Bookstore almost cancelled open mic night

By Dawn Visionary

Honestly, I thought the hard part was saying yes to the podcast. Then the bookstore texted me at 8:14 a.m. on a Thursday with three messages in a row: the open mic series might need to pause, someone called out, and the mic stand from last month is still broken. I read all three standing in my kitchen in Seattle with coffee that was already too cold, and my first thought was not spiritual. My first thought was oh no, I told people this was a real thing. I host the nights at the little bookstore I basically live in between client sessions for Celestial Insights. Not in a creepy way. In a this-is-where-I-breathe way. The open mics started as me wanting poetry and half-finished journals to have a soft landing. People showed up. People kept showing up. Praise from the first nights still makes my ears warm when I think about it. Which is why the pause text felt like someone unplugging a lamp

I had just learned how to turn on. Honestly, I almost replied with pure panic emoji energy. Instead I put on actual clothes, took the bus, and walked in before opening with a tote bag full of extra pens, a backup speaker I barely know how to use, and the kind of determined smile that means I am negotiating with reality. What was actually broken It was not cosmic warfare. It was staffing. Two people on the evening shift had schedule conflicts, the manager was covering a sick day, and nobody had reordered the cheap mic stand that folds if you look at it wrong. The store still smelled like paper and espresso. A stack of new arrivals sat by the window with sticky notes nobody had filed yet. Ordinary chaos. The kind that still punches you in the chest when you have publicly invited strangers to be brave on a Wednesday. I sat on the floor behind the poetry section with the manager, Maya, and

we made a list that looked like a chart without planets: who can close, who can run the door, who can introduce readers without freezing. I offered to arrive early, set chairs, and do my own sound check. Maya offered free coffee for the first ten people who RSVP. We both offered not to pretend this was glamorous. That felt more honest than any affirmation I could have posted. Honestly, the part that stung was my own story about myself. I like being the person who builds community. I do not like being the person who might have overpromised. Expanding an astrology practice and building a room full of people who read poems about their exes and their mothers is wonderful until logistics show up wearing a name tag. Expectations overwhelm me faster than I admit online. Naming that out loud to Maya helped more than three days of private overthinking. The night we almost lost We did not cancel.

We postponed one week and told everyone why without the polish. I wrote the update in plain language: short staffed, fixing equipment, still happening, bring a friend if you want. No constellation metaphors. People replied with kindness that made me weirdly shy, like I had forgotten Seattle can be gentle when the topic is art instead of traffic. The rescheduled night, the backup speaker crackled once and then behaved. A teenager read a poem about ferry lights that made half the room go quiet in that good way. A guy who always sits in the back finally signed up and talked about his dad for two minutes without looking up. I introduced people with too many honestlys and not enough jokes, which is apparently my brand. Midway through I remembered Saturday stargazing and how the sky does not need a mic stand. That thought did not solve logistics. It just kept my shoulders from climbing into my

ears. After closing, Maya and I stacked chairs while the last two readers argued gently about line breaks. Someone left a constellation sticker on the tip jar. I put it on my water bottle like a medal for adulting. Dance class the next Friday felt different too, like my body finally believed the room still existed. What I am taking into the next one Honestly, I am writing a tiny host checklist that lives in my notes app next to transit times for clients. Arrive early. Test sound. Confirm two staff names. Bring snacks that are not sad. Thank people by name when I can. Leave space for silence after hard poems. None of that is mystical and all of it is how community actually stays open. I still get overwhelmed by the idea that people might expect me to be endlessly available and endlessly radiant. That is a me problem more than a bookstore problem. Meditation on Mondays and Wednesdays helps

a little. Saying no to one extra project this month helps more. The podcast invite is still on my calendar and still slightly terrifying. I can be excited and also protect the open mic like it is a living thing, because it is. If you came to a night and wondered why we shifted, thank you for staying soft about it. If you have never come, the chairs are uneven and the lighting is bookstore lighting and it is still one of my favorite rooms in this city. Closing Reflection Honestly, building something small in public means sometimes the mic stand breaks and you still have to show up with a plan. I am learning that wonder is not the opposite of spreadsheets. Wonder is what happens when the spreadsheet works just enough for people to risk a poem. See you under the fairy lights by the essay shelf. Bring something unfinished if you want. I will bring the checklist and try not to apologize too

much for being human. Catch you under the stars! ✨