“If you don’t know what you’re talking about, keep your mouth shut.” “Children should be seen and not heard.” These words from my father force their way out of the dark each time I’m placed in an unfamiliar situation. I am an introvert by all senses of the word: shy, hesitant. But most disagree with a laugh or a hearty guffaw, “You’re not shy.”

Why? Because I appear outgoing? Because I can generally talk to people? You don’t pin shyness to your shirt for everyone to see. But maybe I’m missing something, some sure definition of what it really means to be shy.

The answer comes in the form of Shy: An Anthology (University of Alberta Press, 2013) edited by Naomi K. Lewis and Rona Altrows. Maybe somewhere within these pages I would discover where I teeter on the so-called shyness spectrum.
What I’ve learned from the variety of pieces showcased in this anthology is that the spectrum is wide. In fact, it’s not really a spectrum at all. It’s more like the Alberta foothills, rolling mounds of thoughts and experiences. Each one a little different, but similar in the way it makes you feel.

How many have been unable to say what they really want to say, the words lost somewhere between the brain and lips.
“It huddles in the lungs and won’t come out.” (Page 1, Sometimes a Voice, Don McKay)

“Don’t speak. Stay hidden and withhold all word of your thoughts, your dreams.” (Page 2, Silentium, Steven Heighton)
No matter how much we try, often we don’t want to be seen. No matter how exciting or fun the situation presents, some huddle in the corner, resisting the temptation to let go. To be vulnerable.

As in Elaine Woo’s poem, “I Couldn’t Reveal,” a young girl is in her sister’s room, the catchy rhythm of The Beatles, beatling from the record player, and even though every inch of her body wants to break loose, she resists, not wanting to show that other side of her.

Sometimes circumstances force us to withdraw. Like the child being tucked away into an orphanage in Wayman Chan’s, “that animal.”

For me, when I would speak up, I would say something I would later think was ridiculous. I’d play over in my head all the things I should have said. Those things that seemed smarter in retrospect.

Shy can be a hot flush through your body, tying your stomach in knots until you can’t think clearly, the dizziness threatening to kick the legs out from under you, or a shadow in the corner of a crowded room, praying, hoping for the light to forget it’s there.

For some, Shy won’t leave the comfort of home while the family is out enjoying life and with it comes the nagging fear that you’re not good enough to maintain a healthy relationship.

Like in Russell Wangersky’s, Shy – 10 Ways: “Her cats won’t leave the doormat, and I know they’re afraid she isn’t coming back. I know because I’m afraid of exactly the same thing.” (106)

This anthology has something of everything. It’s an in-depth examination of all facets of shy. And the ultimate answer is that shy is different for everyone. We can wobble on the edge of shy, think we’re okay for awhile and then when we least expect it, shy claws it’s way to the surface. From the first page to the last, I would bet, upon reading this fabulous collection, everyone will discover a little of themselves in every piece.

And if nothing else, it’s worth the read because the submissions are strong, the writing full of emotion…and…”Shy: An Anthology” picked up the silver medal at the Independent Publishers (IPPY) Awards in New York this June.

This review first appeared in FreeFall Volume XXIV Number 3.

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I Know Who You Remind Me Of
by Naomi K. Lewis
Enfield & Wizenty (2012)
ISBN: 978-1-926531-51-9
$29.95

Naomi K. Lewis’ I Know Who You Remind Me Of is a collection of nine short stories. Lewis playfully toys with the art of narrative like a clockmaker. Each part is carefully examined but the whole is never compromised. Instead, Lewis invites you into her world: an intimate portrayal of sexuality juxtaposed against sensuality. The tone is set with her first story “Warp,” which depicts the main character, Karen, in a sexual coming-of-age yarn.

Why did Gavin have to be so nice to her, staring hard, like he’d never forget her? Why did he have to sleep with his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades? And why did she never believe him when he reminded her he didn’t love her, was biding his time, waiting for someone real? (24)

These lines show that Karen realizes that her sexuality is intrinsically linked with how others view her, which leads her to an epiphany of loneliness. I love this story not because Lewis paints a vivid picture (she does), not because the dialogue springs off the page (it does), but because each sentence is ripe with insight. Consider the lines: “[h]ardly anything was really her . . . without him telling her, she would never have even guessed that Green Day was okay to like, but Aerosmith wasn’t” (24). Lines like these display the painful truths of the awareness of adolescent innocence.

In “Weft,” her character Ben claims: “I’ve been questioning the dichotomy between intimacy and loneliness” (134), which becomes a central discussion recurring throughout the stories. Indeed, each of Lewis’ characters are struggling with intimacy in one way or another, whether it’s intimacy leading to loneliness in “Warp,” yearning for lost intimacy in “Nix and Six,” or the desire for intimacy in “Seesaw.” Connecting each story with the dominant themes of sexuality, sensuality, intimacy, and loneliness, I Know Who You Remind Me Of maintains a tight knit narrative that never falters. A story like “Flex,” which is uniquely told through the span of a week, forwards and backwards, walks a tightrope of plot, yet never allows the plot to strangle the writing.

Referencing the act of writing, Hemingway wrote: “[w]rite the truest sentence that you know;” Lewis’ I Know Who You Remind Me Of is an exercise in the “truest sentence.” Lewis wastes no words; rather, each sentence is imbued with wisdom:

She pressed her pelvis up against his and closed her eyes, lifted her face, lips parted. He ground her hips down against the bottom of the tub, and she grunted in discomfort, but then she smiled. Ben tugged her knees, sliding her until her head dunked under water. She came up sputtering, coughing with her mouth wide open like a little kid’s in a swimming pool. He kept her arms pinned down so she had to hold her face above water with the strength of her neck, and she freaked out, wiggling like a fish. He released her arms. (141)

So much is said here with so little. With very little descriptors Lewis is able to create fully formed characters with movement alone. The characters’ distaste for one another was beautiful. Rarely have I pondered a line, “[p]rofoundly distasteful” (141), and wondered if the character both simultaneously believed and didn’t believe it. It is this indecisiveness that humanizes Lewis’ characters. Lewis writes: “Some things are describable, that’s all, and some things aren’t” (113), but I get the feeling that Lewis doesn’t come across much she can’t describe.

This review appears in FreeFall Volume XXIII Number 2 Spring / Summer 2013

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