Note: For this picture, I had to shower early. On days I don’t have to teach, I usually don’t shower until my husband calls to let me know he’s on his way home from work. This is particularly painful in summer in Texas as I carry the stench from my morning workout throughout the day. Laziness. Pure laziness.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. She’s reading. What’s so bizarre about that? But, dear cyber friend, it’s not the fact that I’m reading. It’s what I’m reading.

actual books from my shelves

Growing up, I read anything I could get my hands on–Janette Oke, Agatha Christie, The Count of Monte Cristo, shampoo bottles. But I categorically refused two genres: sci-fi (although fantasy, such as Madeleine L’Engle and C.S. Lewis were okay–I was a good Christian girl, after all) and horror.

Then I met The Man Who Would Become My Husband (dibs on the title). During his formative years, his family (prompted by his grandmother, if I have the story correctly) bonded over Star Trek. (Note: he never attended a conference or dressed as a character.) He still loves Star Trek and most things sci-fi. This was almost a Deal Breaker for us. After all, sci-fi is weird. (I turned a blind eye to the books I loved in high school, namely Brave New World, Fahrenheit 451, and The Illustrated Man. Also to the fact that Sweeney Todd is and has been my favorite musical. Song and dance do wonders of covering up serial killers.) Before we met, I had watched a handful of X-Files episodes at a friend’s house and part of one of the Star Trek movies (although all I remember is whales being beamed up, Scottie; I think I hid in the kitchen under the auspices of socializing for most of the movie).

Then he made me watch some, and I have to admit (albeit begrudgingly) that some of the shows I’ve added to my faves list are of the sci-fi genre. Like Eureka (my foray into sci-fi because of the main character who says things like “So why don’t we just call it a death ray” to the crazy scientist who gives said death ray an even crazier scientific name. You had to be there). And Firefly. And, yes, Battlestar Galactica.

Fine. Some sci-fi, weird though it may be, is good. Good characters. Good themes. Well-written. Fine.

Then I met one of my two closest writing friends. And, yes, she writes horror. Good horror. Good characters. Good themes. Well-written. (Have I mentioned that another fave TV show is Dexter? I don’t know if that constitutes as horror, but it’s about a serial killer, and there’s lots of blood. And no song and dance.) (Oh, and this particular close writing friend happens to be the instigator of Popinjay. As well as a lot of trouble.)

Sigh. Is there no respect for a person’s prejudice these days?

The other close writing friend? She writes paranormal. (Really there’s no point in linking to her blog here since she only blogs as often as I meet a friendly squirrel. That’s rare, folks, to clarify. Rare.)

I’m not sure what it says about me that the two of my fellow writers who get me most are horror and paranormal specialists.

So thanks to these influences, I’ve expanded my horizons, and all that jazz. The extent of this insanity: I even have a sci-fi and a horror story in me. (Both from my dreams, which have always been vivid and horrific. Last night’s dream featured a purple python who ate a small boy. For someone with a phobia to that particular [and Satanic] reptile, this is as horrifying as it gets.)

And there you have it, folks. Why a picture of me reading H.G. Wells and Stephen King is bizarre.

This post has been sponsored by Popinjay, a fine roundup of amateur photographers everywhere (and who isn’t an amateur photographer these days?). This week’s word: bizarre.