By Ali Cross
It is not Monday. Well, actually, it is. But in my world, it’s the Monday prior to your Monday—the Monday on which you are reading this. Why? you might ask. Because this past weekend (or next weekend if you’re me, right now) is the LDStorymaker’s Conference at which I am going to have such an awesome time, I won’t have the presence of mind to sit down and write a lovely blog for you. And I already know what I want to say. So I’m saying it now, on Monday, so you can read it then (err, now) on Monday.
Over the next few days I’m sure you’re going to be inundated with wonderful posts all about the awesome things we will learn at the conference. But I know what my favorite part is going to be—hanging around with a whole whack of people who are different, just like me.
I loved Cindy’s post in which she talked about being “the same kind of different.” I am different. When I’m in conversations with normal people (ah, non-writer people) I can’t just spontaneously break out into a discourse of why my next-door-neighbor’s landscape makes me think there’s probably a troll living under the house who holds the garden fairies hostage.
I can’t talk about my main characters like they’re my best friends, telling my in-real-life friends how so-and-so just shot the sheriff.
I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be long before someone from the Department of Child Protective Services came by to check and see if I was capable of raising my children or if, in fact, I had lost my mind.
However, this weekend (or, rather, this past weekend) I will be spending two whole days and nights with people who are the same kind of different as me. There, we are the same. And oh, what a relief it is!
No more censoring the words that come out of my mouth. No more being careful not to guffaw right out loud because one of the voices in my head just said something super funny. No more worries that I will be judged harshly because of my weirdness—in fact, amongst others like me, I’ll probably feel down right (dare I say it?) normal.
I love being a writer and I have had so much more joy in my work since I’ve met friends who are writers too. It’s not so bad being different, but it can get old. Hanging out with more of the same kind of different as me, is a mighty fine way to spend a weekend, and excuse enough to pretend that today is Monday next week. Hey, I’m a writer, right? I hardly ever live in the here-and-now. Where’s the fun in that?