I am terrible at small talk

Writers Festival edition

Image description: blurry image of a chair with a very short back. It is pine wood coloured with a navy cushion and sits on the grass. It is dark out. Light comes from a nearby unpictured street light.

Readers, I am so bad at small talk. The Ottawa International Writers Festival began last night. I went to see one of my favourite Writers, here from out of town . She was magnifique of course. After we chatted. We had made plans to carve out a small space for a brief chat. Oh darling readers, I babbled like a fool. A. Fool. Sigh.

Imagine me, friends. Standing awkwardly at a high table. No libation in hand. I can't afford it. The writer whose work is so brilliant, playful, different. I just babbled. Ugh. It will be years before I see her again.

Forthcoming are more writers who I know also and who I'd like to have meaningful conversations with. I think I will just admit that I can't small talk, throw myself on their mercy.

I am better with the written word. I can articulate stuff. Well maybe nit now at 6:19 in the morning in bed on my android beside a sleeping husband with the window open while early morning traffic on Bronson makes white noise across the wet black tarmac. But I can write. So much more meaningfully than I can speak. I'm sorry writer pals in advance. If we meet, I'm going to seem like a fucking idiot. Please like me anyway.