When I tuned into The Next Chapter on Saturday afternoon, Shelagh Rogers was interviewing two “exuberant” extroverts. They spoke of wanting to be charged by life, engaged in every moment. They didn’t want to be sitting in the corner, observing instead of experiencing.
Also this weekend, I read parts of Still Writing by Dani Shapiro. I’ve been grazing through this book for weeks. I’ve renewed it twice already, and I think I need to buy my own copy. It’s full of pithy, wise thoughts on the writing life.
Here’s the paragraph that struck me after the exuberance interview:
“I was working on the proof of one of my poems all morning, and took out a coma,” wrote Oscar Wilde. “In the afternoon, I put it back again.” Let’s face it: most of us are perfectionists. We spend our days searching for the perfect turn of phrase. And we consider this a good time.
Together, these ideas brought me to the following:
Poor Min. He is constantly trying to seize the day, and I’m usually drifting along in his wake, half listening and half wondering how the conversation the two teenagers had (loudly) on the sidewalk in front of our house in the early hours of the morning would translate into a fictional scene.
With my exuberant family members in mind, I vowed to face the rest of Easter weekend with more engaged attention. And succeeded, I think.
But now that the work week has arrived, and with it a little silent, solitary writing time, I’m going to reap my introvert’s reward.