For as long as I can recall, I have always seen small talk as challenging. It felt dull at best and anxiety-inducing at worst. A coworker commenting on the weather, despite my clear view of the rain. The postman inquiring: “How are you today?” Such an absurdly broad question for a brief reply.
Having spent years in book publishing, where networking was vital, I could easily chat about authors, print editions, or marketing expenses. But questioning how a buyer made it to the gathering? Or where a journalist parked? I had no interest! So why were we engaging in these dialogues? Everyone else appeared relaxed, while I felt tense.
Every interaction felt like a performance, an assessment I was certain I was failing. I didn’t grasp the engagement rules. For instance, how long should small talk persist? Should I respond factually or consider entertainment? I worried my answers ranged from dull to overly energetic, my inquiries barked out like a detective.
Upon becoming a freelance writer, I trained myself to engage in small talk as an actor would rehearse lines, desperately striving to appear calm and self-assured. Gradually, I became more comfortable with the act and accepted that discomfort was merely part of adulthood.
Then came the lockdown. For two years, I was free from any performance pressure. Perhaps due to our shared vulnerabilities, the conversations I did have felt more profound and genuine. I seldom interacted with strangers – I didn’t even need to wear pants!
But when the world reopened, resuming discussions about traffic and the weather felt like mental torture. My conversational skills were rusty. The masks we had literally worn for what felt like an eternity made me forget how to wear my social one again.
All of that shifted in May this year. While attending a friend’s art exhibit, an impulse struck me to try a different tactic. I recalled self-help author Wayne W Dyer’s advice: “Change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.” Instead of forcing myself into a mold that I resented, I opted to create a new one.
The first individual I engaged with at the exhibit was a freelance photographer. “What’s your zodiac sign?” I asked. She blinked, appeared pleasantly surprised, then responded, “Aquarius.” We chatted comfortably for 10 minutes. For the next person I met, I inquired, “What was your favorite subject in art class?” By evening’s end, I had several enjoyable and engaging conversations.
With 27 more days left in May, I felt a month was a fitting duration for my experiment. My guidelines were straightforward: without being impolite, I would swiftly redirect all inquiries about health, weather, travel, or children’s academic successes and instead provide something I genuinely found interesting.
When a barista remarked, “How are you finding the sunshine?” I redirected to, “I enjoy spring, but autumn is my favorite time of year. How about you?” At a writers’ gathering, when a woman noted that her kids were on break, I asked, “What subject did you enjoy most in school?”
The outcomes were remarkable. Most individuals were not just amenable to participating; they appeared relieved. It became evident I wasn’t alone in perceiving small talk as an uncomfortable and obligatory ritual. Instead of rigid exchanges, dialogues transformed into unpredictable and, importantly, authentic interactions. I discovered a bartender’s flourishing side hustle as a drag performer, a recent graduate’s enthusiasm for beekeeping, and a mental health nurse’s literary project.
There were a few awkward instances, naturally. Some people simply didn’t grasp the approach, giving me a puzzled look before departing. A few responded with outright skepticism. However, I took it in stride; most individuals seemed to appreciate the shift.
As the month drew to a close, I realized that despite its irritations, small talk serves a purpose. It functions as a gateway to the type of interaction and connection that all humans instinctively seek.
Thus, small talk no longer induces anxiety in me. Rather than feeling daunted, I choose how to interact with it, alleviating the pressure to “perform correctly.” Giving it up for a month enabled me to gain a clearer perspective on how we’ve all been conditioned to adhere to a common script to establish mutual understanding. Yet that doesn’t imply one cannot alter that script, make it more genuine, and engage in more stimulating dialogues as well.
F**k I Think I’m Dying, by Claire Eastham, is published by Penguin, £9.99.
