Yesterday as I was going through my daily blogroll, I found an interesting link on Jennifer Jackson's blog (in case you don't know of her, she's an agent with Donald Maass Lit Agency) that lead to Other Writers Are Crazy on Justine Larbalestier's blog. As I read Ms. Larbalestier's funny and so true words, I found myself looking at the reality of the situation...
I'm one of those crazies.
Think about it for a second. If I wasn't deranged, would I be talking to myself and to the people in my head? And who else but a crazy person would sit day after day typing words no one else may ever read--ruining eyes, wrists and brain cells along the way (not to mention getting a flat butt and atrophied muscles)?
Justine also said we were masochists. This is also true, in a way. Writers put themselves out there expecting to be rejected. They open themselves up to the pain of bad reviews, red ink edits, hate mail... They lay their hearts bare for anyone to stomp on. And after it happens, they keep working on their next book to start the process all over again. (I said 'in a way' because while we do ask for the potential of pain over and over again, masochism implies we enjoy it, and I'm not sure many of us actually do enjoy it. We accept it, we take it like a man, and we wade back in to get more, but I don't believe we like it.)
So, I guess in the scheme of things, I'm deranged. *shrug* I've been called worse. I admit it. I'm nuts, wacko, fruity, bananas, stark-raving mad. Truth be told, though, I'm lovin' it. I can control whole worlds, I have lots of friends to talk to, and I can go places I've never been without ever leaving the comfort of my home. (And with gas prices the way they are, I'm better off this way.) I can not only meet new and interesting people every day, I can create them. Being crazy ain't so bad when you look at it that way.
Sure, my ass is flat on one side, and I've spent so much time at this computer lately, my eyes are fried. I'm beginning to wonder if my leg muscles resemble wet noodles. I talk to myself, and my characters. I phase out in conversations with real people to think about my imaginary ones. But I'm happy in my little world. And while it's true that I may be killing people in my head, I'm harmless to the outside world. No 'I love me'* jacket required. Despite all that's going on in my fictional world, I can move through the real world like a normal person. I can interact with human beings and no one ever knows.
I am deranged, but the men in the white jackets can go looking for someone else... for now.
*'I love me' jacket is another term for straightjacket. After all, if you're wearing one, you do spend all day every day hugging yourself. LOL
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