I’m an odd sort of fellow. Always have been. I suspect I always will be.

That’s ok with me. I don’t mind flying the flag for oddness, even if it’s in a quiet sort of way, rather than a ‘shouting out from the rooftops look how odd I am’ kind of way. From my perspective, it’s a far more interesting way to live your life. Although it does pose issues at times.

I try to keep life simple.

Sure, I have my ambitions, but even they’re pretty simple. Mostly, they focus around family and friends. Keeping my health is a big one. And, obviously work is important – it doesn’t define me but I do want to do well at my professional activities – partly for personal pride and also because in this day and age, keeping a job is a non-trivial activity.

Several months ago I did a post about how I wasn’t afraid of the story bullies.

In that post, I defined story bullies as the people who were always telling you how to write. Do this. Don’t do that. Follow these rules. Never make these mistakes.

I’m a pretty brave sort of fellow. I’ve weathered a lot. I’ve climbed to the peaks of high mountains, delved deep into caverns far below the ground, and wandered into the depths of gloomy forests. I’ve battled adversaries both strong and crafty.

Of course, that’s just in my stories, but it’s still a sort of courage – at least that’s what I reckon.

But there’s one thing that scares the heeby-jeebies out of me. One thing that breaks me out in a cold sweat. One thing that represents my worst nightmare.

I used to be a tough young bugger. Nothing much would get to me. I could watch the most emotional and dramatic movie and not bat an eyelid. Even the most weepy scenes would leave me impassive. Not a tear would drop from my eye. Nothing much would move me.

I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the past or reminiscing about things I used to like or people I used to hang out with.