Pride

I haven't had much to say here lately.  In fact, lately I rarely feel like I have anything to say at all.

In Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility, Willoughby says of Colonel Brandon, "[He] is just the kind of man whom everybody speaks well of, . . . whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."

I've felt that way. I like people; I like to be with them, I like to hear them talking, and be part of the conversation if I can. But I rarely feel like I have anything to add and I often feel that no one would notice the difference if I weren't there at all.  So I listen a lot; I am the fly on the wall.

In another story, Pride and Prejudice, Lizzy Bennett is speaking to Mr. Darcy. He says he doesn't have a talent for "conversing easily" with others, and she responds, "I do not play this instrument so well as I should wish to, but I have always supposed that to be my own fault, because I would not take the trouble of practising."

And Lizzy is undoubtedly right. But I am kind of . . . afraid?
. . . of people. How's that for a dichotomy? I like them and I want to be with them; I find them slightly terrifying—as if they will think that my ideas, my words, my actions are of no value. Or, worse, they'll just think that I'm downright stupid or annoying. Much as I'd like for people to seek me out, I think I'm more of a Colonel Brandon.

Lizzy probably is right—about practicing. But it is so much easier to learn the piano.