Mary read me this passage from "Alcatraz versus the Scrivener's Bones" by Brandon Sanderson. We laughed and hooted all through it because if you want to know what it's like to be Mary, then read away:
Writers--particularly storytellers like myself--write about people. That is ironic, since we actually know nothing about them.
Think about it. Why does someone become a writer? Is it because they like people? Of course not. Why else would we seek out a job where we get to spend all day, every day, cooped up in our basement with no company besides paper, a pencil, and our imaginary friends?
Writers hate people. If you've ever met a writer, you know that they're generally awkward, slovenly individuals who live beneath stairwells, hiss at those who pass, and forget to bathe for weeklong periods. And those are the socially competent ones.
No surprise, the girl with the 4 dozen chapter-filled spirals likes to be left alone. No amount of convincing or coaxing can get her to go somewhere or see people she doesn't want to. If you are invited in to her little world then you are a fortunate soul indeed.
Shortly after reading this Mary's friend Sara came over.
Sara said, "Sometimes when people find out my dad is in the stake presidency [at church] they feel intimidated and avoid me. Does that ever happen to you, Mary, because of your Mom's calling?"
Mary replied, "No. Usually when I tell people that my mom's the stake Young Women's president they say, "'Oh! I didn't know Rebecca Jones had a daughter!'"
Oh man, we had a good laugh over that!
But guess what, she went to church with me in the Newport ward (their ward conference) which was out of her comfort zone. And she attended most of youth conference earlier in the month and even went to her first dance(!). She interacted with humans and now she'll need a nice long break. And that's okay, she is who she is and I love her for it--even if she hisses at me when I enter her room (which she actually, literally does).