It's Over...What Happened?

It’s over.

And because I have the gift of verbosity, let me tell you about it.

The two days prior were spent “outlining” my own silly book—This was the first interview and I wanted to be ready! After 12 hours of work I had five pages of material made up of helpful overviews like the “two things that influenced me the most,” or “the 4 lies we believe,” and even “if I only had 5 minutes to talk to some who was struggling with the what-ifs, what would I say.” Sections of Scared Silly had been dutifully highlighted and dog-eared with added extra notes in the margins…wait a minute? Was this a radio show or the ACT?

I arrived at the office a half hour early each page of my notes coded and carefully laid out on the desk before me. Extra information was up on my computer ready for accessing. A large diet coke from McDonalds sat beside me—the $1 cheeseburger had been consumed on the way (I always try to hit the Four Food Groups of Stress—grease, salt, carbs, and caffeine—in a situation like this. Because. I. Do.). The office phone was on—check; my cell phone off—check.

The first words from Pam Duffy’s mouth was, “Do you know the score?” My mind raced—score of what? Oh, right! She’s a UK fan! They must be playing! “I’m at my husband’s office,” I replied lamely. “They’re a media company but they don’t have real media here.” A quick check of the score online (UK was behind) and Pam quips, “Duffy’ll be right with you.”

“Right with you” in my mind—being the mind of a simpleton, apparently—meant that he’d pop on during the break and introduce himself and then lead into the interview. I sat enjoying the pleasant ads and devo thoughts while on hold waiting for Mr. Duffy. A hum and a prayer nearly erupted from my lips.

Suddenly the music changed…it sounded like…well…it sort of sounded like the opening to a show. And then came a jovial, radio voice, which said, “Welcome back, friends, to ‘Duffy and Company.’ Our last hour was filled with possible nuclear annihilation from Iran…my next guest wrote a book, blah, blah, blah….” My mind hiccupped and reeled as it tried to switch gears. “You’re. Not. On. Hold.” It frantically screamed. You’re ON. THE. AIRRRRRRR!!!!!

Thus was the start of my first interview. I don’t remember much else. Except that he kept referencing page numbers. PAGE NUMBERS! I did the summarize-your-brilliant-tome-in-a-minute-or-less exercises and this guy was asking (in a very loving, uplifting, and joyful way) about what I wrote on page 42. I couldn’t even remember if there WAS a page 42!

So I did the only thing that anyone would do in such a situation. I yammered. I B.S.’d. I made noises that sounded like I totally agreed with what he was saying when in fact I was scrambling to get my brain to understand English again. “No hable Englese,” nearly leaked from my voicebox at least once.

The other problem was that I kept waiting for a commercial break so I could gather my thoughts and get a swig of Diet Coke. Or maybe I’d just breathe. Or run away. At any rate, I thought there would come some sort of regrouping-type break. Instead, as the music was coming up signaling the long awaited respite, Duffy says, “And that was Marcy Bryan…next we’ll talk to two guys who…”

*Gack.* That was it. I never even got to say goodbye.

I felt like a cross between a limp, wet blanket and Charlie Brown coming off the pitcher’s mound with his head hung down after Lucy did (or said) yet another stupid thing. Shell-shocked, I turned on my cell and called Kevin and Megh (they were in central Kentucky filming) and packed up wondering if people in California buy books written by fools.

Fortunately, several friends and family had signed on and heard the event live. Thankfully they all felt like it went well. They even raved, God Bless them.

And through the fog of self-inflicted gagginess, I vaguely remember Warren Duffy, a veteran communicator who personally worked with the Beach Boys, say that “Scared Silly” was funny, profound, and helpful. God Bless him.

Maybe, just maybe, it would all right after all…

Thank you for all of your prayers. I’m sure they are to blame for getting me onto this wild ride in the first place. And I know they are what made me sound as good as I’m told I did.

Tonight the thought of Balaam’s ass comforts me.

Thank you God, there’s hope for even me.

I think.

Watching where I'm talking at: marcyjoybryan@gmail.com