Confessions of a Weirdo

Yes, that would be me. Some people go their whole lives without being called a weirdo. I'm lucky if I can get through a whole day.

I can't even be sure if something I am thinking or about to say is weird. I usually find out when I actually say it and the person I am talking to gives me that look. You know the look; the one where you look at someone like they are from Mars and say something like. "Okay, whatever." At which point I usually flinch inwardly, having once again touched the social hot stove.

Most people never notice me doing this, but if I get the look too much from one person, eventually I leave them alone. In that case, I'll bet that is what they want. I'm not saying that to feel sorry for myself, but it is a fact that my personality is not for everyone. Luckily for me, there are some wonderful people who have been my lifelong friends who embrace my odd little ways.

All I know is that when my parents' DNA scrambled to make me, or under the tutelage of various relatives, my brain got wired...different.

I have an impressive collection of neuroses and tics. They are mostly harmless. Here are some examples:

1. I must listen to "side A" before I can listen to "side B". Putting my iPod on shuffle makes me slightly uneasy.

2. I don't like to tie my shoes too tightly, because I fear getting a bug in my shoe. It happened once and I was totally vindicated in this fear.

3. Sometimes I worry that my house will burn down if I leave. Sometimes I go through periods where I have to be almost forced to leave my house. Most people experience me as a very outgoing and social person and would never believe that I have protracted periods of agoraphobia.

4. I have no filter between my brain and my mouth. This has caused me to have some awkward situations where I have spoken the unvarnished truth to someone who didn't really want to hear it.

I wrote a somewhat autobiographical novel that I completed the first and perhaps only draft on last year. I felt it was disjointed to a degree, so I sought some professional advice in the form of a developmental editor of some renown. To my delight, he agreed to work on it with me. I have never been so happy that someone with such an impressive reputation would be willing to even give my work a cursory read. But to my extreme horror and no small measure of shame, he told me that my protagonist is so very dysfunctional that there is just no way she could have relationships with other people. She couldn't have friends or maintain a marriage. NO way.

Then the light bulb went on in his head, and he said, very quietly, "Oh, is this in any way autobiographical?" I was mortified to admit that it was.

I was so floored that I couldn't even defend the parts of my work that I was very proud of. I have very good, long lasting friendships. I have been married to the same person for 12 1/2 years. I am developing a very close relationship with my new daughter.

But that interaction with the editor crushed me. I have been having a very hard time writing anything ever since.

I have a writer's symposium to go to in February. I have appointments with agents I was hoping to, if not dazzle, at least mildly amuse and interest in my work. I was hoping to come off as, at worst, a charming eccentric that can turn an occasional phrase. I did, after all, have a popular column in the local paper for several years. I had good feedback. I had an editor that knew how to motivate me to write confidently.

I was also hoping to finish a few of my half-completed manuscripts before February. But the moment Little A came into my life, my brain has jellied from sleep deprivation and I haven't had much time to myself for writing in any case.

So I feel less than prepared to engage in the kind of self promotion required to make a good impression on agents and editors. It isn't enough to be artistic anymore; one must also appear functional, which I regrettably find is not my strong suit.

So, I'm a weirdo. Hopefully I am a lovable weirdo. A lovable weirdo with some small measure of talent as an artist. This is the longest thing I have written since October.

Not that I want to be called normal. Normal is for squares. But all things being equal, I just want to make it work for me.