Heather's interesting fact(s) expanded

Interesting facts are an interesting thing, are they not? Something unique, put into a category of its own, doesn't that make it plain, and thus uninteresting? Well, besides just being plain nuts as you can tell from the above, I think too much, and from that, often confuse myself. I am an aberrant, which I freely and proudly declare, but the origins of which perhaps take root in my interesting anomalies.

Perhaps something of my strangeness has something to do with the fact that I am a verbivore – yes, I literally devour words. If you don't believe me, go ask my twelve dictionaries at home (that I read out of frequently). Or perhaps I can attribute my peculiar abnormalities to the fact that I want to be a writer, now and forever. I want to be an author, a weaver of stories and a teller of tales. It takes a curious quality, unique in its own right, to be an author. To abandon all ties and desires of kinship among living beings of flesh and blood, and instead hide and wander the unknown corridors of your mind, seeking and seeing. To occupy every waking thought with a dozen of your closest friends, that amazingly, no one else can see, does not usually qualify as normal. It usually qualifies as crazy, but I never said I was normal, so I fit quite comfortably into that calling and office. Someone once told me that writing is the only accepted form of schizophrenia, and I believe it, because I have been there. My three completed novels sit proud and regal on my shelf, whispering for attention and forever chiding me to reach my potential. Those all seem likely possibilities for my idiosyncratic personality, but the simplest answer may be offered: perhaps it is because I was shot in the head with an arrow as a child. And I have the bump on the back of my head to prove it. If you don't believe me, you can go ask my dictionaries.