A Writing Habit

You sometimes hear how lonely the life of a writer can be. I'm guessing it was a non-writing soul who first offered this reflection. Most writers I know are not only immeasurably comfy with their own company, their heads house such an array of ideas, characters and plots - all vying for attention - that there's little room for loneliness.

That said, writing is a solitary endeavor. This is why so many writers stay jammied a good portion of each day, scoffing at The Mary Kay Way. You wonder how many Mary Kay reps actually get up each day and dress impeccably even if they've no firm plans to open the front door.

How pointless to dress to the nines in order to pick up a pen or pound upon my keyboard! Yet, it's also slightly disconcerting to realize it's 1:30 in the afternoon and you're still jammied and perhaps in need of a hairbrush.

If you keep scribbling until 5:00 or so, it hardly matters any longer. But it's those mid afternoon hours that find some of us  writers longing for a writing habit. But what?

I've found my answer as well as wild inspiration with Magnolia Pearl. Aside being the most intriguing web site I've yet to chance across, I love the clothes. Of course, as a SW Florida girl, I'd have to Florida-ize the Dickens out of them. 

And wild inspiration? It trumps loneliness every time.

Change

Change is a funny thing, despite its dependability.  

Many fear it so they'd rather turn their collar up, put their head down and scurry across the street rather than look it in the eye. 

Others face it fearlessly or with only minimal trembling.

Still others turn to it in resignation. These folks tend to sigh alot. 

The other day I sat yet again mending my favorite vintage gown, knowing it was likely the last time my needle would fly through this shattered fabric. The effort was becoming futile. And that's when it occurred to me. While I don't fall into any of the above categories, my approach to change is often like the now continual mending of this garment.

But you can't always save something, no matter how hard you work at it. Whether it be ideas, people, places or tired garments - some things need be left behind as change pulls us forward.

I set down my needle. I gently folded the gown. I stood and walked away.

I chose not to look back. I had to. The temptation to again pick up that needle would have been too strong. And still futile.

Not the French Resistance But...

A water color on paper by
Adolf Friedrich Erdmann von Menzel (1815-1905)

I'm not yet on board with reading devices. I've played with them and I appreciate the marvelous factor. Truly.

But here's the moment I keep returning to: 

It's 2005 and I'm sitting heaven side (seat #21) in the library of the St. Louis Historical Society. I've been here for hours already, am thinking the day has brought all it can and am wondering the odds of finding a second Mounds Bar in my purse.

The librarian who's been bringing my requests all afternoon steps to the table and whispers quietly, "Judging by what you've been asking for, I thought you might like to see this." 

She sets down this small and quite worn black book that's maybe 4x5 inches. Her hand rests on it a moment before she smiles and walks away.

I realize something special has been set before me but I can barely read the faded handwriting in this book. It takes another moment for me to realize I'm holding the diary of a Civil War era southern woman. She had written her thoughts as Sherman's troups camped on the grounds of her plantation. Her husband was elsewhere in the war.

It was a moment my friends. A moment where thoughts of Mounds Bars fade. A moment impossible with even the most marvelous of reading devices.

Perhaps that's the rub. As one who smells books, who caresses pages, who believes objects - especially books - possess their own energy, then maybe it's the sterility of iPads and Nooks etc. that I'm resisting.

They're the way of the world, I know. But I wonder your thoughts. Am I alone in this resistance? 

Neither here nor there, but I would have been part of the French Resistance.

One more confession...I haven't a smart phone either.

A Real Player

Facebook is a strange world where you can experience an array of emotions in only moments by simply scrolling down your computer screen. 

Is it this soup pot of emotion that leads some to believe their Facebook friends wait with bated breath for their political views? Is it why some feel they can rally us round and swing us to their side by relentlessly posting images designed to agitate and which possess not a spec of balance?

This has slowed down post election but I confess to pre-election irritation at this phenomenon. While I mostly felt compelled to encourage more critical thinking and less sheep-like behavior, I confess to writing harshly at times. I argued. I un-friended a few friends (although most I had never met). I hid others from view (as if that makes any difference).

Of course I admit to infinitely less irritation when these poster-ish images reflected my own views, but that's not my point...

Now, after talking in real time with a gentleman whom I could not call a friend as I had just met him, I see all this as daylight burned. Facebook has bamboozled us into thinking we're players. 

We're not.

If you want to be a real player, it is not your Facebook friends you write. You write your Congressman and your Senators. You write them ALL the time. It is when they recognize your name that you've become a real player.

The cynical among us will scoff at this. But, I choose to believe the wisdom of our founding fathers - men who felt so strongly about what they were creating they were prepared to die for it.

To that end I've now decided to begin continually writing my representatives. Congresswoman Kathy Castor and Senators Marco Rubio and Bill Nelson will soon recognize my name and, hopefully, look forward to my correspondence. And then, I'll be a real player.

To find the contact info for your Congressman, click here. For your Senator, click here.

FYI, an argument featuring a lack of time holds no water if you've a Facebook page.

I might also mention this isn't exactly my first rodeo. Late on the night I turned 22 I learned President Carter was also born on October 1st. Suddenly I couldn't bear the evening to end without calling the White House to wish him happy birthday. 

I was passed through to three different people and my conversation with each went something like this: "Hi! My name is Laurie Mabury. Today is my birthday and I just learned....etc, etc."

I was finally told the President had already retired for the evening. I made this third woman promise to pass my birthday wish along - literally, I made her say "I promise". She took my address and the next week a birthday card from the White House was delivered to my door.

Ok, it's not exactly the same. And, I'm not suggesting conversations attempting to extract promises. But, it surely couldn't hurt to learn the birthdays of your representatives.

I'm just saying.... 

Wordsmiths

As I write, wordsmiths of the highest order are busy creating neologisms for our language. 

Have you launched yours yet? I've been trying hard with my ja-ba-la-ba-loo, an obvious but delightful play on Fred's Flintstone's ya-ba-da-ba-doo. It's usage doesn't yet appear wide spread.  

Clearly inspired by the unmanageable temperature changes of menopausal women, I've greater hope for my phrase, the Goldilocks's Effect. But enough about my own efforts.

While LOL, BTW and OMG have now officially been added to the Oxford Dictionary, I've trouble believing these abbreviations were created by high-order wordsmiths. It was more likely the dumb luck of tetchy people. 

Although I don't mind telling you, they leave a slight flesh wound. Ja-ba-la-ba-loo has infinitely more zing.

William Spooner (1844–1930) was a neologist and Oxford don famous for spoonerism - the linguistic phenomenon of accidentally - or intentionally - swapping letters, words, or vowels in a sentence... 

- Go and shake a tower: Go and take a shower

- Let us glaze our asses to the queer old Dean: Raise our glasses to the dear old Queen

- We’ll have the hags flung out: flags hung out

That's kinda cute...I mean, that's behind my flute.

To think all the words in all our books are created from only 26 letters...

For those new to neologisms, I'd suggest attempting the Washington Post's Neologism Contest, often featured in their Style Invitational. You're allowed to alter any word by adding, subtracting or changing one letter. You must also offer a new definition. Some of my personal favorites are...

-  SARCHASM: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it  

-  ARACHNOLEPTIC FIT: The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web  

-  CATERPALLOR: The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating 

-  INTAXICATION: the euphoria of getting a tax refund lasting only until you remember it was your money to begin with  

-  PERCUSSIVE MAINTENANCE: The fine art of whacking the crap out of an electronic device to make it work again  

Over time some words simply grow tired, but their meanings cannot be retired. This only fuels neologisms. But personally, I'd still rather "take my ease" than "chillax". I'd rather find myself "bejeweled" than "blinged". 

I mourn the loss of "balderdash" and "gobbledegook". 

I'll continue to make use of "extraordinary" and "astonished" even should the rest of the world let them go. Both are...wicked cool.

Damn Scribbling Women

A famous Victorian male author(perhaps Henry James?) once referred to the era's female authors as "Damn Scribbling Women." It sounds as if this gentleman was feeling the pains of competition but I like "scribbling woman".

A portion on an image you'll soon see in
Steeped: The Wanderings & Delights of a Tea Adventurer

It was these scribbling women who helped open the door to the Victoriana rage beginning in the 1970's and 80's. Scholars sought a feminist approach to literature and turned to the almost unknown women writers of the 19th century. The door was thrown wide open once writers such as Annie Besant, Mary Elizabeth Braddon, Ann Bronte, Ella D'Arcy, and Harriet Martineau were rediscovered. 

Scholars now wanted to investigate the rippling effect of women's writing on women editors, women's newspapers, murder trials of women, New Woman literature and attitudes towards marriage and divorce.

Studying the social history of the 19th century in order to understand its women writers ultimately opened a room with a view not only for scholars, but also for the modern magazine industry, the interior design world, and savvy entrepreneurs. We were hooked on Victoriana.

Thank you rediscovered Scribbling Women!

What an interesting notion though...being rediscovered as a writer. I can see the haughty raising an eyebrow, drily asking, "There was a time we were not read?"

As a minor writer of my time - sitting among the millions of other bloggers and self publishers on the planet - I would long to be the unexpected delight of another generation after passing through this earthly plane. 

Although...I wouldn't know I'd been rediscovered, would I? 

Damn! 

Technically, I'm best described as a scribbling woman fond of elocution. But why mince words? Oh right, that's what writers do - mince words...as well as measure, chop, stir and scramble them.

I'm Not My Tea Table

Like most on the planet, the last few days of the year find me looking at what's to come. The last 48 hours of being mired in glitches and changes to both my web sites - glily.com and laurienienhaus.com  - greatly adds to this sense of what is possible.

Although the possibility of creating a form in Dreamweaver plans to elude me for awhile longer. 

Anyway...I've going to stop being my tea table.

I adore my tea table. When in full regalia, it's a feast for the senses - mismatched old china, miscellaneous vintage napkins, glorious teapots and flowers arranged in antique salt and pepper shakers. It's eclectic. It's works.

Eclectic works less well in life after a certain point. I certainly don't want to mimic Pippi Longstocking's tea table,  where one might find themselves actually perched upon the table while simultaneously avoiding precarious stacks of mismatched china.

Easier said than done, but I'm giving it a go this year.

Here's to possibility, my friends! I hope your New Year brims with it.

BTW, there is no possibility that I'll stop sewing vintage reproduction clothing. This is my newly finished 1920's French Tea Gown. I do have a use for it and, of course, if Pippi Longstocking ever asks me to tea......

On Being the Siren

Few have likely had occasion to consider this, but it's not easy creating a creature from scratch. One must avoid cliche or your creature appears to have come from a box.

While there was a time any old blue would do for monster skin, you're now safer with shades of aqua and their color wheel companions. Otherwise, you're an Avatar country cousin and only...almost homemade.

Despite their distinguished history and current wild popularity, anything reminiscent of a vampire is problematic as well. I predict the vampire's trajectory to mimic that of the cupcake - whose fall from grace is surely an imminent event.

Other problems emerged as well. I had repeatedly said I wanted to "creature up and be HIDEOUS!". It didn't take long to realize what I actually envisioned was a creature on her way to the prom. There would be no slime. Under NO circumstances could dental distortions be yellow, brown or ragged. And would it be possible - rather than scales - to use sequins? Perhaps they could swoop dramatically over my eyebrows and onto my cheeks?

I had to let go of most of that - although the refusal of yellow, brown or ragged teeth was a point I was simply incapable of budging on. 

But the question remained. Who is this creature? I was in uncharted territory. The budget of an indie film doesn't allow the extravagance of a prototype. In order for this creature to evolve, I would have to carry it's blurry form in my head until something brilliant materialized.

It occurred to me making it word-free might be easier. A mute creature must, however, be unusually expressive. This is why I tried a subtle, low growl in the grocery store line. It's why I practiced creepily appearing behind my husband's chair to slowly lay a hand on his shoulder.  It's why I now have some fairly good octopus moves under my belt(remember this creature lives in the sea - or, rather, the Gulf of Mexico).

But what finally helped most was realizing I was trying to create a creature completely separate from myself. Something of me had to be pulled into it. I'm not prepared to share what that something was but I can tell you this: It's an excellent mental exercise. 

That's when I began to feel my creature. 

We'll see. Of course, what is most important is that you feel my creature. Don't go far.

A Good Teacher Rocks

Imagine a shy, soft-spoken high school freshman sitting among mostly juniors and seniors in Mrs. Rethwisch's first hour speech class. See this young woman rise, clutching her notes, and walk to the podium. Terrified, she takes a breath and begins her well rehearsed and now long forgotten speech.

You can almost hear her, can't you? 

No? Apparently, few did. 

As she collects her papers, pleased beyond measure all is over and she can return to her seat, Mrs. Rethwisch asks, "Laurie, do you always speak so softly?"

The young woman's extended pause prompts a student to reply in the affirmative. 

Mrs. Rethwisch appears thoughtful. "Say good morning Mrs. Rethwisch. As loud as you can Laurie."

The young woman looks with longing at her chair before complying.

"Again please. Louder"

The young woman, now trembling slightly and sure the person advising "pretend everyone is naked" has never actually stood before an audience, again complies.

"Again please. Louder"

The young woman wonders why Mrs. Rethwisch isn't bursting into flames.

"GOOD MORNING, MRS. RETHWISCH!"

Mrs. Rethwisch smiles. "You may take your seat Laurie." 

Myself as the Siren and Lori Zinkl as the
Beautiful Woman, L1 and L2 respectively for
The Siren indie film project.

As it turns out, this was a pivotal moment. A good teacher rocks.  It's their job.

On The Siren

"Good Heavens, NO!"

That was my first response when film maker Mark List asked if I'd write a short indie film for our Fort Myers Beach Film Festival. A woman aiming at clearing her decks and bringing to light the book she's been working on for years has no business taking on a new project.

Or does she? Mark wanted a short lasting no more than ten minutes. That's barely four pages. How hard can it be?

"Good heavens...noooo..."

And then came the idea...which is generally followed by the knowing that all arguments henceforth will be ignored as hollow and unworthy of attention. The idea rules.

Perhaps you recall the 2002 horror movie, The Ring?

 

Creepy, eh? Yet, imagine a spoof where this disturbing character is confronted by a beautiful woman believing her fiance's heart now belongs to the other. What if the beautiful woman is oblivious to the other's desperate need of hot soapy water, moisturizer, and a soul? 

Because I saw such potential for farce, I immediately began writing. I also began practicing both the walk and crawl you just observed. My husband quickly asked me to cease with such walking and crawling so I must assume I had that down pat.

I always wanted to play a creepy part. Although, I've long imagined this creepy part would be a Victorian ghost story sort of character - all stern and dressed in black while exuding mysterious undercurrents of evil.

Yet ideas that rule also morph. Mark and I decided our creepy character should be less reminiscent of The Ring and more like that of a siren...from Estero Bay. 

We had to keep it local!

Out went the perfected Ring walk/crawl and in washed a more fluid sort of move. Fluid and creepy is hard, btw. They don't naturally marry well.

The second major shift occurred once the beautiful woman, Lori Zinkl, entered the picture. Her take on her character and the magnificence with which she can play a b_ _ _ _  suddenly made for less farce and more horror.

So I think we've a short horror flick rimmed with slight, wicked humor. But, as I'm a complete newbie on this front, I won't know for sure until I see the dailies and what Mark plans to do with them.

Yep...dailies. Love learning new words and then tossing them about town.

Lobster Thoughts

Lobster thoughts continue to plague me during daylight hours.

I'm a huge fan of this yummy crustacean but prefer it be flirting with my melted butter rather than walking past me on a leash as mentioned in my I Resemble That Remark post of October 3rd.

 Although in that post I mention Oscar Wilde as engaging in this curious activity, he wasn't the first. Gérard de Nerval (1808 – 1855), a French poet and essayist, had a pet lobster named Thibault which he walked at the end of a blue silk ribbon in Paris' Palais Royal Garden.  Mr. Nerval is known to have said:

"Why should a lobster be any more ridiculous than a dog? ...or a cat, or a gazelle, or a lion, or any other animal that one chooses to take for a walk? I have a liking for lobsters. They are peaceful, serious creatures. They know the secrets of the sea, they don't bark, and they don't gnaw upon one's monadic privacy like dogs do." 


While he does make several excellent points, I've news for this gentleman. Any animal whose brain is in its throat, whose teeth are in its stomach, who hears with his legs and tastes with his feet leans upon the ridiculous. And if truth be told, lobsters are peaceful only when they've lots of elbow room. Crowd them even the slightest and they exhibit less peaceful and more cannibalistic qualities.

I'm just not seeing them as pet worthy. Those who do perhaps don't realize lobsters are giant sea insects related to woodlice, barnacles and water fleas. With this information in hand, strolling about with one could be termed macabre. It makes you wonder why we never saw Wednesday Adams walking a lobster.

Created by Salvidor Dali in 1936, now in the Tate Gallery

Leave it to Salvidor Dali to toss his art into this lobster pot. Lobsters are featured in a number of his works as he found them - and the telephone - to have strong sexual connotations. And the two together? I imagine the day he thought of a lobster phone was especially...memorable. For myself? I'm not on board with a lobster phone either.

And unlike Wallace Simpson, the American divorcee who married the Duke of Windsor amid wild scandal in 1937, you won't see me donning a dress plastered with a huge lobster and scatterings of parsley sprigs.

Dress created by Elsa Schiaparelli, 1937

Wallace Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor (1895-1986),
Photo by Cecil Beaton (1904-80). UK, early 20th century.

Part of me cringes at devoting so much mental energy to them, but lobsters do seem to capture the imagination. At least I'm not dreaming of them so, according to most dream dictionaries, I'm free of unresolved problems. 

Are you thinking my fun quota is low? If that were true, would I ask these questions:

How long does it take a lobster to run a marathon?
A shell of a long time!

Where does a lobster keep his clothes?
In the clawset!

But why is he afraid to go in there to get them?
Because he’s clawstrophobic!

Lastly, now that I think on it, lobsters are rather serious looking. Or maybe scholarly? What DO they know?

Mark my words. The next time you chance upon a lobster, you're going to look into his eyes. You simply won't be able to help yourself.

Oh...and mark your calendars! June 15th is National Lobster Day. Whichever way you fly...butter or leash, don't let this day slip by you.

Wabi-Sabi

  The last several months have found me pondering the Japanese philosophy of Teaism, particularly the concept of Wabi-Sabi. I confess my understanding of this is currently...wobbly at best.

  While I believe Wabi-Sabi has more to do with the simplicity and rustic beauty of imperfect and/or incomplete "things", I was struck by the notion of the "artful mending of damage". I was taken with the idea that an object broken can be transformed into a thing of greater beauty and elegance due to having been mended.

  Then came the moment where my mind veered.

  Enter artist and friend extraordinaire, Babs Synderman. Upon discussing this with her, we decided upon a collaboration. 

  Technically, this side road began as her sterling and opal birthday present to me - a precious gift I'll long treasure. The poem I penned came later. Neither is simple or rustic. Yet, I think Wabi-Sabi elements are playing out here. Anyway... 

I was once a pretty thing,
Flitting among my stars,
Coolhanded of time.

Til the storm broke.
I remember thinking,
There should be noise.
A horrific roar.
The crush of glass.
Bellows of anguished wails.

But a heart can break without sound,
A shattering, tumbling free fall
Of silent, exquisite pain.

How long had I laid here?
Broken. Eyes shut tight.
Perfectly still.
And barely breathing.
I remember thinking,
I'll never be the same.

At last my soul cried, "Enough!
Stand. Open your eyes.
Be your own savior." 

Light gathered to soften sorrow,
Til I could sail above the sunrise,
To make my peace with time.
And I remember thinking,
I'm a gorgeous thing,
How glorious to not be the same.

  To learn more about Babs and her work, I invite you to visit, www.babsbags.com. Tell her I sent you and that I love her madly!

When the Universe Speaks

Mona Burroughs

  

  An unfinished project is like a dangling participle or an unwanted shadow. It's a small stone trapped in your shoe. 

  Rarely do I leave one unfinished.

  But as I felt compelled to step away from speaking at our historic Burroughs Home, there seemed little reason to finish a 1-woman show where I play a true Burrough's maid from the twenties, Mary Epsey.

  Which, btw, I began before becoming aware of The Help.

  Yet, I've finished most of the research.

  But it wouldn't make sense to an audience if you weren't actually at the Burrough's.

  Yet it's 3/4 written!

  But, I'm not a woman of color!

  Technically I poetically licensed this last point, but you see my dilemma. 

  In a twist of fate, the last few days have found me considering a return to the Burroughs Home. This could also mean a return to Mary Epsey. Fate loves it's curve balls.

  Oh what to do, what to do! If only the universe would send an omen as I bike down Estero Boulevard.

  I'll pause while you read a portion of the script in order to understand where I'm heading here....

...Miss Mona and Miss Faye are good friends, but I wouldn’t be calling em two peas in a pod. Miss Mona’s always the life of the party. While Miss Faye? Well, she’s more quiet like. But between you and me? Those are some still waters runnin deep in Miss Faye, you mark my words.
            (sees an easel sitting with a partially finished canvas sitting on it)
   What is Miss Mona workin on now?
            (puts down the tea pot and holds out her thumb to eyeball the painting, studying it for a moment before turning back to the house)
   I don’t know what that does but I see Miss Mona doin it all the time. She’s a good a painter, don’tcha think?  I especially like this one.
            (sees the table near the easel with an artist palette, open paint tubes, etc.)
   Don’t know what all this is doin here. She usually sets herself up down by the river. She likes paintin by her daddy while he’s fishin. Will ya look at this?
            (begins closing paint tubes)
   Good Lord, I never seen a young woman so messy. You should see her room – it is not a calm before the storm, I don’t mind telling ya. It is a full blown hurricane a barrelin on through...

  So. Here I am riding my bike down the beach, a angstin and a wishin for an omen, when I see an artist's palette, complete with wet paint, lying on the grass. 

  If I'm lyin, I'm dyin!

  My mouth falls open. But as it's my fate to resist fate, I prop the palette on a sign in case it's owner returns for it. 

  But an hour later, it's still there as I ride back by.

  FINE! I don't need to be bopped on the head!

  For your reading pleasure, here's a bit more of the script...


   ...What! Now hold on Miss Mona!
             (hands teapot to a guest)
   Take this for me now would ya, Ma’am? Go on and pour yourself a cup if ya like.
             (to Miss Mona with her hands on her hips)
   You want me to tell your Mama you’re not at her garden club meetin cause you’re dancin at the Royal Palm? Again?
              (pauses)
   Why thank you, Miss Mona. The good Lord did give me good ears, but I’m not convinced bearing unhappy news to your mama is gonna enhance her afternoon.
               (to the house)
   Or mine... 

  I've missed ya Mary. Thanks for your patience.
  

The Doors Open

It's time to open the doors of my Vintage Emporium. This temporary shop will likely see more treasures as I've just now remembered there's another box of reproduction patterns stashed in the garage. 

Oh...and there's vintage magazines resting quietly under my couch. I forgot all about them!

I've been relishing the new spaciousness of certain shelves and cupboards. It was necessary, however, to walk away from my dining room cabinet - the one where items were inclined to jump out at you only last week. It's now sparsely filled and the eccentricity of arranging what remains, turning items slightly this way or that, was not lost on me.

You might be wondering if I'm compelled to now begin a new era of hunting and gathering. I can't say I am.

Not yet anyway. But for the sake of argument, if I were to begin collecting anew, what would strike my fancy? Hmmm...

Lordy! Don't let me go there!

If you're interested in perusing my treasures and possibly making them your own, click here. This link takes you to a private page at LaurieNienhaus.com. 

You can email me at editor@glily.com or call or text me at 239-463-1079 to order. This information and more is on the page featuring all items.

I was asked my plans for monies made from Vintage Emporium sales. Next year, Kenny and I will have been married 30 years. I want to go somewhere romantic and marry him again! So that we don't end up in Oklahoma at a western art museum, I'm taking charge and planning ahead.

Not that there's anything wrong with a western art museum in Oklahoma, mind you. It just doesn't cry out romance when said aloud.

Lastly, for those wanting my stuff to become theirs - thank you. Enjoy!

I Resemble That Remark

"That so few now dare to be eccentric, marks the chief danger of the time." From On Liberty by John Stuart Mill

 The universe has its ways. What are the odds two different people would mention I was eccentric in the same week I chance upon the above quote?

 "What!?" I interrupted both times. Not that I've ever given it much thought, but I've never considered myself eccentric. I always thought one must possess barrels of money or cats in the double digits to lay such a claim. 

 Unlike Oscar Wilde, I've never had the least urge to sally forth with a lobster on a leash. And, unlike Prince, on the few occasions I've been interviewed, it never occurred to me to put a paper bag over my head.

 It was so shocking to hear such a thing that, of course, it fueled thoughts for No Cobwebs Here. Quick research seemed a worthy use of time. Self examination will come later.

 There's much to be found on the subject of eccentricity, although apparently there's been "astonishingly little clinical research into the subject". It's been suggested this is because eccentrics tend to be cheerful souls rarely seeking treatment. You need treatment for it!?

  British psychologist, David Weeks, did reveal a few discoveries in his book, Eccentrics: A Study of Sanity and Strangeness (1995). Let me mention from the get go...I'm not fond of the title.

  According to Dr. Weeks, eccentric people are:

1. Creative...I'll give you that one standing tall.

2. Idealistic...Personally, I wonder if history lovers are all that idealistic. With even a modicum of perspective of the past, it's hard to hang onto idealism. Hence, my huge issues with Obama and socialism. But I digress...

3. Obsessed with hobbies...It only seems like obsessive hobbies because I'm not the most brilliant of business women.

4. Curious...If I might quote the Wicked Witch of the West here: What a world, what a world. How could one NOT be curious?

5. Non-conforming in attitude...There's a conforming attitude?

  Those are only the top five indicators. To learn more, you can read Jordan Elgrably's well done piece about the book, called Wilder at Heart, by clicking here.

  Thankfully, there are benefits to being eccentric. Such folks are happy and optimistic, have strong immune systems, visit doctors less and live longer.

  In On Liberty, John Stuart Mill, also suggests it is the eccentrics who are the visionaries. They provide the untried ideas allowing societies to progress.

  All in all, I'm happy to resemble these remarks.

  To read a list of the ten most fruit-loopery of historical eccentrics, click here.