her course that brought down my average, and that meant the difference between a first-class and a second-class honors degree. Essentially, in both my undergraduate degree and master’s degree, I narrowly missed out on earning the highest level possible due to my fear of public speaking.
It didn’t take long for my fear to worm its way into my new working life. I landed a job with the Irish government as a marketing executive, helping high-potential Irish startup companies expand in the United States.
The new recruits, myself included, had to present at a team get-together in New York. I had no beer available to calm my nerves this time. I also had nowhere to place the chart I had drawn to illustrate my main points to the assembled executives. As my nerves took hold, I frantically searched for the best section of wall to stick it to. One 4 × 4 framed section
