Last summer, I went to a reunion of sorts. We gathered in the glistening kitchen of someone I’ve known since high school, drinking margaritas. I met all of the people there decades ago at my church, though we don’t all see each other as often any more. Still, we know each other’s histories.
I asked everybody about graduations, kid milestones, work accomplishments, faith shifts. And then, a little before our host started putting burgers on the grill, someone asked me about writing.
“You were working on a book proposal, right? What’s it about?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard.
“That’s a great question,” I said. “And hard to answer.”
Mind you: I’d practiced an elevator pitch about that book idea until I had it down cold. It was not that I did not know how to explain the book. It was that telling these people about it—people who knew me well—felt like stripping naked.
I was over at SheLoves this week, talking about, um, talking about myself and using my jazz hands and high kicks to illustrate. Join me there?