I’m not weird on purpose, only I am.
I blame it on my brothers. They are 2 and 3 years older than I am. I could never compete with them so I wound up finding things that didn’t interest them. Things that could be mine. Things I could be best at. That was the beginning of the weird.
The trend was cemented by the record stores. I had little money so I scoured the cut-out bins. There I found many things never played on the radio. Odd voices praying to the night.
Then there was PBS. Late night on PBS in Boston was a parade of oddness. Foreign films, British comedies, video art. My sensibilities were altered.
Then I found the authors that my teachers never told me about. People who knew a world they never fully understood. Passions and paranoia unbounded. I wanted to be one of them.
Now it’s my turn to create. I wrote short stories to learn how to write. I wrote a novel so that I could say I wrote a novel. I write flash fiction to still the voices.
Now there is the new novel. I am writing this one for me. My goal is to write a book that I would want to read again. It will not be a best-seller. It will be good though, just kind of weird.