The Schmoozing Predicament

I had one of those rare days today. I ran all over town with no plan, no one to answer to, no company other than the radio. My phone was dead, so I left it at home. Shorty was with Dad, since it was Dad's day off, and I had the keys to the car

It was wonderful.

But with all that wonderfulness, I still found myself borrowing a phone two or three times to call home and make sure everything was okay. I almost felt guilty for feeling so free.

Where does this relate to writing? Good question.

I have a gift for public relations. Between my mission and my time in the banking business, I discovered this talent. From bums to statesmen, there is no one that I can't hold a conversation with (except white supremecists, but that's another post I'd rather not get into). I'm good at getting my name out there. Speaking in public, especially to a big crowd, is not only pleasant, in the right circumstances it's downright fun. If I believe in my cause, I can stop strangers on the street without hesitation. I have no natural fear of making an idiot of myself. I even know what fork to use in a completely formal table setting. In other words, I'm an absolute crackerjack at schmoozing.

I know it's a gift coveted by many, but here's the catch:

I hate it.

Not all of it - I know at least a hundred other writers, and have a fabulous network of wonderful associates in the writing world. I adore my fellow writers, and I love reading comments from those who've read my blog.

I hate the schmoozing part of it all. Always have. True that it's easy for me, but it's not the talent I would have wished for. And yet, I get caught up in it easily, because - after all - it's my thing.

Weird, isn't it?

I think I've forgotten in the last little while that this isn't what I got into this racket for. It's all well and good to have name recognition, but what good will it do me if I have nothing for which my name should be recognized?

I signed up to be a writer, not a schmoozer.

So, how do I steer myself back to what I really want to do? To be honest, I'm not sure. Now that I have Shorty, I can't just lock myself in the back room and ignore the world. The hound has to go out every few hours, whether I like it or not, so we end up outside to play. Great, I think, here's my chance. Until the neighbor comes out with her little guy to play and visit. And then the guys upstairs come in from work and stop to chat, and the little girl across the way asks if she can play with the puppy....

And there I am, schmoozing again. Not that I mind, I'm blessed with (mostly) fabulous neighbors, just like those fantastic 100+ writers I know.

It's a strange quandry, I know...

Maybe it's just the phase of the moon.

(That poor moon gets blamed for a lot, doesn't he?)