WC: 382
Slade found an answer to Valinta's question hard to come by. He was admitted into the pack as a writer, but could he truly call himself a writer if he did not have the ability to pick up a pen? He wondered if she knew how to write; it was an ability he wanted to learn. Maybe she could be his teacher.
His mind was getting away from him again, and he blinked to clear his thoughts. "I'm kinda a writer," he replied, allowing himself to open up and be less stiff, "but I don't know how to write. I like to make up stories in my head, so I guess that counts; it was a story that got me stuck in the bush in the first place." He finished the sentence slowly, realizing that he had been incredibly naïve. "Does that ever happen to you?" he asked quickly, hoping to change the subject. "I mean, I don't know much about dancing, but do you ever get so immersed in it that it's hard to pay attention to anything else?"
Again, Slade began to smack himself mentally. The way he had worded his question, he had suggested that Valinta was ignorant or clumsy; those words described himself much better, and as he knew this well he found himself shaking his head. "Um, I didn't really mean to put it that way," he apologized quickly. "Ah, about that and what I asked before, about your talent; sorry if I offended you." He looked at the ground, bracing himself for all sorts of name-calling.
"Slade, you're naïve. Slade, you're a fool. Slade, how can you put words together to make a story if you can't even spit out a sentence without sounding offensive?" So maybe he was a pessimist, especially when it came to making social mistakes, but it was just difficult to talk with someone in his own pack. Slade realized that he really wasn't used to interacting with others so often and so openly, so when he tried he messed up completely. He made a mental note to try to socialize more, even if it meant coughing out a simple question like "How's the weather?" to a stranger. It was a lot better than being in the situation he was currently in.
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