Paralyzed like a rabbit

One day far away, a famous journalist told me that he would gladly talk to me and would come to visit me in my city to organize something literary together.
A Muggle (remember that by Muggle I mean “person not affected by social anxiety”) would have blown up like a balloon at the idea, would have poofed up like a peakock, would have thought about where and how to welcome the guest and make the most of the potential friendship.
I felt paralyzed like a rabbit in front of the headlights of a car that was about to hit him. I have not said anything more, I have not replied to the messages, in case he insisted. Needless to say, nothing was done, he came to my city without us meeting and our friendship never took off.
This is an example of how a social phobic writer cannot implement those common self-promotion strategies that involve interaction and relationship. Obviously, together with the fear of panic and the desire to escape from a social situation that terrifies, in addition to the frustration of yet another untapped opportunity, there is always a sense of guilt for one’s own inadequacy, for the lack of courage and strength , due to the inability to do what for others would be simple. (And this, of course, in the life of a social phobic has even more dire consequences than the non-publication of his books, see the impossibility of driving a car, or, as in my case, of supporting myself).
Here is what a friend writes to me. I…