June 27, 2010
Talking, Because of Writing.
I met with a famous author the other day for lunch and the exchanging of ideas. Okay, it was Robison Wells. I was nervous. Though others had been invited, word was that a breakout of childhood diseases and birthday parties prevented their attendance. Crashers threatened, but never showed. (And I'd had a chance to meet with the lovely Annette Lyon the week before so I was already grateful for that, but Mr. Wells can be a bit... misanthropic. That's his word, not mine. I had to look it up.) So, it was me, my son, and Rob. Or is that Rob, my son, and I? Annette?
I was excited about this chance to meet a Twitter friend/author and talk writing, and nervous because I shy away from talking. I'm a listener. When I talk with people I don't know well, I say things like this:
"I monely try to... I mean, I maistly try... No, MONELY... MAISTLY... ugh, I MAINLY try to (what was I talking about?)..." *meanwhile my son is shaking his head in his hand and Rob is thinking he could have pretended to think we were meeting at the other El Chihuahua in Salt Lake City*
But aside from my verbal congestion, it was an awesome lunch and I learned some things and Rob was very cool and gracious and told me I was funny. YAY!
So, as I said before, I would rather listen in unfamiliar groups, but I've noticed I'm growing out of that just a little. And I think it's the writing.
Of course, if the subject is writing, that makes it so much easier. I don't think my conversation with Rob was a disaster. It was fun. He asked me lots of questions and I managed to remember a few I had for him, and my son was drawn in as well.
But my husband and I went to a retirement party yesterday and I knew three people. The host and his wife, and the high school English teacher who works at my husband's school (it's not like he owns the school, he's just the principal). I was introduced to other people who apparently had no issues about talking to strangers.
And I joined in. Tolkien. Camping. New York eateries. Christianity. Hometown growth. Gardening. Oregon.
And is it bad I found myself looking for story ideas? And asking questions because I wanted to know more, I was curious and voiced it? Because I'm a writer? I was talking and my husband kept giving me strange looks that said, "Why are you talking so much? These are practically strangers." (He tends to do just fine in a crowd.) Of course, there were a few monely/maistly moments, but I left the party with a smile, and not because we were leaving.
Is this what growing up feels like?