“So… What Have You Been Up To?” And Other Tough Questions To Answer Out Loud
I dread people asking me what I’ve “been up to recently”. Not because of anything I actually get up to; let me make that clear from the off.
No, I dread that question because it equals pressure. I’ve got to mine my ailing memory (OK, what have I been up to recently?) I’ve got to select the things I’ve done that are interesting enough to talk about. I’ve got to talk about them in a non-boring manner.
I’ve got to do all that right there, in the moment. On the spot.
(I’m exhausted already).
I’d be OK if my highly-sensitive mental filters didn’t immediately reject anything too mundane, which is roughly 95% of my life. So I’ll usually mumble something like, “not much, how about you?”
Somewhat ironically, that’s way more boring than anything else I could have said.
Clearly there’s a self-esteem issue here. I’m still envious of a friend who, when I asked her how her recent dental appointment had gone, casually told me about it in detail. Right down to how long she’d had to spend in the waiting room beforehand.
She didn’t bore me; partly because I know and care about her, and partly because I love life’s little details. But I felt sure that, had the tables been turned, her eyes would have glazed over as I chatted carelessly about pink drinks and slobbery X-rays.
I also hate being asked my opinion on anything.
This’ll sound weird, but nine times out of ten I’ll have several detailed and utterly conflicting opinions on the same thing, so it’s hard to know which one I should offer.
I also tend to absorb others’ unspoken thoughts and feelings… or at least, what my subconscious mind believes those to be. That makes it hard to work out which thoughts and feelings are mine, and which ones really belong to someone else.
(Told you it’d sound weird).
Once, when I was a week or so into a new job, my boss asked me how I’d describe the atmosphere in our office. “Strange and tense, but I can’t explain why that is,” I said, without thinking first. “Oh,” my boss said, looking upset. “I thought you were going to say ‘calm and motivating’”.
Then there’s answering questions about things that are important to me, like my novel.
I hate being asked what it’s about. Hate it.
When I talk about my work-in-progress novel, or any other piece of writing that genuinely means something to me, it sounds like unintelligible mush.
I finish those conversations feeling genuinely embarrassed that I couldn’t instantly conjure up a few clear, ordered words to talk about the story I’m trying to write. I’m certain the other person is regretting having wasted the last five precious minutes of their time. “…and you call yourself a writer?” I imagine them thinking. “You can’t even tell me what your book’s about! Ha ha!”
But I do call myself a writer…
…if only out of consideration for others. Reading my writing is far less of a chore than asking me a question out loud.
Writing also relieves the mental pressure, because I’ve got time to think about what I’m going to say before saying it. I can craft every sentence carefully instead of spluttering them out — however they might read! — and I can check that they say roughly what I mean… because I can never get that quite right.
I’ll die trying, though.
I also don’t have to worry about boring people, because if you were that bored I don’t think you’d have read this far (if you have, WHY? You don’t have to. No-one’s holding a gun to your head and I won’t know anything about it if you stop.
Though we’re at the end now, anyway).
