Its a year of first for me. First published story, first blog entry, first tweet…And this weekend my first Writing and Book Festival.
This one is perhaps the most frightening as I cannot do it remotely. I can’t attend via my comfy chair. I going to have to get on the train to Leicester and will be there *gulp* in person and flying solo.
I’m quite a jittery and nervous person as it is, but unknown venues and strange people terrify me. Fleeting thoughts of beta blockers and chamomile tea come and go. Socially these daunting things can be tempered with alcohol but I’m not going there on a whim. Its research and deep interest that force my finger to click confirm on the payment for the weekend ticket and that pay the exorbitant train fare. Turning up boozy would not be how I want to come across.
I distract myself with the question of what does one wear to these events? If I can worry about the minutia it will stop me fretting about the social faux pas I will no doubt perpetrate – if the past is anything to go by.
I want to look nice but not threatening, professional yet not corporate, interesting but not kooky. I opt for black and lots of it but with little make up. I look in the mirror and I’m a middle aged version of Neil Gaiman’s Death. I look alike a beige Goth with dark curly hair. I change, add a bit of colour and having heard that turquoise is disarming in interviews I decide to risk it.
I still feel like a fraud… like an imposter. Sod it I think and I set off. No going back now.