Are You That Person at the Back of the Room?

That guy at the back of the room, the one at the edge of the party, the one in the bar who only talks to people who approach him? That guy isn't aloof. He isn't unfriendly.

That guy is me. I have been accused of being aloof and standoffish.

Could be you, too. Right? (Guy or gal, this is NOT gender-specific.)

I am shy. Most people don't guess that. I'm pretty much an introvert, although after a drink or three, you might beg to differ.

I don't like rejection (who does?) so I avoid putting myself out there.

At a party, I'll zero in on the person or two I know and hang with them all night. I don't work a room. Never could. I've no doubt missed interesting folk.

So have a set myself up for failure? Actually, no. I don't stay home and entirely avoid the situation.

Approach me, say hello, even toss a slight nod my way, and I'm ready to chat. A smile given gets a smile returned.

Know what?

Many, many people are the same. Just like us. Oh, they look friendly and outgoing in their immediate group. Remember what I said about zeroing in on the ones you know? Comfort zone. So you, we, look at them and think what a clique, bunch of snobs, stuck-up.

Of course, sometimes that is true. We do run the terrible risk of putting ourselves out there, saying hello first, introducing ourselves, whatever, only to find no interest, a down-the-nose glance, and a turn away.

It's happened. I didn't die. Sometimes you win.

My point?

Let me relate it to writing. I'm not convinced my stories or my book are great. Sometimes, not even really good. But I kinda do, and other people have thought so. When it came to the publishing world, the odds kept me from participating with serious intent for most of my younger life. Oh, I wrote. Plenty. Stories. A novel. I queried, some, not a lot. I expected rejection and got it, and it didn't kill me. I got a solid bite from an agent who rejected the manuscript. And a small publisher, when I decided I really didn't care about landing an agent and a deal with one of the Big Five, where I'd no doubt be buried alive, anyway. But I didn't stay home from the party.

Then someone said yes.

Sometimes you go to the bar and nurse a beer and go home alone. Sometimes you nod back when someone nods your way, and you go home with a hottie who may a great one-night toss, or may be a forever real thing.

Don't assume you won't win. Maybe you won't. But maybe you will. Maybe you'll be misunderstood, your reticence taken for arrogance. But maybe you'll connect. Don't be afraid.

One thing is sure. You never will if you don't go out and try. As "they" say, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take.

Oh, and that other person, the one not talking, across the room, at the bar, the party, the one who looks so up-in-the-air? That person may be just like you. Like me. Smile.

Perseverance Furthers

April passed and left behind a fair amount of destruction from the brutal winter she ended. Ended not without one last nasty screw-you moment. Just to make sure the damage done was done well.

Still, a few frozen branches on a beloved Japanese maple and a treasured azalea? Nature's red ink. And lo, after looking at the bare branches of the severely pruned azalea for a month, signs of life. Tiny buds forming on the branches I feared had given up. There will be leaves. Possibly few blossoms next Spring, but there will be life. The Great Editor forced my hand.

May brought warm weather, and with it, the manuscript of my novel. First full edit. Oh, and  the garden cleanup, and the annuals and patio pots needing planting. But get that full edit done and returned. And the month was gone. Passed. Zip. Yeah, it all got done. When it all needs to happen, somehow it does.

Now, as I wait for the return of that manuscript for the second edit (what plot holes will she have found?) I go into the garden and trim off more winter damage, but relish the life that survived the wrath of Madame Nature's wicked long cold spell. If half the lavender died, half lived, came inside to perfume the air, and now spices a jar of herbes de provence.

Just keep moving forward.

One foot, other foot. Always  beginning the next step. Nature does. Can we do less?

Of course a dumbass rhetoric question begs a facetious answer. Of course we can do less. We can do nothing. But, I'd posit, doing nothing consciously is doing something. Even when it's pure procrastination, because the goals, the next post, story, edit, is in there, cooking. You know you'll get to it. You will because it's where you're going. It's what you do.

If I must catch the newest episode of whatever twisted mystery has me in its thrall, or if I must, again, attack the relentless growth of thistle and vine, it's all fodder. We gnash our teeth, we could do more, write more, pull more weeds, plant more seeds. And we do.

The I Ching, ancient book of Chinese wisdom, repeatedly says "perseverance furthers." Today is the first day of the rest... oh, never mind. Start again. Keep going.

To my friends who feel stalled, stymied, blocked, take it as conscious down time. Keep on truckin'.

Perseverance furthers.