A student asked me if I was always annoying or if I had somehow become annoying in adulthood.
A good, albeit slightly annoying, question.
In answer to her question, I told the student that years ago, during a book talk in the town where I grew up, I was asked to explain to the audience why I had chosen the section of Something Missing (my first novel) to read aloud.
I find the actual reading of the book to be the most tedious and boring part of any author’s appearance, so I have long since ceased doing it. Instead, I tell stories about the creation and writing of the book, answer questions, give away prizes, and try to make people laugh.
But back then, when I was still a first-time author, I did what was expected of me.
In answer to this woman’s question, I confessed that my publicist had recommended a section of the book to read after I was unable to identify a suitable passage on my own.
The woman then followed up her question by asking what I would’ve chosen if forced to pick a section of the book to read.
“The last ten pages,” I answered.
“Is it because the end is your favorite part?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I just want to spoil the ending for everyone.”
From the back of the room, Mrs. Allan, my former middle school teacher, grumbled, “Hasn’t changed a bit.”
As odd as it may seem, I found great comfort in knowing that my occasionally sarcastic, slightly rude, less-than-conforming nature is not new. Apparently I was making an impression way back in elementary school.
“So you were annoying from the start?” my student asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “As Popeye said, I am what I am.”
“Who’s Popeye?” my student asked.
How incredibly annoying.
