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Kinda Weird

I've always been an introvert - at least, in the Meyers-Briggs sense. For those unfamiliar with M-B, what that basically means is that my energy and motivation generally comes more from within myself, than from others. Introverts are not necessarily unfriendly, shy, or reclusive - it just means that hanging around with other people (especially lots of other people), even when it is something they enjoy, requires energy, rather than restoring it to them – it may be fun, but is generally not relaxing. I tend to be an analytical type, and while I am totally fine discussing my analyses, I tend to want/need time by myself to formulate them. If you give me a complex math or engineering problem, I will go into a room by myself, to work on it. I tend to need a certain amount of "alone time" to achieve mental and emotional balance. I socialize with a group, but I generally mostly work alone... unless I'm writing.

Over the course of the last 7 to 8 years, I have discovered writing - creative writing - in a way that I never did, before. Along with it, I also discovered a seldom-tapped side of my personality. As odd as the phrasing may sound, I found my inner extrovert. Basically, I cannot sustain writing, in the vacuum which suits my analysis, so well. I NEED to bounce ideas off of someone else, to show them what I've written, to discuss my characters' outlooks and psyches, to have some one enjoy what I write, as I write it. As much as my logical nature recognizes that it is unreasonable, it often drives me totally bonkers when my favorite muse/story consultant is unavailable, and no one else seems to have the fortitude to discuss my stuff ad nauseum, as I seem to require. This would not be a problem, really, if it weren't for the fact that when I get story ideas, I can often feel them building within me, until, I swear, I can feel my blood pressure rise, until I get them written. At times like these, I often find myself sneaking peeks at my Friends lists on various chat programs, to see who is online, and wondering if I should try to waylay an unsuspecting acquaintance, and make them read my stories. If you're ever the victim of such a literary drive-by, I do apologize, in advance. It may help, if any of you out there want to volunteer to figuratively throw yourself upon the author about to explode, to shield others from the shrapnel. Alternately, maybe you should send money to my primary muse, so she can afford to do it as a full time job – after all, she's performing a public service, right?

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