Some people like people. They enjoy hanging around in crowds, shooting the breeze, waffling on at length and sharing their sunny disposition with all and sundry. They’re out there and sometimes in yer face. Bless ‘em, the extroverts.
Then there are the curmudgeonly types who sit in caves and inhabit basement rooms owned by their mothers. Reclusive, inward gazing introverts.
We generally fall into one of those two categories, rarely at one end but somewhere along the spectrum with perhaps a bias towards outgoing or hermit. And thus we go through each day, content to wallow in our own desires, not bothered by encountering those from the other end of the range – we just step aside and walk around them. The world turns and we turn with it.
Except, dare I say, for the poor misbegotten fools who take up the pen and decide to pen the odd opus magnus. For them, dear reader, we hold a special circle of hell – I’m sure Dante had it in mind at about level 3 – a place where the introspective writer must leave the sheltered confines of his (or her) tiny garret and go out and about. Pressing the flesh and kissing babies. Yuk!
I don’t mind people, can take ‘em or leave ‘em; but I hate with a passion the vapid gatherings of social intercourse known as ‘networking’. Gak! I’m a writer, I like my own company, will accept my sainted wife hanging around and perhaps –on a good day with a following wind – the dog may flop at my feet. But that’s it.
And now I discover that I must schmooze with the best of them, exchange pleasantries and meaningful comments. Make myself known to those with influence, chat up some significant players.
As a chat up merchant I have a history of gobsmacked females who stared at me as if encountering a vaguely hirsute plant. Generally followed by embarrassed silence and then a trail of loud guffaws as I slunk away. But it seems I must revisit this era of social dismay and become a winning personality with all and sundry if I am to succeed as a writer.
“Oh, death where is thy sting?” ain’t in it when it comes to social conventions. But I’ll have a crack at it so be warned – the next unkempt, bearded lout who sidles up to you and mutters a phrase into your lug hole may be yours truly.
Have some Madeira, my dear.
and yet, you do so well when in groups!
Oh, pshaw! Spare our blushes Mr H – we saw you at Aussiecon doing just FINE!
It wasnae me, it was me brudder!
Yes. I crawled out of the cave one day, manuscript in hand and discovered writers and illustrators networking, attending workshops, signing up for newsletters, subscribing to magazines and annual lists of publishers needs, reading aloud in libraries and endlessly talking, talking, talking.
I couldn’t do it. I can’t spare the time! I crawled back into the cave. Someone else can sort it all out when I’m gone.
Assume the air martial, JaCey, stiffen the sinews and let fire course through the veins! A letterbox drop is the next plan, my query letter in every home in the city – gosh, hope it works. Then again, that cave looks pretty comfortable.