I have more ideas than I can count for stories. So many beautiful stories. Filled with beautiful people.
It's my way of saying "thank you" to those people who have made an impact on my life. It's the smallest way I know how to make them live forever. They are in my mind, in my heart, then I put them on paper and they go live in someone else's mind and heart for a short time.
My hope is that those who read the stories will see within them what I was trying to say.
I write romance novels. I have no presupposition to think that I'll be changing the world any time soon.
But that's not why I write.
I'm writing the longest thank you letter to those who have already changed my world. Whether is was something they said or did, or simply how they changed the radio station that one time without having to be asked, they gave me something.
If you pick up one of my stories someday and you see the hint of yourself in my hero, that was deliberate. Don't argue with me either, because you should already know I'm too stubborn to listen. You might think that I'm romantisicing the facts, making you into a better person that you really are. But I'm not. If you don't want to remembered as a hero, then stop being so heroic. Though, that might be impossible in your case.
I'm trying, as hard as I can, to showcase you. All of you. Those rare birds that came into my life during unfortunate circumstances and sang me a song. I'm not great at displaying my affection broadly. I'm also not great at putting my inner turmoil out on display for speculation and interpretation. But I can write it down in my simple stories.
Thank you for letting me see you. For being the inspiration to my favorite characters. For making me laugh on days when I really, really needed to laugh. For showing me what lovely looks like. For showing me what people are truly capable of when we just let them fly.
I saw everything. I committed it to memory. You were amazing.
All I want is to listen to really hard and heavy rock and roll while I write.
Really. That's it.
My
frustration level has reached an all new high. I'm terribly cranky
right now. I guess when I get even just the littlest tiny bit pissed off
I become a great big scary monster that ruins people. And that's when
I'm pulling my punches.
Imagine, for a small terrifying second, what I could accomplish if I truly wasn't trying to be a better person.
Found
out two weeks ago that I'm an INTJ. This realization has answered a
lot of questions. It's helped me put some things into perspective.
It's also made me incredibly thankful for the gift of my sister and my
husband. Because without them and their particular personalities, I
would have been left on my own and who knows what kind of monster I
would be today.
If
you google INTJ and read the description, it's accurate to me by about
95%. I won't tell you which parts aren't true (spoilers). Anyway, I
guess my brain isn't broken after all. There's nothing "wrong" with
me. So hear me while I shout this at my computer screan, "STOP TRYING
TO FIX ME!!"
I
know I'm not the easiest person to get to know. I like it that way. I
don't think it's imperative to be besties with every person I come into
contact with. I like knowing there are only a handful of people, chosen
and vetted by myself, who know the dark duckling that I am. Not to say
I can't be friends with many people. I totally can and I totally am.
But they don't all get to see the soft squishy that resides behind the Death Glare.
To
get angry with me for holding a part of myself separate from the rest
of the world just proves my theory that you can't be trusted with it
anyway. Don't take it personally, I'm not being cruel. I'm being
honest.
True
story: One time I had a roommate. I've actually had two, neither
relationship ended well. (Still sorry about that, most of it was my
fault.) Anyway, this roommate, we'll call her Tish, had been living
with me for a few months. She slept in one day and I cleaned the
house. I wasn't mad at her. I was indifferent towards her, which some
people perceive as mad (shrug). She came out of her room and went to
the bathroom, then went back to her room and shut the door.
I kept
doing my thing. Her boyfriend showed up, I let him in, he went back to
her room. I kept cleaning. A few minutes later they left. I think I
was vacuuming at this point. I shut the vacuum off and heard the water
spigot on the outside of the house running. I went to the window and
looked outside to see Tish brushing her teeth.
Really.
I
guess the Death Glare made her believe that if she used the bathroom
for what it's supposed to be used for, I was going to kill her.
Really.
I
tell you this story because it still makes me laugh to this day. I
wasn't mad at her. I was working. She told everyone I was mad. Which
made me look like Mommy Dearest in training because who makes someone
brush their teeth outside? Really, what kind of messed crap is that?
Now,
she may have been feeling guilty because she set one of my pans on fire
when she was cooking a cheddar filled hotdog and then tried to bury the
evidence. I found it later. And one thing that actually does piss me off is incompetency. Still wouldn't have made her brush her teeth outside.
Why
did I share this? Because it makes sense now and it's even more
hilarious than it used to be. But also because the extroverts of the
world keep trying to "help" me. Please, for the love of Pete, stop.
I'm fine. I don't need to be rescued or repaired. Yes, I'm weird.
Yes, my personality probably freaks you out and makes you
uncomfortable. I appreciate that you are trying to include me. But
understand that I am just as happy sitting in the corner and watching
everything
as you are being the center of attention.
Don't
force me to be an extrovert. If I end up getting too stressed out
(see: forced extroversion), I become a nightmare. And not the fun
kind. The kind where I'm moody and emotional and I HATE EVERYTHING.
When I tell you nicely to "back off." That is not code for "try
harder." I don't speak in code. I think about what I want to say and
then I say it. When you ignore the actual words that come out of my
mouth, I lose any smidgen of respect I had for you at all.
Side note:
And
if you see me in a coffee shop with my back to the room and headphones
in, that is not an invitation to join me. I will make this face at you
until you leave.
Don't
misunderstand. Occasionally there will be an activity that interests
me and excites me and I will participate wholeheartedly. Again, my
participation needs to be left up to me. But if you are boring or mean
to people or a general dick, I probably won't want to spend time with
you. Because I have learned enough about people (don't knock the corner
sitting, it's very revealing), to recognize the ones I want to spend
time with. Don't get bent about it, just find someone else to hang out
with. No one should be expected to mesh perfectly with everyone else.
I'm not a universal donor over here. I don't fit well with all types. I
know that about myself and I'm okay with that. Stop trying to force us
to mix. I', Red Bull and you're milk. I will make you curdle. It'll
be gross for all involved. So stop forcing the issue.
I need new headphones.
And I need to write about these rock stars that I love.
If you've read this far, here's a bonus and rare reveal of feelings:
I
write about musicians because I've known so many and I adore them.
Truly magnificent people who made my life bright and loud and made me
feel like less of a freak when I was with them. But maybe that's the
nerd characteristic. The little gene in human DNA that not everyone is
blessed with. If you are a nerd about something to the point of
passionate obsession, I probably love you.
Am I a paradox? Yeah, actually I am. If you do your research you'll see that that's perfectly normal.
