We suck. Seriously. I mean, there’s lots of reasons we’re awesome. I wouldn’t not be a writer for anything, but still.
We always know what’s going to happen next. Well, in fiction. Not like we can predict the future or anything.
- We yell at the television for bad writing. E.g. “You can’t just ignore the rules in the world you created, writers! Why? Why are you doing that? You’re lazy. That’s why.”
- We throw books. We even have a name for books that deserve to be thrown. “Wallbangers.” I know this makes sense to us, but how weird is this? We roll our eyes, grumble, and then BAM. Book meets wall.
We’re more interested in the imaginary people in our heads.
- Holding conversations become difficult because there’s too much noise. Except we’re only talking to one other person. Well, one other live person.
- We stand in the kitchen, peeling carrots, and the knife clatters to the counter. “I know what happens next!”, we squeal and run for our notebooks because if it’s not written down we’ll forget and then want to gouge our eyes out with the carrot knife.
We’re always reading. Fiction for fun, fiction in our genre, writing books, blogs on writing, agent blogs, publishing news. If it’s in print, we probably read it.
- This totally should not be annoying. How can such a solitary activity annoy other people? After we’ve been asked the same question three times and we look up and say, “Huh?”, apparently, it’s annoying.
- We get snippy. “I only have twenty pages left. Could you just try to stop the bleeding and wait for me in the car?”
What do you do, as a writer that annoy the non-writerly types in your life?
You should have seen me after the season finale of Bones last week. I flipped out! Apparently, it made total sense to my husband who does not feel adherence to “storytelling rules” is particularly important. I moaned about it for about 24 hours with random shouts of, “It doesn’t even make sense!”
That’s not annoying, right?
Whenever me and my OH go shopping, we always agree to split up and meet up in a Waterstones later.
She knows there’s no point in me standing around in the other shops looking miserable, scribbling ideas in my notebooks and staring at people, listening intently to their dialogues.
I’m much happier looking at new titles, scanning book blurbs or scouting for my next notebook.
Being a writer is non-socially brilliant.
I forgot all about the eavesdropping! That drives my husband crazy. I say if you’re having the conversation in public there’s a reasonable expectation someone is listening. And making notes. And farming it for ideas. Maybe not those last two.
If I say something doesn’t make sense, my husband says, “You watched Lost!”
Then I argue, “They followed the rules they created. How hard is that?” It’s a lot like politics. He’s learned to steer clear of these discussions.