It's hard to write a story when you have nothing to say. I can't conjure up some taut, suspenseful caper novel, or some starry-eyed first contact epic. How would I know what such a thing would be like? It's nothing like anything I've ever done in my life.
There are people who play it so safe, so carefull, so guarded in everyday conversation, that they might as well be invisible. I'm one of those.
We go to our jobs, we go to the grocery store, we smile and nod and say the right things, but never unveil the secret self. Because we don't even know that self ourselves.
Shyness is a crippling personal handicap, dooming one to eventless weekends and long, lonely nights. Devoid of friends and a social life, as others know it, one is made a hermit of one's own hesitancy.
To be shy means never to see feature films on the big screen, because who goes to movies alone? You have no friends to go see them with, you have to wait until they come out on dvd.
To be shy means to duck the company's Christmas dinner, because you don't have a date, couldn't get one if you tried, don't even someone you could call to even ask to go on a date.
To be shy means living in a dungeon, every grey block of the walls another lost weekend in which you stayed home, watched TV, read a book, surfed the Internet, polished the kitchen floor, or otherwise busied yourself amidst your solitary pursuits.
Certes shyness a curse may be, but it does one gift -- the powers of observation. Ever the outsider, the shy person sees the people around them abstractly, coldly, analytically, and so is often gifted with an insight if you will...
Rapunzella Rhymequeen Community Member 
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