Late last night, as my mind wandered here and there, I stumbled over this realization… In all the beaucoup of words I’ve written over the years, I have never once written from the POV of a truly shy person.
I’ve visited the mindset of just about every other trait imaginable but never shyness.
Hmm. I wonder why?
People who know me only casually (and even many who supposedly know me “quite well”) take my awkwardness in social situations as chronic shyness.
Really, really, Trump-as-President wrong.
I’m gutsy, bold, daring as all get-out, adventurous and as silly as a kindergartener high on cookies and ice cream. Unfortunately, this panic-thing I’ve got stalking around my brain doesn’t allow me to show it in social situations. Panic sucks the spine right out of my soul and spits it back out at me in bloody, broken pieces. I have to then concentrate so manically on putting it back together that there’s absolutely nothing left of me to concentrate on the person standing in front of me.
Panic leaves me a quivering blob of flesh and embarrassment… the one thing I am not.
Talk about ironic.
So, maybe I don’t write from the POV of truly shy people because I feel so foreign in their skin? Or is it because I’m so freaking tired of being forced into their skin that I don’t want to revisit it in my writing? Who the heck knows?
Ok, enough of the psycho-analyzing crap, I need a cookie.
Post-note: I hope this helps someone. I’m not quite sure how it could, but I do hope.