I ran across this article yesterday on FB (thank you, Lorelei’s Lit Lair!) that completely struck home with me. I’ve always talked to myself. Even when I was a little kid (much to the chagrin of the nuns in Catholic school). And know, talking to yourself might be a sign of genius? Ha! Who knew?
One of my earliest recollections from the first grade was going up to the pencil sharpener and having this complete conversation with myself while sharpening my pencil. I have no idea what I said. I just remember Sister turning and looking at me and asking who I was talking to. Of course, my face turned bright red because I was talking to myself (something she probably already knew).
Once you’ve been publicly humiliated in the first grade there’s not much else that can happen to you, so talking to myself became pretty much rote, until middle school. I probably stopped doing it then in public, because you know, it was middle school, but in private? The conversations became even longer then. The bathroom was the one place I had most of my best self-talks. And I can remember my mother coming into my room and asking me who I was talking to, and now years later, my husband does the same thing. I always answer the same way. “Why, I’m talking to the most interesting person in the world.” That usually puts a smile on hubby’s face, because well, he married me, so yes, he thinks I’m interesting.
But seriously, now that I’m a writer, this talking to myself thing is really out of control. I walk the dog and I’m talking out plot points or I’m in the grocery store aisle and a little piece of dialogue comes to me and I just have to try it out. Luckily, I live in Florida, where everyone is a little crazy anyway, so nobody thinks much of it. Plus, you know, there’s that genius thing.