Early in my career, I worked in an office directed by a military officer who appeared comfortable in any social setting. I was surprised to learn from a coworker that the officer was not as comfortable with socializing as he seemed. She recalled one afternoon in particular, when an employee came by with a new baby. She stepped into his office to let him know visitors had arrived and that he should come greet them.
He looked up from his desk and sighed. “Do I have to?”
“Yes, you have to.”
No one was the wiser when he appeared, smiling, congratulating the new parents and cooing at the baby.
Decades later, I have reached the point in my career where I’m giving more thought to what I want to be when I really grow up. I see myself at a keyboard, coffee at hand, words flowing onto the screen. I dream of holding the fruit of my labor in my hands, gazing at the brightly illustrated cover, tracing my fingers across my name, and gently turning the pages. I close my eyes and imagine a table at the local bookstore tastefully adorned with copies of my book.
I read the latest tips on writing professionally and the dream becomes a nightmare.
I understand that, in this century, holding the fruit of my labors in my hand likely involves an electronic device. What bothers me is the idea of “peddling” my own work. The first step recommended by the experts, maximizing social media, presents enough of a challenge. I’ve always been a little awkward socially, and social media is no exception.
Until my last blog post, I had been AWOL from Facebook and Twitter for the better part of six months. I don’t think I’m unsociable, but one would be forgiven for suspecting otherwise. I was about three months old when my paternal grandparents agreed to babysit for a few hours while Mother went to the Laundromat. She was barely out of sight when I clenched my eyes shut and began to howl. Grandma and three aunts who lived nearby offered comfort, to no avail. Finally, my weary grandparents ferried me across town to Mother, the neighbors no doubt wondering at the wails coming from Grandpa’s Plymouth bouncing down the street. A few months later, Mother stood at the back of the church as I sobbed through my cousin’s wedding.
As I grew the tears stopped, but I’ve just never been good at mixing and mingling. The best way I can describe the feeling is being a duckling among swans. I’ve learned to navigate, as my early supervisor did, but every so often I still find myself feeling like I don’t quite fit in. I’ve reached a point in life where I figure people are going to think what they’re going to think, and accepting that helps me to be more comfortable in my own skin.
Words written from the privacy of one’s own home travel the superhighway to places one can only dream of, or dread, going. This is the mixed blessing of social media, and likely the reason I retreated for a time. I want to be known for my writing, and I realize that means my readers will want to know me. I know I must learn to navigate, but every so often I may sigh and ask, “Do I have to?”
Please tell me, “Yes, you have to.”
Copyright 2016 Sherry A. Hathaway. All rights reserved.