Ode to Introverts

Tonight I had one of those moments when I ask myself "How the hell did you get here?". I am sitting in the back of a girl named Vicky's car, a million stuffed animals suction cupped onto the windows next to me. She cuts off two buses and is almost rear-ended by another.

"I hate buses!". The horns are blaring and I'm clutching my seat.

"Why are you so quiet, Jenny?" Why is she calling me Jenny?

"Uh, I don't know. I guess I'm more of an obser-"

"Oh, you bloody bus. I hate buses! They should be banned!"

At this point I am fed up with the scary British chick who is about to be the cause of my demise but even more fed up with myself for agreeing to come to Newcastle with Shraddha and a group of her classmates. I am not gregarious or outgoing and I've been told rather unapproachable. But one role I do fill is that of the dispassionate observer. Or if not dispassionate then at least an observer. But nobody ever lets me fade into the wallpaper. They always have to call me out on not talking. WTF?! I would never turn the question around on them and rudely ask "Why are you so loud? Pathological need for attention? Insecurity? Daddy issues?" Heck no! I am not so uncouth. It seems the world is unready to accept or understand introverts. If someone is quiet the automatic assumption is that there must be a problem. But if I am among strangers, and even among friends at times, I am usually quite content to watch the way people communicate, the way they fiddle with their jewelry or rush their words. People watching is not just a hobby but a serious academic pursuit. How can I learn to write fictional people if I do not observe the actions and interactions of non-fictional people? For a writer, living, breathing and being constantly conscious of it all is half of the job. I do not feel as if I live less because of my frequent silence. Many times I feel like I'm living more than others. I can take the simplest experience and assign meaning and depth to it that others wouldn't. There is beauty in coffee stains and gap teeth, in wet cement and old bicycles. And I am lucky enough to see that beauty. Even if I'm not loud enough to let anyone else know about it.