And I will note, with my middle-aged-writerly wisdom hat snug around my sweaty summer brow, that I connected with this magazine via Sarah Martinez, author of Sex and Death in the American Novel, a friend I made at Taos Summer Writer’s Conference. Which I signed up for despite the fact that I dread schmoozing, I hate small talk, I loathe crowds and I drip with sweat as I approach the noisy rooms wherein crowds are making small talk and schmoozing. Yet every single time I go into a noisy rooms to make small talk and schmooze, I come out with an interesting idea, new acquaintance/possible friend, or, worst case, an idea for an appetizer to try at home. It is never all bad.
But my body insists it WILL BE HORRIBLE. Every single time. How fascinating! How misguided. How not-evidence-based. And thus how also an opportunity for dancing on the edge of self-awareness and obliviousness. It is in my awareness of my dueling dual selves that I learn the most, connect the most, open the most doors.
It’s summer. All the doors and windows can be open where I live. I’m going to hang out, and schmooze despite my hating, loathing, and dripping sweat. Whee!