Being shy, friends and writing...

I know I’ve mentioned many times that I am shy. Painfully shy. I was the consummate wall flower in my younger years, especially in school. Invisible. Unnoticed. Ignored. It’s not a nice thing. Self-esteem doesn’t exist. Confidence is not reality. A painful place to be. And probably why I can sympathize with every other teen that went through the same thing, whether because they were poor, gay, shy or just a nonconformist.

I will admit I had friends. Other kids, some outcasts like me that I got along with and even had fun with. I had close friends from the time I was about eight, until I turned sixteen. Then, they were gone. Gone because I had to move away. I never found those kinds of friends again. And finding close friends as an adult is insurmountable. The kind of close friends that you are comfortable with, without even thinking. The ones that accept you as you are. The ones that will hug you or casual touches that mean the world to you, but are par for the course. The ones that want to spend time with you just because they like you. The ones that know you, inside and out and don’t care that you are shy or an introvert…or weird.

Now, I have learned, as an adult, there is a byproduct of being shy. I live in my own little world. And in that world, I am supreme. The queen. The popular one that everyone adores. In other words, fantasy. And what is fantasy? The dictionary defines it as follows:

Imagination, especially when extravagant and unrestrained. 

The forming of mental images, especially wondrous or strange fancies; imaginative conceptualizing.

A mental image, especially when unreal or fantastic; vision.

An imagined or conjured up sequence fulfilling a psychological need; daydream.

Well, yes, it does, in fact, describe my world. My world that includes any and all things that interest me, that make my heart beat faster, that makes my soul sing and my mind wander. That makes me happy. And then the byproduct of my world? The need, the want, the compulsion to write about what I imagine. I write gay erotic romance. But that is not all I write. I have poems. I have stories that are fantasy, science fiction, paranormal. They are all there. My imagination is not limited….ever.

Then I think…is my world what is keeping me from making friends? Honestly, I don’t know. I was never good at making friends. Always thinking of myself as weird, nerdy and beneath most people. Who wants to be friends with someone like me? Oh, there’s that lack of self-esteem and confidence rearing its ugly head again. *sigh* I’ve heard many an author say that writers are needy, that they crave acceptance and need validation whenever possible. Oh, then I am sooo very much a writer. Needy, very needy. But I’m ok with that, even if it is embarrassing. I’m used to being embarrassed.