Originally published Sept. 27, 2015
When I was 22 and working in Lenoir as a reporter, my boss recommended me for a reporting job in Wilmington. I drove down and spent a few hours there interviewing.
The editor in Wilmington reported to my boss in Lenoir that during the interview he had the impression I was retarded.
Alas, though my condition has improved in many ways since then, at times it feels as though I’ve made no progress at all.
My problem during the interview in Wilmington was that when I answered questions, the answers were short. I had to be drawn out. I was quiet to a degree that was uncomfortable for the interviewer.
It wasn’t that I was nervous, as far as I can recall. I thought the interview went well. The cause for my performance was that my nature is to be powerfully introverted. During any conversation, my unconscious inclination is to sit quietly and wait for questions.
This might seem contradictory for a journalist, but it’s not, at least not in newspapers.
People who work in television news tend to be extroverts — they work in front of the camera because they love it. Public interaction is the water in which they swim.
Many of the people who work in newspapers are introverts. Not all, not most, but many. They are writers first. They feel most comfortable in quiet spaces, expressing themselves on paper. Few professions exist for those who only want to write, so many come to news.
The problem about news for the most introverted is the part about asking questions of other people. Some can’t. But for some, including me, the job becomes a shield. Doing my job allows me to walk up to almost anyone and talk to them about the thing I want to find out about. Before coming to Lenoir, the job I had required me to speak in front of groups, and gradually I learned to apply the shield there too. Like an actor, I have to immerse myself in a character who behaves differently than I want to: Strike a confident pose, speak up, enunciate, make eye contact.
Of course, being able to express yourself well in writing leads readers to the expectation that the writer in person will be the same as he is on the page. When the topic is something I know well or feel strongly about, I can live up to that. But whether on the job or off, I’m terrible at casual conversation. A typical bumping-into-someone-at-a-public-spot as often as not goes something like this:
Other person: “Hi!”
Me: “Oh, hey! How’s it going?!”
Other person: “Great! How are things with you?”
Me: “Good.”
And then the other person waits for me to ask a question. It’s my turn. I know it. I’ve been through this before. I just have no idea what to say. Time slows. I can feel the Earth rotate. Dust motes float in the air. I start to sweat. The other person may fill the void and ask a question. I can answer it, I’m good at that part. But then I may go quiet as the wheels in my brain spin.
Me: “Well, gotta go. Good to see you!”
And I hustle out, but then I spend days agonizing over what I should have said.
A week ago it happened twice in one hour, and the memory has been haunting me.
Things used to be worse. I have tried over the past 20 years or so to loosen up and get better at casual chat. Progress is slow. This past spring I joined the Lenoir Rotary Club, and the club’s weekly lunch is my small-talk practice. I usually do OK, but at times I struggle. A little more than a week ago, at one point another club member waved her hands in front of my face because I was just staring at the table.
In a small town, social shortcomings like this are hard to hide.
Which is the long way around for me to say to everyone I have been and ever will be awkward with around town, I’m not aloof, I’m not avoiding you, I don’t dislike you. It’s all on me. I’m just built that way. Forgive me.
Newsroom With A View 