My name is Katie, and I have animated conversations – by myself, out loud – between characters I made up. Often on my porch swing, where all the neighbors can see. (I’m sure they’re not paying attention.)
Y’all, writers are weird.
Or maybe it’s just me?
Am I late to this party? Yeah, probably. But I was sitting outside last night, thinking about a scene I wanted to write, and acting out the dialogue – very energetically – and I thought, “You know, if someone didn’t know you, they might think you’re not all there.”
When Graham first saw my carefully chaotic assortment of mostly empty notebooks, I think he found it kind of charming. Now…well, now he knows me well enough to mostly ignore it. But also wonders why I need so many and why they all need to live in a pile on my desk but also beside the bed and in the living room and behind the driver’s seat of my car just in case I hear something funny in public and want to remember it.
He’ll never get used to the questions, though. Random questions, all the time, especially to people I just met. I’ve gotten pretty good at fitting them into the flow of a good chat, though. Like, if you met me, you probably wouldn’t even realize I’m gently interrogating you for the purposes of storytelling. Unless you’re a writer, too. Because then you’re probably doing the same thing.
I can’t remember the moment I developed most of these little weirds. Was I always like this? Probably. I used to get in trouble a lot for daydreaming, even when I was really little. I continue to view daydreaming as my superpower.
Oh, and my coffee’s gone cold. That happens a lot, too.
So anyway, are you normal, or do you too collect and hoard notebooks like they’re a finite resource?
Because if you do – if you, too, are weird like me – we should probably be friends.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 