Please, Okay?

I think I made a mistake when I admitted on my blog that I was writing a novel.

The more I think about it, the more I think: yes. That was absolutely a big, dumb mistake.

Who knew that writing a novel would feel like such a private, personal thing? I did not. I wrote about it, initially, because I didn't realize how much I would dislike talking about it to real people. I talked about it to long-distance friends and online people quite a bit, and I really liked that, so maybe I thought talking about it to real, in-person people would feel the same. Maybe I also sort of forgot that people I know actually read my blog - there was a time when the only people who read here were Crystal Kimber and a handful of women from Korea and Scotland.

I still remember the day my dad called after coming across this post somehow, like, "Hi, Suzy. Your mom and I aren't so sure you should be wandering into back alleys on the advice of homemade posters promising you the best time of your life." I should've learned my lesson back then. Not about back alleys - though that is, also, for sure a valuable life lesson that my dad was right about - but about writing things online without expecting that real-life people will read them and then want to discuss them with you.

Because it's really, really nice of people to read here and it's super wonderful of them to take an interest in what I'm doing and ask me questions about it. I'm for sure not mad about it - it would be quite silly of me to put stuff out there and then be mad at people for wanting to talk about it with me.

But if you've ever asked me in real life, "Hey, how's that novel going?" you might have noticed my lips curl back and my eyes cross and my gut suck right in to my spine as I stammer:

"It, uh, it uh, it's...just not. I don't know. I'm busy doing other things. I don't want to talk about it."

And while I'm talking, I'm thinking, This is the most embarrassing thing ever. I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know how to talk anymore. Am I saying, 'Blub blub blub blub?' Like, I can't even admit that I'm working on it. It's so ridiculous. It feels exactly like someone is asking me if I still like to play with Barbies and I'm admitting that, yes, I do like to play with Barbies still and that is what I do with all of my free time lately. Just playing Barbies all day every day. Giving them names and dressing them up and making them marry Ken over and over and over again. Why did I admit to this ON THE INTERNET?

Let's pretend in real life that this whole thing doesn't exist. Please, okay? I am seriously considering publishing it under a pseudonym and never admitting to anyone I know in real life that I did it. It might seem counter-intuitive to bring it up again on here just to say to forget about it, but every time someone asks me The Question in real life I pretty much swallow my nose and turn into a blubbering idiot, so there's zero chance of me tactfully saying, "You know what? I'd prefer not to talk about that at this time - I actually shouldn't have brought it up in the first place."

I would love to know if I am the only person who feels this way. Like, if I'm passionate about something, is it completely weird to also not want to talk about it ever at all? It it weird to want to keep that thing in a completely separate little personality box that I only show to a couple of people and keep away from pretty much everyone else? Blub blub blub blub?

Harold and Harv

It would seem that I've made a couple of new friends. It would seem that I won them over with my parallel parking skills.

I met them about two months ago. I was pulling into a parking spot downtown, in front of a place I go every Tuesday. It was a small spot, just barely the size of my car, but I was feeling confident that day. I did all the necessary preliminary maneuvers, but as I shoulder checked, I noticed these two old men sitting on the sidewalk on colourful lawn chairs. My first thought, which feels silly to admit, was that I was worried about having an audience. As though everyone is always watching what I'm doing, as if anyone cares.

A while back, I remember saying to a friend that I sometimes wondered what strangers thought of me when I passed them in public - I mean, I have thoughts about strangers when I pass them, so why wouldn't they think about me too? But she gave me this look of disdain and told me I was full of myself. Maybe I am.

Still, parallel parking is a different beast when you have an audience. It just is. I don't know why; it's not like it reflects badly on your character if you can't back into a parking spot on your first try. It only feels that way. Right?

So anyway, I got super into this parallel park. I accessed my 16 year-old brain and imagined my driver instructor's ghost in the passenger seat (I'm not sure if he's actually dead, but, probably. I mean, he's a driver instructor. He gets into cars with teenagers for a living).

"Don't get worked up over it," said my imaginary ghost driver instructor. "Just line up that thing with that thing. Yeah, like that. Now turn that, yeah, like that. Okay, don't overdo it. Yup. There it is. There it goes. Just slow. Crank it. Go there. Good job."

And before I knew it, I had completed the most perfect parallel park of my life. It was beautiful. I felt my face glowing and resisted the urge to glance over at the old men for approval.

But when I looked over at my ghost instructor, it was my friend instead, and she had that look on her face again. "You're so full of yourself. No one is thinking about you." So true. They probably hadn't noticed. I blinked away all the apparitions and flung open my car door...

...to the sound of uproarious, two-person applause. The two old men were ecstatic. They had probably five teeth between the two of them, and I could see them all. They had a dog too, and even it was impressed.

"That was amazing," crowed one of the men. He had a long white beard and his voice was thin and tinny, like he'd almost used it all up. "You should be a truck driver!"

"Yeah," said the other, the one holding the little dog, "I've never seen anything like it!"

I laughed and carried on my way, basking a little in their adoration. I thought that would be that.

But they were there the next Tuesday too. They had an electric scooter flipped on its side with its wheel off. They were sitting beside it on their lawn chairs, looking at it.

"It's you!" said the bearded man as I exited my car. "Look what I've done here!"

I looked.

"I've gotten a flat tire. Luckily, Harv here can fix anything with wheels."

Harv, the one with the dog, nodded emphatically, but did not move. "I can," he said.

I had Sullivan with me. The bearded man, whose name I would come to find out was Harold, called him over. "Come and see this! I bet you've never seen anything like this before!" Sullivan had not.

They were there the following Tuesday as well. Harv had had knee surgery that week and was in a great deal of pain but was still his chipper self. "Guess what happened today, little lady! This dog ran away!"

"Oh no!" I said, sympathizing. "And you've just had knee surgery so you couldn't chase him!"

"It's okay!" said Harv. "He came back! He only went just right there!" He pointed to a spot a few feet away.

We chatted for a bit, and I went on my way.

They're there every single Tuesday. I know lots of things about them now, about their families and their surgeries and that dog. They live in the apartment building behind their lawn chairs; from what I've gathered, Harv lives on the second floor and Harold lives on the first. They think Sullivan is the coolest and he thinks their dog is the coolest.

Today, as I was putting Sullivan into his car seat, Harold called to me to not drive away until he'd come back, and then he disappeared into his building. When he came back he handed me three small toys - a car and two little action figures. They looked really old. He said, "These are for Sully. Don't let him play with 'em yet, he could choke. But maybe give 'em to him in a year or something."

And I thanked him and he looked so happy to have made me so happy, and to have made Sully happy too, in advance. It was all just really nice.

There's not really an ending to this story. I'll probably see Harold and Harv next week. I just wanted to write it all down because I like it.