I went to a party last night at the home of a very talented writer. I was a little hesitant o go to the party, worrying that I would not know very many people. Yesterday morning, I got a call from one of my friends who was throwing the party. He called just to make sure that I'd be there. His kind phone call reined me into their plans.
So I went. The writer was a very pleasant host with a beautifully decorated and inviting home. I was hesitant to talk to him. I think I was a wee bit intimidated by being new to the group and not knowing him well. Also, I was a bit overwhelmed, wanting to get to know him as the person that he is, aside from the writer that many know him to be. He has an unassuming but attractive air about him, and I did not find him intimidating at all once he began to talk to me. In fact, I found it very easy to be myself around him.
When he found me searching for something in his apartment, he quickly came to my assistance and showed me where I could leave my coat and scarf for the evening. Leading me into his bedroom, he pushed a wrinkly pile of clean laundry to one side of his bed and, taking my coat, laid it down on the other side. I liked him more for having a dishevled pile of unfolded laundry in full view. He was in the middle of opening a bottle of wine, but as we walked back to the kitchen, he seemed uninterested in continuing to open it. We walked into the living room and then he began asking me a few questions about myself. Before I knew it, we had entered into a very enjoyable conversation about our Texan backgrounds, our appreciation for the neighborhood he lives in (my favorite one in Portland!), and assorted topics related to church and women and culture and personal vocation.
It wasn't an intense conversation, but the topics weren't light. Admittedly, I was quite taken aback with how easily we conversed and ten minutes must have passed before I became aware that it was the writer I admire that I was conversing with. I found myself really appreciating the man I was getting to know, coincidently also the man behind the artfully juxtaposed words. In a way, I wished that he were two men and that I could befriend only the man I was conversing with, ignoring the well-known writer. I wondered if he sometimes desires this as well. If I were him, I might tire easily of being known as the talented writer and miss being known apart from that part of my life. While we were talking, however, it occurred to me that one of the reasons why the man in front of me was so pleasant in conversation was his proficiency as a writer.
I left the house last night marinating on questions he asked me in our little ten minute aside. They were great questions. It is a fantastic thing to talk about something which you are tired of talking about and because the person with whom you are talking thinks uniquely about things, the tiresome subject now somehow seems intriguing and perplexing and has a new depth to it. Great writers ask great questions. Great question askers are great conversationalists.
And so, I have renewed vigor as a life-long student of writing. I see anew the value in asking unique and daring questions. Why not?
And I have a new friend in my favorite Portland neighborhood. I'm thrilled! Perhaps his skill in asking great questions and telling artfully constructed stories will wear off on me.
