An Ode to Open Mics

Why putting your words out there matters

Stepping onto a stage in a new venue and performing — perhaps for the first time — in front of an unknown audience, requires incredible courage and yet is so important. This is the art of the open mic, where, no matter the experience, any artist has the opportunity to present their work.

Whether it is music, poetry, or stand-up comedy, the watchword is one: sharing. Writing — be it a short story or a comedy set — is often a lonely job. The artist, alone with their ideas, composes in silence. Major artistic platforms — publications, radio, television — are usually difficult to access. They require time, money, and competition. But that is precisely the magic of open mics: they break the artist’s isolation without requiring fees, recommendations, or CVs. Open mics are inclusive and accessible, a space where culture is shared democratically and everyone stands on equal footing.

Suddenly, the artist is no longer alone. They are surrounded by fellow artists and an audience eager to listen. The confrontation they face is immediate and direct. If they published a poem in a newspaper or book, if they uploaded a video to YouTube or had a song played on the radio, they would still display their work, but at a distance, leaving a kind of barrier between the artist and their audience. Feedback would be delayed, indirect, and filtered. But at an open mic, the response is immediate and unvarnished, for better or worse.

This is precisely why I love this form of expression. Performances take place outside the academic or polished settings of cultural festivals. Every reaction is valid. There is no studied language of criticism. In a society where direct human contact is increasingly rare, and where so much of our communication is mediated through screens, such a raw and genuine form of connection can be intimidating. During my first open mic, I was genuinely terrified, but in a world like ours, it also does so much good.

At the same time, what I love about open mics is their return to orality. In ancient Greece, the aedi — singers who recited epic poems, often accompanied by a zither or flute — were the primary transmitters of culture. Their work was consumed in collective settings, at festivals and symposia. In ancient Rome, written texts lacked spaces between words because readings were typically done aloud. This shows how storytelling and poetry were once deeply tied to spoken performance.

Orality is a tradition we have largely lost, but one that we should reclaim. The sound of words, the imperfections of live performance, the facial expressions that accompany speech — these elements remind us that an artistic product does not have to be flawless. It is the human presence, vulnerability, and act of standing in front of others and saying, "Here I am, and this is what I have to say," that makes it meaningful.

Of course, open mics are not without their flaws. With no selection process, the audience may sometimes endure a rough or uninspired set. Henry Raby wrote a wonderful article on slam poetry where he expresses frustration at hearing the same twisted sets again and again. He describes open mics as ranging “from quiet to busy, typical to nuts, f***ing mint to a bit s**t”, and jokes, “If I hear one more poem about f***ing dinosaurs…” Dinosaurs, for some reason, seem to be an obsession at open mics.

Sometimes, an open mic can be nearly empty, and the lack of an audience can make it feel like “replying to a question that nobody asked”. Yet, I think the mere act of putting one's words out there, of giving one's work importance before anyone else does, is already an act of recognition. Not for money or fame, but simply to share.

Brave, imperfect, and tragicomic — this is the essence of the open mic. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because in those fleeting moments on-stage, stripped of barriers, an artist truly connects — not just with an audience, but with the very heart of what it means to create.

Illustration by Sandra Palazuelos Garcia