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With a quick flash, and a case of mistaken identity, I found myself on the receiving end of a series of one-line emails from the maintainer of a writing-themed blog. Even after admitting in the first round of emails my name had no correlation with a girl in another state, the questions continued to come. At first, I appeared to be keeping his interest, and then, with one careless choice on my part, the flow of questions ended.
Looking back, I could see that by sending him a link to a piece I had written on the subject we discussed curtailed (and subtly implied a desire to end) the discussion we were sharing--two strangers across the digital divide. As in many situations in my life, I stuck my toe in the water to test its temperature, and then dove in with little assurance for maintaining the delicate balance the water held.
Perhaps the silence would have come anyway. Perhaps my answers had already said enough, and once proving I was nothing like the hoped-for other, he grew bored and turned back to driving. I started analyzing my own caution in the discussion, the unwillingness to throw myself forward, and then, shoving it all out there. It's a pattern, and one few people appreciate--I'm not even sure I appreciate it.
Yet, what was it really so simple as a choice to provide a link instead of a clever answer? There is also the inescapable, unknowable element in life that turns a mistake or happenstance into interest, and an interest into tedium. It's never just one thing, but it's often the final thing, the catalyst or linchpin, bringing with it a host of change whether desired or not. Sometimes the reasons add up, whittle down, or fade. At others, it comes as a cataclysm, an abrupt and absolute alteration of life.
This was a small thing in my life, to be at first someone worth considering, flattered by the attention of someone who thousands of others wanted to speak with, and then dismissed as swiftly without word. A product, in part, of my own choices. Yet it's happened so often, no wonder I remain cautious at first. There are people who knew me when I was younger, fitter, more able to be true to my core self, and more able to feel at home in my body as a sexual being. They recall clever banter in emails, over the phone, or late nights in an Italian restaurant.
Too often, I find the requirement, the expectation, for that level of constant wit, exhausting and not worth the effort. I want more and more for people to speak plainly, to avoid the circuitous games of saying what is meant, and for intent to be on the table for all to see, rather than guessed at both at the beginning and end of interest. Is it laziness as a writer? Or can I claim to be hoarding my wit for the words on a page? At least with the written word, I can be witty. My verbal responses, on the spot, especially with people who make me nervous, never come out as intended (assuming my own intent managed to stay with me throughout a given exchange, for too often it flees to a mystical land where I cannot reclaim it until after my opportunity passes).
I could also claim disability. Being chronically ill tends to sap one's strength for healthy banter, the repartee of the educated elite (or elitist, though I try to avoid the latter).
But ultimately I want to understand this element. While it often falls outside the control of the one it affects most, there are clearly some who understand its nature better than I, and are able to shape it, and make use of it as a magi would use arcane forces. They wield arcs of lightening pulled from this energy, and wrap it about themselves to appear more fascinating, draw in others.
Perhaps, though, the pursuit is not worth my energy either. Perhaps it is better I continue to do "my good work" and plod along, in hopes that someday the wisdom of how to direct opportunity comes to me without forcing it. Given what I know of those who attract the unknowable force, it seems all they do is work toward their goals, and the rest falls where intended by their own hands, or some other, equally unknowable source.
Somehow, having felt flattered to be considered by someone others consider worthy, makes the disinterest* harder to accept, even though I had not invested anything in the brief exchange (really, it was quite brief, less than a dozen response cycles), or sought it out. My self-worth is stronger than this episode, yet I feel down because of it. Why? How odd my brain. I'm giving myself good advice to drink more water, get more sleep, plow through my to-do list, and create something today. There are projects, both writing and home, which need my attention. I'll push my way through this unattractive funk, and find it again, I know, but I don't understand why this one incident brought about such inner drama, nor do I like being someone who lets the little things bring her down. There are far bigger issues to attend!
*(For all I know, it's a total overreaction on my part--well, it's already an overreaction either way--but he might just have been busy. And what is it I hope will occur? To be liked? I'm already liked by many people! Stupid, stupid brain. Give me happier chemicals, damn you!)
Looking back, I could see that by sending him a link to a piece I had written on the subject we discussed curtailed (and subtly implied a desire to end) the discussion we were sharing--two strangers across the digital divide. As in many situations in my life, I stuck my toe in the water to test its temperature, and then dove in with little assurance for maintaining the delicate balance the water held.
Perhaps the silence would have come anyway. Perhaps my answers had already said enough, and once proving I was nothing like the hoped-for other, he grew bored and turned back to driving. I started analyzing my own caution in the discussion, the unwillingness to throw myself forward, and then, shoving it all out there. It's a pattern, and one few people appreciate--I'm not even sure I appreciate it.
Yet, what was it really so simple as a choice to provide a link instead of a clever answer? There is also the inescapable, unknowable element in life that turns a mistake or happenstance into interest, and an interest into tedium. It's never just one thing, but it's often the final thing, the catalyst or linchpin, bringing with it a host of change whether desired or not. Sometimes the reasons add up, whittle down, or fade. At others, it comes as a cataclysm, an abrupt and absolute alteration of life.
This was a small thing in my life, to be at first someone worth considering, flattered by the attention of someone who thousands of others wanted to speak with, and then dismissed as swiftly without word. A product, in part, of my own choices. Yet it's happened so often, no wonder I remain cautious at first. There are people who knew me when I was younger, fitter, more able to be true to my core self, and more able to feel at home in my body as a sexual being. They recall clever banter in emails, over the phone, or late nights in an Italian restaurant.
Too often, I find the requirement, the expectation, for that level of constant wit, exhausting and not worth the effort. I want more and more for people to speak plainly, to avoid the circuitous games of saying what is meant, and for intent to be on the table for all to see, rather than guessed at both at the beginning and end of interest. Is it laziness as a writer? Or can I claim to be hoarding my wit for the words on a page? At least with the written word, I can be witty. My verbal responses, on the spot, especially with people who make me nervous, never come out as intended (assuming my own intent managed to stay with me throughout a given exchange, for too often it flees to a mystical land where I cannot reclaim it until after my opportunity passes).
I could also claim disability. Being chronically ill tends to sap one's strength for healthy banter, the repartee of the educated elite (or elitist, though I try to avoid the latter).
But ultimately I want to understand this element. While it often falls outside the control of the one it affects most, there are clearly some who understand its nature better than I, and are able to shape it, and make use of it as a magi would use arcane forces. They wield arcs of lightening pulled from this energy, and wrap it about themselves to appear more fascinating, draw in others.
Perhaps, though, the pursuit is not worth my energy either. Perhaps it is better I continue to do "my good work" and plod along, in hopes that someday the wisdom of how to direct opportunity comes to me without forcing it. Given what I know of those who attract the unknowable force, it seems all they do is work toward their goals, and the rest falls where intended by their own hands, or some other, equally unknowable source.
Somehow, having felt flattered to be considered by someone others consider worthy, makes the disinterest* harder to accept, even though I had not invested anything in the brief exchange (really, it was quite brief, less than a dozen response cycles), or sought it out. My self-worth is stronger than this episode, yet I feel down because of it. Why? How odd my brain. I'm giving myself good advice to drink more water, get more sleep, plow through my to-do list, and create something today. There are projects, both writing and home, which need my attention. I'll push my way through this unattractive funk, and find it again, I know, but I don't understand why this one incident brought about such inner drama, nor do I like being someone who lets the little things bring her down. There are far bigger issues to attend!
*(For all I know, it's a total overreaction on my part--well, it's already an overreaction either way--but he might just have been busy. And what is it I hope will occur? To be liked? I'm already liked by many people! Stupid, stupid brain. Give me happier chemicals, damn you!)
