“You’re not an introvert!” said the media escort in LA accusingly, after the second day of schtick, when I had spoken to approximately three hundred children total. “You say you are, but you’re not!”
I am still vaguely resentful of this, even though it’s been a week. Should I have brought a note from my doctor, or my husband?
I thought about explaining that introverts do public speaking all the time and we can even be quite good at it, it’s just that we have to sleep for a week afterward. I wanted to explain that I really do hope people are glad to see me and I hope they come out because if they don’t, I’ll still be on the book tour being exhausted anyway, except nobody will be there to talk to about books and that’s the only reason this is worthwhile. It is definitely not the room service bagels. I thought about explaining the bit where I will sleep for a week.
Read the rest on Ursula Vernon’s tumblr Squash Tea.
Nobody said this to me at KidLitCon or at my board meetings this past weekend, but I get a lot of those looks that say, “Oh, you’re so funny, of course you love this.
Not that I want to sound ungrateful, but… no. I don’t do the up front stuff because I love it. Honestly? I practice. I stress. I pace. It’s hard, REALLY hard for me. I want to do a good job, I have somewhat intelligent things to say, and so I say them, and afterward, I feel physically as if I’ve been beaten by hundreds of old ladies, wielding the slippers with which they discipline their chihuahuas. It’s tiny smacks, but eventually, it adds up to feeling like I’ve been stuffed into a hollow log and rolled down Mt. Everest backwards. (Is there a direction to rolling? No? Okay.) It’s grueling in a weird way which makes me have to lie down, even if I am on the podium for ten minutes at church. Seriously. It is taxing for me to be around people and not quiet in my house with my books.
It’s not that I don’t like you. It’s just that you are not me. I live in the hamster ball alone.
I want to accept who I am – and be the best me I can. That means accepting my limitation.
At one point, I declared 2014 the year of “No…” I may need to revise that, seeing as I’ve just managed to find myself on two committees and planning a DIY Messiah for December.
Let’s try this again: 2015 is THE YEAR OF NO. No, seriously.