On being weird…

This last post I want to share with you today, I wish had been something my parents said to me. Alas, I grew up in a redneck family in Texas, and so even my parents were forcing me to conform.

It took me years to come out from under the crushing pressure to conform and not be so strange. I’d repressed myself so completely that for a few years I was transphobic. (Though, curiously, I wasn’t homophobic. I even had a gay dude embrace me and fondle my crotch, and I just said, “Sorry, but that doesn’t do anything for me.”) That’s how deeply in denial I slipped to avoid being abused any further. Everything about me was defined by someone else, and I just stopped questioning it. It was easier to give up and go with the flow, even if doing it made me feel miserable.

Anywho, the thing is, over the last few years, I’ve come to accept a lot of things about myself that I’d formerly run from. Even something like getting my hair cut short had more to do with being shamed over my messy hair in my childhood than it did with any personal sense of style. The ironic thing is, messy short hair has apparently become fashionable, because people tell me, “I love what you’ve done with your hair,” and I haven’t don’t anything. I don’t even comb it. I just sweep my hand over the top to get the strays all going in the same general direction. And yet, it somehow now looks good to others. Makes me want to track down my elementary school teachers, just so I can point at them and give a cheery “Ha-ha!”

But I’ve had this crisis of faith where I’ve begun to question the point of what I’m writing. This blog post has inspired me again, and it’s made me realize, I don’t need to worry what a few people think of my writing, nor do I need to worry about them declaring that they know me just because they’ve read something into my stories. I can keep cranking out my stuff without feeling bad over offending a few people here and there. And no matter what I write, it isn’t reflective of who I am as a person. I mean, really, I write sex into every other book, but my own sex life? Non-existent. Yeah, I know, it’s boring, but since I have this crazy idea about only wanting sex if there’s love involved, one-night stands with hot lesbians are out. *Sigh*

My favorite part of the post is this:

You don’t get there by acculturating. Don’t become a well-rounded person. Well rounded people are smooth and dull. Become a thoroughly spiky person. Grow spikes from every angle. Stick in their throats like a pufferfish.

This quote alone is giving me a renewed feeling of purpose. I can’t say it’s going to translate in a new writing frenzy just yet, but I’m going to print this quote out in giant bold text, and I’m going to tack it to my wall. I’m going to make it my daily mantra. I need this because it reminds me that I’m not a character in a book, and I don’t have to be likable to the mainstream to have a sense of self-worth.

And after all, I’m not writing to please the mainstream. I’m writing to say, “These other people exist, and even if you hate them, we shouldn’t be erasing their experiences just because they make the moral majority squirm.”

So, I guess what I’m saying is, after I finish Peter’s last book and Ginger’s serial, I’m going to go ahead and write about gay sparkly werewolves. Then I’ll probably start Alice’s series, or work on another book for Sandy. Not because I see a demand in the mainstream for these kinds of stories. No, because it’s what I want to write. And if you don’t like it, well hey, there’s thousands of writers out there who all write with the express purpose of soothing your vanities.

I don’t want to be well rounded. I want to be a spiky punk, and damn it, it’s okay for me to be weird. The sooner I accept that, the sooner I can get back to kicking those professional writers’ asses with my 10K a day writing frenzies.

Fear me for being weird, but I don’t care. I’ve got my groove back on, and I’m just about ready to go Gonzo again.