Here’s another LadyKiller topic of a couple of weeks ago: Public Speaking. Apparently there are some people, some writers even, who fear it. Or hate it.

Not me.

My first public speaking gig was to my high school classmates, very few of whom I’d ever spoken to privately, and their families.

I was that quiet kid in the corner, the youngest in my class, with so many insecurities drummed into me by an overbearing mother that I should have turned into a serial killer.  By some quirk of fate, I was valedictorian that year — more exactly, I was one of the few kids who did homework, unwittingly fooling my teachers into thinking I was “smart,” and giving me A’s.

That’s me in the middle, looking confused. I blame the drug.

On graduation morning, I was sick with fear and told my mother I couldn’t do it — stand on the stage at the local theater and talk to hundreds of people. She was not about to let me off the hook. She herself had been pulled out of school at age 12 or 13, when her mother died. This was her moment and my life was on the line.

“I’ll fix you,” she said, and rubbed paregoric on my gums. In case you don’t know what paregoric is: briefly, an opiate, since then regulated as a controlled substance. I gave my speech, on the role of women in the future (I think my Italian teacher, an early feminist, wrote it). I remember the event as one of the most thrilling in my life. All those people listening to me (so what if they were a captive audience). Also, I was probably high.

Now, without the help of drugs, I still get the same high. I love public speaking in its many forms. Need a last-minute teacher or speaker for a class or an audience of 3 or 300? Give me a minute to prep, and I’m there.

Thanks, Ma.