There are times when I'm acutely aware of my otherness as a writer. This term, mentioned in the book Pen on Fire, describes that sense of not belonging or living on the fringes of normal or every day society. Not in the same way the homeless are, but on an emotional level. But I'm not sure that's really the word I'm after here. I don't mean in a spiritual sense, either, just that feeling of not belonging to any group. Perhaps people who wear homelessness as you would a cloak do experience this feeling, too. Perhaps that's what drives them to avoid society and live outside the lines marked for each of us.

Those lines are not tactile, though. You cannot know when you have crossed some of those lines. Of course, some lines are clear and the law governs the marking out of those across our communities. Our consciences prompt us of other lines, and the new codes of ethics, confidentiality and duty of care that take its place. I mean the lines you cannot point to, pick up or indicate in any way. I do mean that sense when you just know that you've stepped over some line you shouldn't have, but you didn't see it. Perhaps the line once etched a visible standard, but the chalky nature of the line, and the shuffling of many feet over that line have all but obliterated the line, made it indistinct. There's just the echo of self-recrimination as you recognise the glazed eyes surrounding you. The way you just know you don't fit in with these people.

Feeling like a square peg when everyone around you is clearly round. How they slot right into that hole you tried to fit into. This might not become apparent to you or even anyone else immediately. Some people spend years forcing the edges of their personality into the wrong purpose. They file and soften those edges tirelessly. They work on their character and read self-help books. But the truth remains. The hole remains round and the person remains square. We are what we were created to be.

I've been aware of this feeling for a long time. There's that knowledge you just don't quite belong. I tried to fit in with the brainy kids, yet something about their ordered and logical existence didn't sit well with me. I couldn't do that. Not all the time. I grew up with the beach at my front door, so the surfie chick image fit temporally. But in the long run I needed more substance than sun, surf and sand. I wanted something solid. For a time I lived a kind of alternative, hippy lifestyle; the biker chick phase; serious working times; the night club nights; for a while I lived as a travelling Matilda; the newly wed stage; and my initiation into motherhood. While all these moments added to my life, I did not find that place I truly fit.

When I finally made the decision to serve Christ as Lord, some measure of belonging followed. It's true then and now, I do feel more at home with true saints than at any other time of my life previously. But even among saints there's a certain level of belonging. Most people aren't willing to accept that fact. Mostly, the ones who refuse to see it simply because they do belong. They've never felt outside that circle in any way. But I have felt like I didn't belong even among those who are supposed to be my brethren.

There's only one place I've ever felt completely at ease with others. That place is among other writers. These people have all kinds of religious beliefs, have lived all kinds of lives and come from various parts of the world, but we have a passion for words in common. They understand the way I think and feel about this or that thing, and yet we can still disagree. There's the debates and arguments, but ultimately we're having a ball; discussing the issues of life and love and everything in between. That's what makes life worth living. To know there are others I can bounce my ideas off, who won't look at me like I just lost my marbles. That I can speak my mind, have my opinion, even if it isn't a popular one, and know they won't give me even an intellectual cold shoulder. I know I fit in with other writers and it sure feels good.

This entry was extremely difficult to write. I love my hubby, but he isn't a writer. He doesn't always understand my need to be alone to write. I don't want to feel guilty over letting him know what I need, though. He might not understand, but he appreciates my honesty. He said, "I'll leave then," yet I know he didn't mean it in a nasty way. He prefers me to be straight up with him. So I was and I got what I wanted, only after getting half way through this entry, though.