Making 'second nature' a verb.

Dear reader, I’m back to the comfort and stability of my old wooden chair—I just needed to get that declaration out of the way, because things had gotten really dramatic with the exercise ball and I had to take a stand and revert back to my old ways of sitting upright like a grown-up and not like an oompah loompah trying to reach the dinner table.

Today I sat with my first subject for interview as part of an editorship role I’ve been invited to fill at a brand new online publication, launching later this year. That sentence had a lot of fancy words in it, considering that, as of now, it’s on a pay-per-feature agreement. But it’s the most responsibility I’ve ever had as a writer, which is such a blessing and, really, my first “big break.”

One of those fancy words which I particularly want to discontinue the use of is “interview,” for it either conjures up images of Barbara Walters or Katie Couric or Oprah, and these are not people I am called to emulate. Otherwise, “to interview” makes me think of radio hosts like Krista Tippet, by whom I have been moved over the course of her interviews, and would rather think of what I am doing as being a part of a guided yet natural conversation, because talking is something I am very good at.

I spent so much time in one-on-one creative work last year with a male colleague that I also learned how to deeply listen. I know what you might be thinking (ladies), and no, it’s not because of stereotypes, but because if you stop talking for 30 seconds (ladies), a space opens up for a man to open up in that space. I learned this from Alison Armstrong and then practiced it, over and over and over again, with my good colleague, whom, many months later, told me in tender earnestness that I am a good listener, and that is a badge of honor I will wear until my dying day.

Also (and obviously), if all we’re doing is having an interesting conversation, a lot of the pressure gets let out of the pressure balloon, and I can focus more on listening and being in the moment and less on driving forward an agenda or queuing up the question I want to ask next. 

This art of the conversation is something I learned about firsthand in Ireland.

There’s an anecdote I love to share about the time my housemate (the one who became my self-appointed older brother) took me aside after making a fool of myself in front of a group of new friends (everyone was talking so fast and with such elegance of rhythm that I couldn’t get a word in edgewise until I was fit to burst and that’s what I did; I burst into the conversation, which killed it dead in its tracks), and told me this:

“Conversation is like a dance. You have to find the rhythm before you can begin.” 

In other words, listen, observe, and above all, feel. 

That is what I tried to do this morning as I sat across from my new acquaintance who was telling me the story of his life, and how, so incredibly different than my own life story, all I could do was listen, rapt, nearly breathless as he sped through decades and career phases like the turns of phrase my Irish friends would make with percussive precision. 

These types of “assignments” or stories are not at all well established in my repertoire as a writer. But despite this, here is something I have learned:

Being a master of something means taking it in from every angle—observing, documenting, encountering, investigating from every point of view that can be achieved. Human interest stories which afford me the liberty to write and speak from my own vantage point and in my own voice and style have been like this missing piece in my practice as a writer. These are, in fact, the types of stories that brought me over to this side of Florida.

Am I intimidated? A bit, yeah.

But I’m much, much more excited to take on this new challenge, this new puzzle, cutting my “journalism” teeth on stories of people at the height of their careers…

I’ve written before about how dreaming big and living big are the only ways to transform an unfulfilling life into a fulfilling one. I feel a little bit like the precocious little girl, wearing her mother’s frock and heels. Even though it’s all too big on her, she never once doubts that a) she looks fabulous, and b) the day will come (sooner than anyone realizes) when wearing frocks and heels just like that will become second nature to her.

So, let’s second nature the sh*t out of today, shall we?