Wanted: Used Snark

C.E. Grundler

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read Christine’s post from the other day, composing comments in my head that never reached the screen. Let’s start with a belated Happy Birthday, Christine, and I hope you had a great one. And I hope the conference turned out to be less stress-inducing than you imagined.

Believe me, I get it. While I haven’t logged anything close to the nautical miles Christine has, her trepidation upon stepping into a crowded social situation and that overwhelming desire to slip quietly away (or run screaming, at least internally) is something I can relate to in many ways. I’ve always considered myself a reasonably brave (insane?) person, always open to any opportunity for adventure. From my earliest sailing days, I quickly learned that the nastier it was, the more fun I had in my little styrofoam Snark, modified with a tiller extension, upgraded blocks and a hiking rig. The boat weighed about as much as a half-empty ice chest that had been fitted with a centerboard and rudder. I wasn’t much heavier, so I could skim across the rough waves like a maniac, determined to see just how much air I could catch between each crest.  I don’t think my parents appreciated it, but the uglier the water got, the harder it was to get me back to shore. There’s something to be said for a light, relatively indestructable, unsinkable boat, and when you’re small (both me and the boat) the wide stretch of Hudson can become an endless ocean…at least until they sent my brother in the dinghy to herd me back, because clearly I wasn’t hearing them blasting the horns. Couldn’t they see I was trying to round Cape Horn? But I knew it was head in, or lose sailing privileges, so the next game became ‘high-speed chase’, relatively speaking, while I outran that 3 hp Evinrude powered pursuit boat back to home port. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to stay out there forever…or at least until I got too hungry or cold. Just me and the boat, out on the open water, alone.

I’ve never been one for crowds. Crowds mean people. Lots of people, all bustling and chattering and mingling. For me, anything over six people in a room equals a crowd. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not shy, and I have no problem speaking with anyone. I’m confident and self-assured, and people seem to find me interesting — a little more interesting than I’d prefer at times.  For me, it’s not about any fear or self-consciousness. It’s just that I never really got that social interaction thing down in those critical years. Even then I could care less who was cool or who thought I was weird, because everyone, including me, knew I was. I was far happier alone, rather than attempting to play nice with the other schoolyard humans. That’s just me, and I’d probably live out my life never caring, if not for that ‘other’ part of being a writer, when us happy introverts are expected to emerge from our coccoons of self-imposed isolation and blossom into social butterflies. And each time I read Christine’s post I shudder the slightest bit, knowing once I’ve finished editing I’m going to have to face that gauntlet of ‘being social’, both online and in person. Writing favors the introverts, but marketing and promotion calls for a much different set of social skills. I’m ever amazed by those authors who embrace the spotlight, the signings and interactions, and I know I’ll have a steep re-learning curve to ease myself back onto the playground. It makes me want to see if anyone is selling an old Snark.

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