I think I’ll start this column by telling you about my conundrum. You see, I began Second Draft last year, when I was brand new to Oxford, kept getting things wrong, and liked the idea that I could go back in time, do things again, and get them right. Hence the title. But now I’m starting at Oxford for the second time, do I need a rebrand? Third Draft, perhaps. Or maybe First Draft since I’m now feeling confident that after a year of studying, I’m totally failsafe.
But I am not failsafe. Oh no. This time last year, I wrote my first column on introductions; how they are thorny, tricky, hard to get right, and easy to dwell upon. Twelve months and another degree later, I still feel unequipped. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent the last two weeks at a plethora of welcome drinks, introductory talks, dinners, coffee trips with new people etc etc etc. I’ve had to slowly crawl home each evening for some alone time, and an intimidatingly large cup of tea.
In summary: meeting a lot of new people in a short space of time is an invigorating, yet simultaneously exhausting business. Partly due to the fact that you’ll spend most of your time answering different versions of essentially the same questions. Remembering what you’ve said to whom at which point in the evening becomes tricky. Remembering what whom have said to you at which point in the evening becomes even trickier.
One of my new friends and I agreed that it would, in fact, be much easier for everyone to wear a big badge with all their essential information clearly spelt out. An overview, if you like, of what the first five minutes of every new conversation tends to sound like: What’s your name? Ellie. Where are you from? What college are you at? Have you studied in Oxford before? Yes but don’t ask me for directions anywhere. What do you study? Creative Writing. Ooooh! What do you write? Currently a rather feeble column. And what’s your favourite book? Big impossible question! Where do you live? You’ve already asked me that. Oh wait I’ve already asked you that! And I’m really sorry but I’ve already forgotten your name? This is great news because now I feel less guilty that I’ve also forgotten yours.
Don’t get me wrong. I love meeting people. It’s fresh, and exciting, and fun, and there’s something quite special about choosing which parts of your life to share with someone new. But – and here’s the part that can make it exhausting – there’s something quite performative about it. We work through the same questions, with the same structure to our conversations, until we decide to become friends and meet for coffee and at this point the dynamic can finally go off-piste (sigh of relief).
Considering these sort of slightly-forced but nevertheless pleasant interactions, I find myself thinking about the school Christmas disco in 2008 (bear with me). It is a formative memory. I was seven, and I was patiently queuing up with the other children in my class to meet the big man himself. When my turn came around, I made my way through a winter-wonderland-inspired maze of plastic trees until, at the very end, I found Father Christmas. I said, “Hello”. He said, “Ho Ho Ho”, and handed me a Cadbury’s Christmas selection box; it was wrapped up but I knew exactly what was inside because he’d given me the same one in 2007. Then he said, “Well what do you want for Christmas?”. I can’t actually remember what I replied. I was too busy thinking about the fact that all the children in the line after me would be having exactly the same conversation with F.C. and does that ruin the magic just a little? I had also seen through the red velvet and bushy beard and Ho Ho Ho, so I was no doubt thinking, “Why would I tell you what I want for Christmas? You’re just Mr Titley”.
The point of this story is not to show that I was an annoyingly precocious child or that Santa gave me the heebie-jeebies, but rather that these sort of structured interactions are part of life from a young age. We are so used to them that we can easily forget how they often follow a similar pattern. And despite years of practice, we don’t really get any better at them…
Last weekend, I saw acclaimed novelist Maggie O’Farrell speak at the Cheltenham Literature Festival. She was brilliant. I had so many things I wanted to ask her about being a writer. I also had a proof copy of her most recent novel, which I was lucky enough to read and review before it was officially published; I secretly felt quite smug amongst all the other people who had just bought themselves a hardback. During the talk, we sat in seats Y44 and Y45. This is an important detail, because this meant that when the talk ended and everybody funnelled out, we were some of the last people to leave the auditorium. What this meant was that when everyone queued up to get their hardbacks signed, I was right at the back. But this was not a problem. I would happily wait for Maggie O’Farrell to see my proof copy. She would say, “Oh wow! A paperback! You must be wonderful and so talented.” And I would grin back at her and say, “Oh don’t be silly Maggie, I’m actually really humble. Shall we be friends and go for coffee and you can impart all your wonderful writerly wisdom to me?” And she would say, “That’s so funny, you read my mind.”
These thoughts occupied my head for the 27 minute wait, and at 6.12pm, I reached the front of the queue with only a handful of punters – and their hardbacks – dwindling behind me. Here was my moment. I walked up to the table, smiled, and held out the book. Maggie O’Farrell stamped it with her signature. Here’s what I said: “Hello.” Here’s what Maggie O’Farrell said: “Thank you for waiting so long.” Here’s what I said:”‘Ha ha ha.” And then I discovered that my legs were moving and suddenly I was outside again and Maggie O’Farrell was still sitting at the table inside and the once-in-a-lifetime-career-changing moment was officially over.
The problem, I’ve realised, is that the more you think about these sorts of interactions the more impossible they actually get. It’s a tricky predicament. A month or so ago, I walked into the hairdressers. Now the hairdressers is the sort of place that I personally find too loud, too hot, too overstimulating, too tricky to make conversation. It’s the sort of place that I only visit by necessity, which makes me feel sort of guilty and I try my hardest to look insanely happy whenever I walk through the doors in case they can tell I’d rather be literally anywhere else, and think I’m a terrible person for not respecting their institution. I realise that this is very silly of me, but nevertheless these are the sort of thoughts I had as I walked along the road, went through the double doors, and smiled at the nice lady at the desk. She was totally friendly-looking, but her hair was just really, really good, and I suddenly forgot everything I knew about communication. She said: “Hello.” I replied: “Hello. I have an appointment with one o’clock at Karen.”
Ugh. I will reassure myself that these sorts of things happen-to-the-best-of-us and we’ve-all-been-there. The finest intentions can always go a bit wrong. Just like my intention to make this piece serious; I thought it might be nice to re-introduce myself as a heavyweight intellectual, especially as my columns last year always ended up drifting towards the frivolous. But here we are again. Sincere apologies. Introductions (and re-introductions), as I’ve found, are troublesome beasts.
So I suppose there is still much work to be done. The good news? One thing is now crystal clear: my conundrum is no more. Second Draft is still an entirely applicable title, and I will be keeping it until further notice.