(And How It Affected Me as a Mentalist)
People are sometimes surprised when they find out I’m an introvert.
They assume that anyone who’s spent years on a stage, reading minds and working a crowd, must love being the centre of attention. Truth is, I never did. I loved the connection, not the spotlight.
That distinction pretty much sums up how being an introvert has both helped and hindered me — first as a mentalist, and now as a writer.
🎭 The Mentalist Years
When you’re performing mentalism, it’s all about reading people — spotting micro-reactions, emotional shifts, subtle changes in tone or expression.
That’s catnip for an introvert. We spend so much time observing that it becomes second nature to notice. I could tell when someone’s scepticism softened into curiosity or when an audience member was holding back.
But once the curtain closed, I’d be drained. Completely spent. Performing was exhilarating — but recovery was essential. I’d often vanish straight after the show, not because I didn’t like people, but because I’d given every ounce of energy I had to that audience.
In that sense, introversion helped me read people but made it harder to mingle with them.
✍️ The Writer’s Life
When I moved into writing full-time, that same introspection became an asset.
Writers live in their heads — and mine’s a busy place. I can sit alone for hours, diving into a story world, fine-tuning dialogue, or following my characters down emotional rabbit holes. That’s where I thrive.
Introversion gives me focus.
I don’t need noise, crowds, or constant stimulation to be productive.
I can spend an entire Sunday writing without feeling lonely once.
But — and here’s the kicker — the same trait that helps me create often makes it harder to promote.
Talking about my books, reaching out for publicity, putting my face in front of a camera — that’s a different kind of performance. There’s no script, no stage lights, and the feedback loop isn’t immediate. That can be tougher for someone wired like me.
⚖️ The Balance
Over time I’ve learned to treat both sides — performer and observer — as tools.
- When I need empathy and detail, I lean into the introvert.
- When it’s time to launch or promote, I borrow confidence from my old stage self.
It’s a balancing act, but one that’s served me well. The quiet observer writes the story; the showman sells it. Both need to exist — but they don’t have to fight each other.
🌏 Why I Left Facebook
Maybe that’s why I left Facebook.
The place had become a shouting match where everyone’s demanding to be heard, but no one’s really listening. So much noise, so little depth. Feeds full of recycled opinions and borrowed personalities.
After a while, I just got tired of it — the endless scroll, the pressure to perform, the constant sense that everyone’s shouting into the void. I’d rather a genuine chat with one curious mind than perform for a digital crowd half-asleep.
So I built my own corner of the web. Quieter, calmer — where stories matter more than selfies.
💡 Takeaway
If you’re an introvert, don’t assume that means you can’t perform, publish, or promote.
It just means your energy comes from depth, not noise.
And if you ever see me slipping out of a room right after a talk or launch, don’t take it personally — I’m probably just recharging.
If you’d rather read something with a pulse — stories, behind-the-scenes thoughts, and the odd philosophical detour — join my newsletter.
No noise, no algorithms, no clones. Just the good stuff.
Tell me what you think below.
Comments ()