Princesses, Pigs, and Stories

November 4, 2014 / Lisa / 12 Comments

This evening I sat with an ice pack on my shoulder following physical therapy, listening. There were conversations all around me between patients and their therapists. It was a struggle to not join in. I’d hear one subject and realize I had a story about that, or an opinion on something else, or a desire to laugh – one guy told a hilarious story about how his darling princess daughter tackled a pig. I restrained myself because those were not my conversations, didn’t involve me, and comments from a stranger probably wouldn’t be appreciated. But when I am included in a conversation, it’s very easy to talk. About anything, to anyone, anywhere.

The thing is, it wasn’t always that way. All throughout school I talked only to my small group of friends. I’m sure most kids didn’t know I was in the room. Except when called upon by the teacher, when I would flame brightly into existence, the blush putting me right on everyone’s teasing radar.

I used to think the ability to be comfortable talking to people, or being in front of a crowd came about because I took on a job in the 70s that required my having to talk. But now I’m not so sure.

One thing that seems to make a difference is having something to talk about. I now have life experiences. I’ve been through many things that allow me to relate to those around me, which creates a sharing environment. At eighteen my life was still very sheltered. What was there to talk about? Heck, at age 30 my life was still sheltered but that’s another story.

Lots of talking here: You did WHAT? You swam WHERE? Are you INSANE? I had no problem finding words…

A teacher tried helping one time as I stood, shaking, contemplating an oral report. He said, ‘pick something you know’. It didn’t help then, but now I see the wisdom of that. If there are things you know well, that inspire you, then it’s going to be easier to talk to someone. Might even be hard to get you to stop talking. So I think that helps some, too.

And then there’s the simple blossoming of a storyteller. As we’ve talked about here before, there is a story behind everything. From a simple trip to the grocery store to the spider in the bathroom, to the latest headlines. We all have tales to tell that connect us to one another.

Of course not everyone wants to talk or tell a story. My husband, for one, would be very happy if, when out in public, he didn’t have to interact with anyone. Which works out great because I fill that silent void. Give me an excuse to tell a story and I’m off and running.

Well, okay, the husband can hold forth occasionally…

Posted just because I’ve always liked this photo

Like the princess and the pig: the little five-year-old girl dressed up for dance class, and dad stops at a friend’s for a quick visit. The little girl got charged by a pig and before the dad could react she grabbed the pig, bit its ear, yelled ‘take that!’ and sent the pig running, squealing.

That little girl is going to go far in life. And I bet she’ll be talking the whole way.

Lack of Self P.S.

October 28, 2014 / Lisa / 4 Comments

When I wrote the last post I was laughing at myself. At the process I always go through before an event, at how silly that process is, and how I can’t seem to change that process. I wanted to get across how, in spite of the doubt beforehand, these types of events leave me feeling so rejuvenated and ready to jump into writing. How they leave me inspired by those around me.

I got several very nice comments to that post but I haven’t replied to many yet as I’m not sure how to go about it. Rather than most commenting on their own ways of dealing with nerves or on how these types of things can actually be productive, I ended up with a lot of reassurances and compliments.

I appreciate all of the support but it leaves me feeling odd because that wasn’t the intent of the post. I’m left feeling like I unintentionally went trolling for compliments. I don’t think I got my point across at all, about how silly I was and how I knew I was silly and how I can’t stop being silly this way. Instead, the way the post reads, it sounds rather like those Facebook posts I find annoying where someone says they need a hug and ask their friends to post a word or phrase saying what they think of the poster. I always resist the urge to type ‘Needy!’

Which I now realize is the appropriate word for how the original post here sounded. Which was far away from my original intent.

So thank you for all the support and wonderfully kind words. I do appreciate them, I just didn’t mean to ask for them.

Lack of Self

October 20, 2014 / Lisa / 4 Comments

I’ve been invited to join authors at a local library event.

The result? Immediate self-doubt, the sense of not belonging, of not being good enough, and an immediate need to run to my favorite author/source of support for such events, Susan Schreyer, for hand holding while I wipe my sweaty brow and shake in my shoes.

The thing is, once the event happens, I’m fine. I have no stage fright, I have no problem speaking to crowds, I love doing this kind of stuff, and I have a blast.

It’s just the weeks leading up to it that’s horrible.

Here’s a prime example. We’ve been asked to provide questions we’d like to be asked, random facts about ourselves, and questions for the other authors. For random facts about ourselves, I submitted the earth shattering news that I once tried sandpaper to get rid of freckles after uncles told me freckles came from walking too close behind cows. I sent in my responses, then read what others submitted and wallow in self recrimination because theirs seem so well thought out, so ‘real author’ like.

And when I look at their author photos, they all look so professional. Then there’s me with those freckles that didn’t give way to sandpaper.

I absolutely detest those days leading up to an event. I even find it hard to write because I feel like a fraud. I don’t belong. I’m not a real author. All those horrible negatives that creep in. And let me tell you, it’s not just a looming event that make me fall victim to that nasty inner critic. It doesn’t take much at all, especially when I sit down to write, to bring up that weight of ‘I’m not good enough’. I know the thoughts are stupid, I know I’m not as bad as I think I am, but I can never escape that little voice saying ‘maybe you are’.

All this means that for the next couple weeks I’m going to be full of doubt, resisting the urge to moan my fate to Susan, struggling to string words together, and generally miserable. Then I’ll go to the library and have a blast and come home castigating myself for once again being a fool. I’ll feel empowered, enthusiastic, and impatient to write. Until another invitation comes in.

So what makes the difference? What makes me recognize the beauty of writing, the excitement of telling a story? What makes me react so differently?

Being around writers and readers. Having an environment of those who thrill to the power of a new book, a new tale to read, a new challenge to write. Even doing an edit job for someone else gives me that sense of enthusiasm to jump back into writing. I don’t think of it as a support system because, to me, a support system means a close group of regulars. I have that, in Susan and close friends (you know who you are) who are always there. What I’m talking about here is something different. I can go to those friends and know they are going to shore me up. But being around writers and readers isn’t a shoring up, it’s a sharing of something mutual. Those people don’t know me, the enthusiasm doesn’t come from loving me, it comes from loving the same thing. Does that make sense?

Between now and The Event I’m going to struggle to write every single word in my work in progress. But I know in a couple of weeks, that same work in progress is going to be inundated.

How silly we are sometimes.