Reverieme is the rare form of artist who can blow you away with her lyrical intelligence, captivating vocal and unique delivery style, but she admits freely that she struggles to be that person in public. As a result, we asked her to explore the notion of

My name is Louise and I am a Shy Performer.

In my experience, there are two main genres of SP: shy people who combat their anxieties by standing on a stage; and shy people who do not. Unfortunately for me, and anyone who comes to see me live, I have always fallen into the latter category.

In fact, referring to myself as a performer, even a shy one, is so misleading I feel libellous even typing it (note to self: don’t sue self). When I step on stage it’s like I’m deactivating some glorious cloaking device; suddenly I’m at the mercy of tractor beams and lasers and aggressive barflies who aren’t being served in a timely manner. If an animal senses danger, it’ll use an alarm signal to communicate the presence of a threat. I can only deduce that my alarm signal is to emulate the horrified countenance of Beaker from The Muppets while mumbling terrible jokes about dinosaurs and cheese, because that’s all my motor skills and conscious thought can amount to between songs.

As you may have noticed, the Shy Performer does not want for meticulous, crippling self-awareness. This does not make the condition any easier to remedy.

One frustrating aspect of life I muse over constantly is the lack of progress humankind has made towards the goal of smellevision. Well, that’s around number 38 in my grievance list. My main gripe is with the almost negligible relation between the quality of the thoughts and ideas a person has, and their ability to express said thoughts and ideas. Indeed, the sense of entitlement dripping from the yelps of the brash and self-assured can be remarkably convincing; how else do you explain the popularity of quinoa?

Controversial grain humour aside, I like to think that confidence is just a magic trick. It’s when you think you’re skewing other people’s perceptions just enough for them to believe that the moronic things you do and say are worthy of their time, but really you’re just skewing your own perceptions enough to believe that the moronic things you do and say are worthy of other people’s time. And then you saw a lady in half.

I mock, but it’s only because the only thing more debilitating than my envy is my nervousness. When I was in my teens, I couldn’t perform standing up because my leg would shake uncontrollably. It was like Doctor Strangelove’s phantom hand, only less anti-Semitic.

Sitting down is no huge inconvenience, of course. It’s probably one of my top three favourite activities. The worst manifestation of my nerves, the aspect that never ceases to frustrate me to my bones, is the barrier between everything I know I am capable of, and what I actually achieve. Even in the relative sanctuary of a recording studio, with only a microphone to disappoint or impress, I’ve often choked over lines I know I can sing or dismissed lyrics and ideas I know are worthwhile.

I’ve been singing and writing songs as a hobby for over ten years, but last month marked the first time I felt true excitement about recording vocals I hadn’t pre-emptively agonised over. I know we live in a world of pioneering medical science and inconceivable acts of bravery and Benedict Cumberbatch, but managing to enjoy riffing two or three vocal takes was quite a milestone for me. I did them standing up and everything.

For a long time, the only medium I’ve been truly able to speak through is my writing. Like all communication, the majority of it is drivel, but it’s drivel that I actually mean. It’s tremendously freeing to have a veracious outlet for all the nonsense that rattles around in your skull. The only caveat is that, as much as I wish to the contrary, writing isn’t a terribly successful method of response in real time. Trust me; it’s tough to sustain an argument when you’re constantly rushing off to write measured retorts. Even longer if you like to laminate them.

I’ve been looking for my literal and figurative voice since I starting gurgling letters of the alphabet, and I don’t think I’m entirely there yet. I’ll always be a Shy Performer, but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. My nerves have been as beneficial as they have detrimental: they’ve led me to wonderful, nurturing people, they’ve encouraged me to write and love writing, and they’ve allowed me to remain seated for a much greater portion of my day.

Ten years ago I was a Shy Performer who couldn’t sing in public. Seven years ago I was a Shy Performer who’d vibrate the minute I walked on stage. Last year I was a Shy Performer who choked in the presence of a studio mic. Today I’m a Shy Performer who can stand in front of a crowd and sing about all the things I couldn’t do before.

Maybe this time next year I’ll be a Shy Performer who looks like a slightly less like a terrified Muppet as I do so.

@reverieme