Sorry I'm Late, I Didn't Want to Come Read online

  You will meet one person who is interesting, and you bond over the awkwardness of the event. This person usually has impeccably applied lipstick, so you both respect and fear them. You ask about what they do, and they ask you about what you do, and you are both genuinely engaged in the conversation. Then she says, “I’m leaving the country for three months, but I’ll be in touch when I get back.” There is a 50 percent chance that she actually will. You follow each other on Twitter. (Or she emails you but your schedules are incompatible for the next few months. Either way, it will be three months until you can see each other again.) You will eventually grab coffee together. You might become best friends or Twitter friends who never see each other again. She may one day send a job opportunity your way.

  You will meet one person and let down your guard now that you’ve been at the event for a few hours and have had a few drinks. You’re a tiny bit drunk (maybe on alcohol—or just high on how sociable you’re being, my God, you’re doing so well!), and you ramble on for a bit. Maybe you confess things you don’t really want to confess (“I used to be in love with my former boss!”) and will definitely regret in the morning. But before you know it, they sting you—something like, “I love how you think about things in such a small-town way. It’s charming,” and then you feel small and go get your coat and sit on the bus on the way home texting your best friend who lives abroad asking, “Do I think of everything in a small-town way???”

  It’s the jumping into conversations that is the hardest and most awkward part of the entire process. Think of it like plunging into a cold body of water (Daisy’s analogy). After that first leap, eventually you’ll warm up, and the rest is usually relatively easy.

  For one of my first outings after meeting Richard and Daisy, I show up at a happy hour event I found on Twitter for people who are interested in discussing films. I want to find out more about the industry so decide this could be a great place to start.

  As soon as I walk in, I recognize someone I’ve met before, a blond actor, who is deep in conversation with a dark-haired man. I resolve to say hello and remember Richard’s advice: go slow. With measured movements, keeping all my limbs in check, I make my way across the room, keeping the two of them in my sight.

  It’s just like hunting, I think. Stay quiet, wait for the right moment, don’t scare my prey.

  Finally, I’m level with them. I hover in their blind spot just as the dark-haired man says, “I’m from the north of England.” They stop talking when they realize I’m beside them.

  “Hi!” I say. I smile. Like a normal human being.

  “Hi,” the blond actor says.

  Then he excuses himself to get another drink. I’m left standing with the dark-haired man (also, why don’t we call men “brunette”? Something to ponder, though perhaps not the right icebreaker at this moment).

  “I’m Jess,” I say to him.

  “I’m Paul,” he says. We look at each other and say nothing. The moment goes on for a beat too long. I’d read somewhere that it takes four seconds to create an awkward silence. We make it to eight.

  ASK HIM A QUESTION, my reptilian brain commands.

  “Where in the north are you from?” I ask.

  “Just a small town in Lancashire,” he says, in a throwaway tone that implies, “You wouldn’t know it.”

  I’ve been to the north. I can talk the north. I married into the north. (Who? Just some rich guy.)

  “Oh? Where?” I say.

  “Clitheroe,” he says.

  “Oh! I’ve been to Clitheroe. I hunted for witches there,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You know how you guys killed all those witches up there? During the witch trials in 1612? I went to Pendle Hill to look for their ghosts on Halloween to write about it for a feature.”

  Looking at Paul’s face, I realize that sharing my passion for looking for the ghosts of dead witches at Halloween might not be the right fun tidbit to share about myself at networking events. I’d just been so excited to actually say something about Clitheroe. But had I gone too far? But then:

  “Pendle Hill? That’s . . . that’s right next to my town!” Paul says.

  “I know! I stayed in a haunted hotel in Clitheroe,” I say.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Yes. How . . . how do you feel about that?” I ask. I’ve been given a rulebook, and I’m sticking to it.

  “I think . . . that’s really weird that you went there but amazing!” Paul says.

  “It is weird, and it is amazing,” I say, validating his feelings and opinions. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.

  Paul pauses and then launches enthusiastically into a story about the time he saw the ghost of a twelve-year-old girl standing on a wall outside his house. I have so many legitimate questions that the conversation flows easily for the rest of the evening.

  Fast-forward a few months: Paul and I are real friends now. I know!

  Of all the people I’ve met while networking, Paul is my first proper success story, the one who stepped gratifyingly out of bounds of the circular three scenarios above. He’s a travel writer, and we’re both freelancers, so we have a lot of common ground that isn’t exclusively ghost related. Now we read each other’s work, talk on WhatsApp, and share travel and writing advice.

  I now know that the only way for real personal connections to occur is to go out there and do the best I can, with Richard’s charisma advice fresh in my mind (ask questions, give meaningful responses, reinforce emotions). The charisma charm offensive propels you through the awkward beginnings, allowing you to get you to a real connection and reach the important questions: “Do you know any ghosts? How old are they? Were they nice to you?”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Meeting Paul had been a bright spot in a sea of average networking events. See, try as I might, the thing I can’t move past is that I have yet to actually enjoy a networking event. I might be getting there on the talking to strangers front, but a whole bunch of them in a crowded, forced scenario is exhausting.

  Was there a better way to network? Would I always actively hate this important part of professional life, even if I was getting slightly better at doing it?

  Emma Gannon is a writer and podcaster in London who frequently features on lists called things like “30 under 30.” She wrote the acclaimed book The Multi-Hyphen Method, hosts high-profile events, and has met the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Her book emphasizes the importance of making personal, meaningful connections that can jump-start your career. What’s the secret to her networking success? Does she just jump from networking event to professional soiree and back again, and, if so, why isn’t she in a hole crying?

  I email Emma and ask her what her game plan is in these situations. Her response changes my life:

  “I honestly avoid these situations. I have never had any meaningful interaction at a stale networking event where people wear big name tags. A dinner or some casual drinks with a smallish group of new people, on the other hand, is absolutely amazing for ‘networking.’ The trick is to create an environment where you don’t feel like you’re doing it.”

  I don’t need to charisma the hell out of half of London. Emma just handed me a Get out of Jail Free card.

  I decide to only attend professional events that also seem fun. I figure out exactly what I’m looking for at these events: inspiration, knowledge, camaraderie, new friends, professional advice.

  I stop signing up for big networking events and instead look for more interesting evenings. I come across one called “Good Girls Eat Dinner” on Instagram, which is described as “the most interesting dinner party you’ll ever go to.” The evening involves mini lectures by women in various creative industries served up alongside a three-course meal. I end up sitting next to a former magazine publisher, and we bond over being introverts who will be bolting back to our quiet homes soon. She’s now a l
ife coach: she gives me her card and then introduces me to an editor she knows. It’s clear to me that networking is actually about giving, not getting. Sharing what you know. We want to help other people whom we feel a connection with. The dinner is a success, but best of all, it’s so much more enjoyable than the normal shtick: mainly because we are sitting down and eating pizza.

  Later that week, I attend a meet-up I’d seen on Facebook: several other writers are getting together for coffee and discussion at a café. It ends up being only me and two other women, but of course introverts love this: we actually get to know each other and exchange industry advice, while drinking coffee and eating scones.

  After a month of exclusively attending events with either good food or excellent speakers, the plan seems to be working. I’ve been to small, intimate gatherings and evenings brimming with interesting strangers. I might even be enjoying it a little.

  Somehow, there is only one mishap, at a charity event, where I tell a heavily pregnant woman who is desperate to get out of a bachelorette party in Ibiza the following year that she ought to threaten to take her newborn and then she’ll be swiftly uninvited.

  “I AM going to take my newborn!” she exclaims, curling her hands protectively around her belly as if I’ve just said I’m going to throw it into the sea.

  “Oh, well, that sounds amazing!” I say, completing an exchange I will replay in my head every night in bed for a week.

  I make a few rules before each event. Go with an intention. Talk to three people, with Richard’s advice in mind, and aim to really bond or connect with one person. Psychologists also say that it takes time for shy people to warm up, so if you always leave after ten minutes, you’re never giving yourself the chance to actually succeed. Stay for at least an hour.

  Also, don’t arrive late. This is very hard to do for an event that you’re dragging yourself to, stopping at every distraction along the way, but when you show up in the middle of an event, the crowd feels impenetrable. Arriving five minutes early gives you a moment to ease your nerves and connect with people as they arrive.

  The likelihood is that none of these evenings will change your life immediately. But the message from Richard, from Daisy, and from Emma was, at heart, the same: It’s a long game. It’s a slow burn. Less of a hunt, actually, and more of a sprinkling of seeds in the soil.

  So many friendships these days begin online, and Emma is a big advocate of bringing them over into real life, at least once, to cement that bond. Which is why, a few months later, I’m eating homemade banana bread and sitting in front of a fireplace with Kate, a woman I’d met on Twitter. She’d tweeted that she had just recently moved to a new city and was having trouble making friends and did anyone else feel this way?

  Someone else did. I replied, and now her two black kittens scurry around our feet while we drink tea in her living room. Is this making friends, networking with another writer, or is this just the coziest afternoon of my life? Does it matter?

  Over the next few months, as I talk to more people, ask more questions, and disclose more about myself, I notice that people start approaching me more. It’s like I’ve changed on some molecular level: people walk into rooms and make a beeline for me. Me.

  I think I might be charisma-ing.

  It permeates all aspects of my life. While I’m working at a magazine office on a freelance shift, the editor next to me strikes up a conversation about what I’m working on. Then, I ask her a question about an article she edited about sperm donors, and we start discussing it in depth (did you know that in the UK there was a sperm shortage and so they had to import vast amounts of sperm from Scandinavia? I did not!).

  She and I spend a good twenty minutes talking about sperm (truly a magnificent topic), then dry shampoo, then book recommendations. We talk so much that we get distracted from our work. And it clicks. I’ve been on so many average friend-dates and had so many lackluster networking chats that I now recognize chemistry when I see it. I take the leap of faith and ask for her number.

  She invites me to her book club. This time, I don’t have to walk into an unfamiliar apartment full of strangers alone—I walk in with her, my new friend, who introduces me to everyone.

  A small book club, at someone’s house, eating homemade pie: this is where I want to be. It is somehow one of the most outgoing things I have ever done and also somehow feels kinda normal. Everyone here works in the same field, but we aren’t talking about work. We were drinking wine and discussing the book over dinner. Casual. Intimate. This is what Emma had meant. And it all started with a single question: what was the deal with all this sperm from Denmark in the early 2000s?

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  As I type this, I’m actually supposed to be getting ready for a networking event this very evening. And I want to bail. So much. I want that sweet, sweet hit of canceling on something that’s good for me in the long run. I haven’t grown out of this addiction: I’ll always want that fix.

  There are nights, especially in winter, when the sun has set at 3:45 p.m., when I know, as soon as work is over, I need to go straight home, have a bath, put on pajamas, eat a bowl of pasta, and watch The Office reruns. Or I want to bake an entire carrot cake with cream cheese frosting while blasting Ani DiFranco alone in my kitchen, and then I need to eat as much of it as I want while drinking a cup of tea and reading a novel that has zero murders in it. (Though it is a stereotype that introverts like to sit at home and bake. An acquaintance tells me, “Look, some introverts just want to watch a violent movie while eating salad.”) There are nights when I’d pay good money to do this rather than go out. A cover charge for sitting at home. This will never change.

  But somehow, through getting out of my comfort zone, meeting people, and extroverting hard, I’ve grown to hate bailing on people. It stops relationships in their tracks. It prevents so many new beginnings from turning into something real. So if it isn’t one of those anxiety-fraught nights when I’m genuinely on the verge, then I decide I’m not going to let myself bail. I’ll put on my shoes and grab my coat and bag before I can even think to myself, “Oooh, I have a frozen pizza . . .”

  Emma thinks it’s fine to say no to events but we should commit to the ones we’ve said yes to. “I hate flakiness, and I blame the Facebook ‘Maybe’ button,” she tells me. “It’s not OK to say maybe and see if something better comes up. I believe in saying a solid yes or no because it’s polite. Saying no is hard but ultimately makes you a better person. For example, I’ve been invited to lots of parties (which is so nice!), but I am saying no to lots of them because I simply don’t have time. It’s not rude; it’s being honest.”

  Paul (has seen ghosts, from Clitheroe) tells me that when he feels too intimidated to walk into a room full of strangers, he tries to go with a friend or coworker, and they agree to split up for the first hour (this is an obviously great idea that I did not think to do once in my whole life before now). And I’ve learned that, actually, you don’t really have to schmooze. You can go to a Q&A or a guest lecture and then just chat with the people next to you for fifteen minutes at the end. Ask someone a few questions, listen to their answers, get their details if you want to meet them again. Following up with people I’ve genuinely connected with is key—otherwise, I might as well have stayed home with that pizza.

  And, obviously, always have an exit strategy.

  seven

  The Wedding in Germany,

  A Real-Life Interlude

  Two days ago, Sam and I flew into Germany for a friend’s summer wedding. Sam is the best man. The official wedding ceremony was held in a castle in the German countryside yesterday; today, the couple has booked a beerhouse for a second full day of wedding celebrations.

  The groom wears lederhosen. The bride wears a dirndl dress (think classy German beer maid). She’s standing on top of a table, addressing her guests. Confident, loud, funny.

  At most weddings I attend,
including this one, I don’t know any of the other guests because I am Sam’s plus-one—obviously, Sam has more friends than I do. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces and enforced dancing, I spend a lot of the day finding excuses to go outside, downing water so that I can escape to the bathroom, and taking pretend phone calls in empty corridors. It has nothing to do with the wedding or the people getting married, but after a few hours (usually in that agonizingly long break between the ceremony and the sit-down dinner), I simply run out of things to say. My energy is sapped.

  The sad thing is I love a wedding. Seeing people give themselves over to the sort of giddy public joy we rarely see in our day-to-day lives fills me with happiness.

  But after my twentieth wedding, I began to secretly think that maybe weddings are a little . . . long. Like a socializing marathon I’ll never have trained enough for.

  Wouldn’t it be fantastic if the celebrations came in at under two hours? Bride down the aisle, emotional vows, champagne toasts, salmon puffs, first dance, cut the cake, eat the cake, two fast Beyoncés, one slow Adele, one big Whitney. Fin.

  In Germany, though, after so much networking practice, I feel as ready as I’ll ever be for the socializing marathon. I wonder whether I will spend the day differently than the way I had at the last wedding I went to, where I wandered off alone and stared at the sea.

  On the first day of celebrations, I was surprised to find myself in a very pleasant conversation with a Dutchman who told me about his job in the army. I ended up asking another guest about the best way to make friends in a new city (join an Ultimate Frisbee team). I danced, a tiny bit, to Queen. I even debated the many merits of a cheese course with my tablemates late into the night.