A few years ago I found out about synesthesia and yet another piece of the strange way I viewed the world started to make sense. The short explanation is that it’s a neurological phenomenon that causes the senses to get mixed up in some way. So, someone who has it might smell lemons when they hear a particular piece of music. Or see numbers or letters as each having their own color. For me personally, I had always felt like each letter of the alphabet (and numbers too) had a specific gender. I knew that it wasn’t something I had invented with my imagination. It was just the way things were for me.
Introverts, INFJs, and INFPs
For a long time in my life I did not admit I was a writer. It was something I was privately proud of, but I also felt it was unsafe to tell this to other people. Probably because I knew that immediate questions would follow. Oh really? What have you written? Can I read it?
It wasn’t that I was ashamed of what I had written, or that I was suffering from self-doubt (although there was some of that, too). It was that I knew it was common procedure for a writer to give her work to others and get their “valuable feedback” on it. It was widely understood that I should be seeking this valuable feedback wherever I could and using it to improve my writing. It had been drilled into me that I should read and listen to the most fierce criticism without flinching. That this would make me stronger. That all “real” writers did this and were better for it.
I just released my book The INFJ Writer on Amazon and the big question I keep getting is, “Is it just for INFJs?”
The short answer is no.
The long answer is that The INFJ Writer may be of help to you if you are:
A few years ago I was sitting at a café with a friend when another guy walked up and started talking to us. My friend knew him and conversed with him for several minutes. When the guy walked away I asked, “Who was that?”
My friend’s reply: “Oh, just a writer.”
I sat there stunned for a second or two, not sure why I was feeling what I was feeling. Finally, I blurted out, “What do you mean just ? Why did you say it like that?” I was slightly hurt and a little bit angry and I had no idea why. My friend looked at me, confused. He considered my questions and then asked me, “What does ‘writer’ mean to you?”
It started off innocently enough. I met him in a bookstore. He was the clerk, and I was buying the books. I talked with him for five minutes about Moby Dick and Melville’s poetry. There was something about him…he reminded me of a philosopher from ancient Greece. And yes, he said, he was interested in philosophy. He’d studied it for many years. Would I care to continue this conversation over coffee?