For as long as I can remember, I have found small talk problematic. It was boring at best and stressful at worst. A colleague commenting on the weather, when I could see for myself that it was raining. The postman asking: “How are you today?” An impossibly broad question to answer briefly.
I worked in book publishing for years, where networking was essential. I could discuss authors, print runs or marketing budgets with ease. But asking how a buyer had travelled to the event? Or where a journalist had parked? I didn’t care! So why were these the conversations we were all having? Everyone else seemed at ease, while I felt on edge.
Every exchange felt like a performance, an evaluation I was sure I was failing. I didn’t understand the rules of engagement. For example, how long should small talk last? Should I answer honestly or with entertainment in mind? I worried that my responses were either flat or manic, my questions barked out like an interrogator.
When I became a freelance writer, I trained myself to make small talk in the same way that an actor rehearses lines for a play, desperately trying to appear relaxed and confident. Over time, I became more at ease with the performance and accepted that the discomfort was just a part of being an adult.
Then lockdown happened. For two years, I didn’t have to perform at all. Perhaps because we were all feeling more vulnerable, the conversations I did have felt deeper and more authentic. I rarely had to speak to strangers – I didn’t even have to wear pants!
But when the world reopened, returning to chat about the traffic and weather felt like psychological torture. My lines were rusty. The masks we had been, literally, wearing for so long had made me forget how to put my social one back on.
All that changed in May this year. While at a friend’s art show, I suddenly felt inspired to try a different approach. I remembered the self-help author Wayne W Dyer’s advice: “Change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.” Rather than continuing to force myself into a mould and resenting it, I decided to create a new one.
The first person I spoke to at the show was a freelance photographer. “What’s your star sign?” I asked. She blinked, looked pleasantly surprised, then answered, “Aquarius.” We spoke comfortably for 10 minutes. The next person I encountered, I asked, “What was your art teacher at school like?” By the end of the evening, I’d had several fun and enjoyable conversations.
There were 27 more days left in May, and one month felt like a suitable amount of time to continue the experiment. My rules were simple: without being rude, I would quickly deflect all questions about wellbeing, weather, transport or children’s academic achievements and offer instead something I found genuinely interesting.
When a barista asked, “How are you enjoying the sun?” I pivoted to, “I like spring, but autumn is my favourite season. What about you?” At a writer’s event, when a woman commented that her kids were out of school, I asked: “What was your favourite subject to study?”
The results were astonishing. Most people weren’t just willing to play along; they seemed relieved. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who felt like small talk was an awkward and forced ritual. Instead of stiff exchanges, conversations became unpredictable and, more importantly, real. I learned about a bartender’s successful side hustle as a drag artist, a recent graduate’s passion for beekeeping, and the novel a mental health nurse was writing.
There were a few uncomfortable moments, of course. Some people just didn’t get it, giving me a quizzical look before excusing themselves. A few reacted with outright suspicion. But I didn’t take it personally; most people seemed to welcome the change.
As the end of the month approached, I came to realise that small talk, for all its frustrations, has a purpose. It’s a passport to the kind of interaction and the connection all humans are hardwired to seek out.
So small talk no longer causes me anxiety. Rather than being intimidated, I choose how I want to engage with it, without putting myself under so much pressure to “get it right”. Giving it up for a month allowed me to see more clearly how we’ve all learned to follow the same script in order to foster common ground. But that doesn’t mean you can’t change that script, make it more authentic and have more interesting conversations, too.
F**k I Think I’m Dying, by Claire Eastham, is published by Penguin, £9.99.
