Socially awkward penguin:

or: a very long-winded discussion by a hyper-analytical person about the discomfort (and the joys) of interacting with strangers.

At an event on the weekend -- a lovely event, so bear that in mind -- I found myself seated at a table of strangers. This can either be the best thing in the world or the WORST THING EVAR GO AWAYYYY. Though in the innermost recesses of my self I'm kind of shy, it's probably more fear of intruding in another's life than actually shyness. So it doesn't entirely stop me from striking up conversations, and once those initial icebreaker conversation-starters are over, I can talk to pretty much anyone. I like people, so it's fun.

Being stuck on a table with strangers makes it even easier. You don't have to walk across the room maintaining eye contact the whole time. No, for some reason, your hosts or the event planner have decided you and they and they and they would make an interesting social mix for a few hours, so half the work is already done. Someone's next to you, they're not going anywhere, so why not get to know each other?

It sounds logical, and sometimes this goes off without a hitch. But other times the experience is so unbearably, uncomfortably awkward that I feel myself thinking CANNOT COMPUTE. HOW DO HUMAN? It's obvious to you, then, without me explaining it, that last weekend's event was going in precisely that direction.

I was kind of on the end of a long table. Seated near me was one young couple, but my seatmate on the other side never showed up. Hmm. An empty seat already precludes one half of the conversation options. Past the vast gulf of the empty seat was another couple; after a brief hello, they got chatting to the people on the opposite end of the table, and turned to face them or each other. So I did my best with the people I was seated near, starting with something in common, our mutual friends. They smiled politely, and answered my questions, but they did not offer anything in return, nor did they ask me anything. After a respectable amount of time had passed, I sat back to allow for the customary polite pause (also to gather my arsenal of other possible conversation starters). They filled it by speaking to one another a little in low tones, but mostly just looking around. When the gap got to the point of awkwardness, I started again, but again came up against a brick wall. The ball never bounced back in my direction and I sat there like an obnoxious puppy just waiting for someone to pick it up and throw it.*

Since the people I was so unsuccessfully trying to relate to seemed pleasant enough, my usual tactic kicked in. Obviously it must be my fault.

I don't know if this is a human trait, a feminine trait, or one uniquely embarrassingly mine alone, but I tend to blame myself for social catastrophes. Maybe I'm being annoying. Maybe I'm not interesting enough. Perhaps I smell like the garlic bread that was offered for hors d'oeuvres. I'm weird. My face is communicating unfriendliness. I've accidentally said the magical word that released a cone of silence over the person I'm talking to! And so on.

If you have ever been in this dark pit of social despair, you will know the feeling. In your desire to communicate warmth and friendliness, you sit there with what you hope is a gentle yet winning smile, meant to suggest that you are up for conversation but will definitely not glom on to anyone like a barnacle. Rather, you will preserve a healthy, polite distance. What's more, you are hoping to catch the friendly glance of anyone as an entree into the conversation, but you don't want to stare outright because that would be weird.

All up, that is a lot to communicate with a facial expression that's barely there. And of course, after about ten minutes of this, you have a visage-related existential crisis. You forget how to smile at all and start to wonder if you are grinning like a homicidal psychopath, not only scaring anyone away from you currently but also scarring them with an image that will later haunt their dreams. 

Yeah. So that was my position after about half an hour of failed mingling. I began to think despairingly of how many more hours of this I would have to endure, and contemplated shrinking myself down, Antman-style, and making an escape.

The only alternative was to bridge the gaping void of the empty seat to my right and reach across in decidedly uncool fashion to leap into the smallest possible chance of a segue with the other couple. If one of them so much as blinked in my direction, I was going to do it. My chance came, and it was awkward -- and then suddenly we were talking about all sorts of things, and she and I had heaps in common, and her husband was a dear, and we nattered delightfully about subjects both light and heavy, and at the end of the night she gave me her contact details and a hug.

WHY.

The difference couldn't have been more defined, but it's only today that I worked it out fully in a way that makes sense. I wasn't being a socially awkward penguin, and neither were they, particularly. Rather, they just couldn't be bothered. And -- here is where the lightbulb binged into blinding, obvious light -- that has nothing to do with me. Yes, if I was rich or glamorous or a celebrity, maybe they would have been bothered, but I don't have to feel bad about their inability to try. The difference between the dead conversation and the living interaction was that in the latter, both parties were willing.

Why am I saying all of this in an excessively-long blog post? Perhaps just as a reminder to myself and to you that all any of us can do is our best. Communicate friendliness and warmth without being creepy. If it doesn't go anywhere, it's not necessarily your fault. And who knows what backstory the other person is dragging along with them? Don't feel bad if the social engagement comes to an awkward, screeching halt. It takes two to... convo.

*so many cliched (and mixed) metaphors! Woo. Go me!

Holy rollers:

I don't even know why (it was the early nineties, okay?), but for some reason my youth group was meeting at the roller rink that Friday night. I was maybe fourteen -- old enough to suspect I was bad at rollerskating, young enough not to care that much.

I've never been good at wheels, or at sports in general. Gracious, I've never been good at having feet. Nevertheless, I strapped on the skates and juddered out on the massive rink and into the hordes of teenagers.

It was all happy-awkward-lack-of-coordination-amongst-the-masses at first. I can't even remember seeing anyone I know. Then the disco lights flared up and the music started pumping, and suddenly everyone was skating wildly around the circumference of the rink. I was swept up into the whirlpool and dragged along far faster than my capabilities should have allowed. Then came the most terrifying part -- when the horn blared and the lights flashed, we were all supposed to change direction and start skating the opposite way.

Well hardly. Once I was zooming along like that, there was no stopping me and absolutely no changing direction. But of course, the tide turned anyway, and soon it was just a wave of teenagers rolling towards me. I put out my hands in a desperate, useless attempt to grab hold of something... and instead collided head-on with a random guy -- a random guy. You will remember I was about fourteen years old.

Well then I was falling, falling to the ground and about to be trampled by roller demons, but I somehow found myself on my knees, clutching at his shirt like my life depended on it (apparenly it did), just hanging on. And he was staring down, his eyes huge, looking at me as though I was E.T. or something. Meanwhile, everyone else just kept rolling on by.

If my life was a movie, he would've laughed and I would've been all clumsily goofy and adorable, and we'd probably have three kids by now. But it was real life -- my devastating real life -- and we did not fall in love. In fact, I hardly remember anything about him except his shirt (my lifeline), his terrified look -- and of course I remember that my teen spirit died a little bit that day.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Brenda -- you're so right that the best books move with us as we grow and change. As CS Lewis said, 'a children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest.

Bethany -- she's definitely proud of her little grin -- she's started posing for photos!

Un -- I think about the upcoming visit every day!

Rebecca Simon -- squishable babies are the most fun! Ooh, keep us posted about dates and locations when you come up here. Would be so nice to catch up -- and meet your wee one!

Lauren -- thanks for sharing her with us :). (and you are definitely like Beth)

Cara -- congratulations on your wee nephew's toothy! It gives them such an extra swoosh of cuteness :).

Bloss -- ooh, so lovely to get a comment from you! <3 You are like Beth -- plus you have the grace of Meg, too. And yes, Professor Bhaer definitely makes oranges into something truly romantic. " Our lives, the works of His hands..." So true. I'm glad He's there. Growing up would be awfully tricky without him.

In which I get to pretend like I'm semi-famous, with dubious results:

I think I've mentioned before that my local council library system might be the best in the world. The libraries themselves are top notch; my favourite even has its own cafe window. Iced coffee + reading = winning. But what continues to impress me is the ongoing dedication to developing emerging artists within the local community. In particular, I've been privileged to benefit from the Authors in Action program, a series of author talks, worshops, and events facilitated by the Redland Libraries for the purpose of educating and developing local readers and writers by exposing them to great stories, great teachers, and great opportunities.

One of these opportunities is the Redlitzer Award for 2011, a writing contest for prose work of any genre up to 3000 words. I was honoured to be one of ten finalists chosen by the judges, authors Louise Cusack and Anita Bell, and got to spend a day with the other nine authors and nine runners-up as we discussed the craft of writing and learnt from published writers under the facilitation of Arthurian fiction writer MK Hume. The day provided a brilliant opportunity to meet other local writers as well as to workshop our short stories with guidance from those who have been there and done it all before.

Last night was the Redlitzer Gala event, the launch of the 2011 anthology and announcement of the editor's choice for best short piece of the ten finalists. The event was beautifully hosted by the Victoria Point library, with balloons, champagne, and canapes among the bookshelves. Of course, I did not consume said treats since inevitably at such events I am always either a) talking too much, or b) too nervous to risk holding actual food and drinks in my actual hands. Yes, last night I was both.

The Redland Shire mayor, Melva Hobson, opened the evening by commending the anthology as well as the council's dedication to bringing the work of emerging local artists into the light of day. Guest speaker journalist Frances Whiting discussed the ways in which writing has impacted her life, showing us both the poignant and the hilarious sides of writing a personal column for the public to read. Her stories were so good I (almost) wanted to ditch fiction and focus my attention on journalism instead.

Everyone was thrilled when Beverley Asmus (in the picture above, book-signing like a pro) won the editor's choice award for her story, Sticks and Stones, and Jo McHenry received an encouragement award for The Swallows of Wellington Point. Then we all got our hands on a copy of the anthology -- yay! However, in the balance of weights and measures that is life on this crazy planet, there was a price to pay for the joy of seeing work in print, and this came in the form of a) getting pictures taken, and b) pretending to be a breezy, established author. I'm beaming and confident when I'm just a face in the crowd, but the minute any form of spotlight swings even remotely in my direction -- even if it's just a Mini Maglite -- I become strangely non-human.

Of course, with regards to the picture-taking, the Socially Awkward Penguin in me immediately came waddling to the fore. I stood there frozen while the photographer arranged the anthology authors to her pleasing, and by the time we were in an adequate formation, I'd been smiling so long I'd actually forgotten how to.

What do I do with my cheeks?
My lips! My lips! I can't feel them!
Why are my teeth getting in the road?

I guess when the paper comes out I will see the full force of my multiple facial seizures. Until then, I'm going to pretend that didn't happen.

Then someone got the brilliant idea to set up a signing table for the authors to sign copies of the anthology. Soon there was a production line set up with a long white table, nine chairs, and a row of fresh black Sharpies ("Just like for real authors!") and we sat there while people brought us their copies to sign. It felt so very much like playing at being Real Authors that I kept laughing and thinking, This is silly! I'm not a Real Author! Then, when the lovely journalist Frances Whiting pushed her copy towards me to sign, the ridiculousness of it overflowed out loud: "This is so stupid! You should be signing things!"

When I thought all that awkwardness was over, I went to say goodbye to one of the authors whose workshops have taught me so much and really given my writing education a big shove in the right direction. She had some encouraging words to say which really meant a lot. In response, I turned into a malfunctioning robot and could only make repetitive gushing sounds which probably sounded something like THANK YOU OH THANKS YOU HAVE TAUGHT ME SO MUCH I AM NOT WORTHY I WILL KEEP TRYING THANK YOU IS MY FACE SHINY. But even malfunctioning robots such as myself have hearts, and those words found their way there -- so thank you.

Perhaps all this is to teach me that with every small gift comes some measure of awkward pain. And should I someday have figured out enough of life and of words to be a Real Author, and I am seventy-five years old and signing copies of My Very Own Books in a Borders store somewhere (because in my dream world there will still be Borders stores and we'll still be reading paper books when I'm seventy-five), and I seem confident and gracious and I actually have a nice signature -- and should you be an introverted youngster still learning and hoping and wondering if your writing dreams will come true, and should you go home and Google my name and somehow come across this blog post (because of course Google will still be around in 2055), then know this, my friend: that graciousness and confidence you see in the seventy-five-year-old me? I'm probably faking it. Inside is a malfunctioning robot just busting to get out.

Imma go practice my signature now.

* * * * *

Conversations:

Laura Elizabeth -- you and me and our mums and IRA!!!!!!

It's Don Key-oh-tay, okay?

The problem with growing up and reading a bunch of books that no one else around you seems to read is that you come out -- like, ten years later -- and start talking about Don Quixote like he's a guy who knows how to make porridge really, really fast instead of being a Spanish anti-hero type with a very Spanish-sounding name. I can still feel the embarrassment.

I was probably in my teens before I realised that misled is not my-zld, but miss-led. And it only dawned on me a few years back that awry was actually said a-rye and not awe-ry. Boy.

Today, however, I discover it's not just foreign words or the lesser-used ones that I can mess up. My family roared in laughter when I said nuclear. Nuclear, right? New-clear? Apparently not. And here, the girl who has frequently mocked American folk for their bizarre nuke-u-lar, discovers that nuclear is, in fact, a three-syllable-word. It's nu-cle-ar, folks.

I'm probably the only person on the planet who didn't realise that.

Not, thank goodness, the only person who mispronounces words, though. Abraham Piper confesses he puts an 'n' in legitimate. I remember a friend once saying compromise as promise with a com in front of it. What do you say all wrong?

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conversations:

Bethany -- thank you!! xox

Amanda -- I will pass on your kind wishes.

Lis -- I'm so glad! Your comment made me hunt out that poem and re-read it. Such good stuff.

Abbie -- new babies are super. We're all just so spoilt to get to hug and smoosh and squish them!