Walking over to the McNally Jackson bookstore in Soho on a Thursday night, I was already getting nervous. I was assigned by my professor to go to this reading event, Future Sex by Emily Witt, with some of my classmates. He challenged us to try to mingle with the crowd there together, to help each other if any of us got shy. After all, as aspiring writers, it was important for our careers to start interacting with the literary sphere. But as an anxiety-prone girl who was already regretting wearing her high-heeled boots in cobblestoned Soho, who was already aware of strangers who might catch sight of her stumbles, who was already dreading the implications of the word “mingle,” I decided that this was an impossible task.