SquarePeg Books

I’ve always been a little odd. The square peg that almost fits in the round hole, but not quite.

When I was a child my oddness marked me out a bit. I wasn’t quite the most unpopular kid in school, but I was definitely on the lower end of the pecking order. This may be why I developed an odd group of friends.

In college, oddness wasn’t just accepted, it was expected. Everyone was so tired and strung out and constantly being exposed to new ideas and people and trying out new personalities to discover what they liked, what they didn’t like and how to blow off steam without ruining their chances of graduation, that being odd, while not “normal”, was definitely acceptable.

But some-when around college, I started trying to abandon my oddness. It was hard to be taken seriously when interviewing for a job if I displayed the slightest hint of “odd”. I tried to cling to it in little ways in my adult years–I learned to sew and knit and crochet and weave and I would often bring my end results to work. Casually. As if they were the most normal thing ever. Things like a brocade patchwork handbag; all absurdly bright colors with with clashing patterns and random buttons and bobs.

The bag made everyone’s eyebrows crawl up their foreheads. The kindest thing that was said was that it looked like I had mugged a clown for it. I still used it despite the commentary, because I was proud of it. I liked it, dammit.

But “odd” doesn’t fly in most work environments.

I tried to hide my oddness to fit in to the adult world. “Whimsy” is not professional, after all. Nor is it adultish, but carrying a wacky purse is okay, in the adult world. I could pass it off as a “statement piece”, so long as the rest of my appearance and behavior was within socially accepted adult norms.

I stopped “working” in December 2008 because I was pregnant with twins, and my income was not quite enough to cover childcare and the costs of working itself.

Any Stay-At-Home-Mom of multiple children can testify that often you’re “crushing it” by not wearing pajamas to the store. The exhaustion of keeping everyone alive and occupied and supporting positive brain and skills development and, and, and, is just overwhelming. I can’t really remember much about the first five years of my children’s lives. There are moments that jump out at me, but I have almost no context around the memory.

But I do remember that sometime after the kids started kindergarten, I stopped matching my socks. I don’t know if it happened while sorting and folding the endless piles of laundry, or perhaps I noticed that my socks were wearing out unevenly with one sock dying well before its sibling and money was a little tight to buy new socks, or what.

However it happened, I do know that I consciously chose to no longer match my socks. I would match the style, cotton to cotton, wool to wool, but matching patterns and colors was now officially off the table.

My son had problems adjusting to this notion. “Your socks are supposed to match, Mom,” he’d lecture me.

“Life is too short to worry about socks,” I replied loftily.

Two years later he and his sibling came around to my way of thinking. Mainly because I’d decreed that they were now in charge of sorting the clean laundry. I’d showed them how to match and bundle sock pairs, but they decided that was far too much work.

When I asked them why their socks no longer matched, my son looked me right in the eye and said “Life is too short to worry about socks.”

I found myself doing more “whimsical” things. I have to buy my shoes online because my feet are so big, so I started buying two pairs of the same style in different colors, and deliberately mismatching the shoes. The simple stud earrings I wear all day, every day are no longer two matching garnets, but one garnet and one topaz that lost its mate years ago. I knit heavy wool leg and hand warmers with mismatching stripes. I crocheted a shoulder cape an hood in mismatching stripes as well as a balaclava. The package receiving box out front, a wooden monster 2 feet x 2 feet x 2 feet, has been repainted as though vandalized by a gang of clowns.

My father’s old camouflage coat, an Air Force issue from the 1990’s, isn’t safe from my wrath. I’ve stitched odd patches and bits of trim on it–the Cheshire Cat grinning out from a breast pocket; Super Secret Squirrel patch peeking from a lower pocket; I’ve painted a design “You can’t get lost if you don’t know where you’re going” on the back shoulder. I’m always on the lookout for more fun things to add to it. I dug out my fleece jester cap and attached enamel pins to it, everything from Disney villains to rabbits running with chainsaws.

My whimsies are becoming more common, more obvious, especially as uncertainty threatens my already weakened mind. I’ve embraced them as a way to deal with my injured brain.

The square peg tried to fit into the round hole, and it had slow, yet crushing consequences.

Fast forward several years. My children are now 15. I have a part-time job as a receptionist at a music school (more about showing that I am actually employable after 10+ years of unemployment than an income that makes a difference) that has helped slightly with my self-esteem. 

My earrings still don’t match, and neither do my socks. My shoes do, but that’s a more practical reason–foot surgery does a number on the toe-toes and the pocket-book. But there are plans to trend back towards mixing things up again, in some fashion.

I face the future with a great deal of insecurity: it feels like every time I make a goal for my own (like starting my own business, like publishing my own work, etc), I get my legs swiped out from under me. Something always comes up.

I’m trying to keep moving forward despite the external obstacles. I’ve got one book cover done, another partially done, and a third in rough draft form. I’ve completed one manuscript, and I’ve three more to edit before moving on to the next pile of words. I still have to generate digital maps for the fantasy books, but generic front-matter for all books is complete. I’ve started marketing “my brand,” and I suppose a slow, organic growth is better than an explosive one out the gate.

I suppose having everything ready to go despite the bank account refusing to cooperate is better than nothing.

And there’s something about deliberately mix-matching my earrings that gives me a sense of control, rebelliousness and strength.

A lot like a square peg resisting the fit in a round hole.