The problem is, my brain moves faster than my mouth. So I speak quickly, trying to keep words at pace with thoughts.

It doesn’t help that my parents are New Yorkers. I may have grown up in laid-back California, but I came home to fast talking every afternoon.

These days, living in Manhattan, I often completely forget that quick talkers aren’t the norm. Then I’ll get on the phone with someone off this frantic little island – say, someone at the Kentucky State Film Commission – and remember again what it feels like to speak with someone who makes each. Word. Into. Its. Own. Sentence.

Or, conversely, I’ll have people similarly irked by my fast speaking speed. A few months ago, I went out to LA to pitch a group of investors for Cyan’s film fund. Granted, in that case, I backed myself into a bit of a corner – I had ten minutes to give a PowerPoint presentation initially meant to have lasted fifteen. I made good time, though, and was nearly through when the time-keeper shouted out, “one more minute.”

“No problem,” I replied. “I’ll just talk faster.”

“Faster? Is that possible? God help us!” the investors chorused. And I got an extra three minutes.