To my great dismay, a little shyness snuck up on me yesterday. See, when I was little, I was very shy, but grew out of it and worked it out for the most part. Sure, when I was unsure of what to say I generally kept my mouth shut and never dealt very well with being thrown verbal/social curveballs, but I managed and it wan’t much of an issue. But, somehow, in the last couple of years, it’s come up for me again.

It makes zero sense. I did improv! I do book readings! I turn some readings into an episode of “Jackass”… These things are no problem. The problem is being in a room full of people and only knowing one or two of them, or worse, none of them.

I don’t feel badly about myself, but when asked to talk at length about myself or my book, I start feeling uncomfortable, thinking I must sound like an egomaniac. This is ridiculous because I hear wonderful, creative people talk about their lives and projects all the time and don’t think that about them at all. And, this is especially terrible because, hello, I’m on book tour. It’s my fucking job to talk about my writing!

Ah well, yesterday was just one day. Today, I have decided, is drastically different. And good thing, too! Today I’m sitting on two discussion panels here at the Omaha Lit Fest— one about comedy-writing and the other discussing literary sex. Now there are a couple of topics I can yammer on about.