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If you are one of those unfortunate individuals that shares your life with a writer, you have my condolences. Writers are weird.

We bound from our beds in the middle of the night just to sit and squint at blank computer screens claiming that the "Muses" are trying to communicate with us. We often talk to ourselves which in itself isn't so unusual until we begin arguing with ourselves. What's really sad is that we often lose those arguments. We are easily distracted and we are easily amused. A moth fluttering in the window can occupy us for hours. And who else would make note of how squirrels prefer the upper power lines when traveling north, while southbound squirrels use the lower lines. We are entertained by watching paint dry. Is it any wonder that our spouses and companions seek professional help after only a short period of time in our company. Some spare themselves the expense of professional counseling by just going to a good divorce lawyer first.

Then there is the jargon we use. Our mates are nearly forced to carry a dictionary around with them just to help them understand what we are saying: We are not bald; we are "folliclly challenged." We never worry; we are just, "concerned." At home, our walls are lacquered with (covered in) affirmations (sayings) that exasperate (suggest) positive verbiage (messages). We don't drink either; we are simply, "seeking inspiration." Nearly every very writer I know that drinks justifies his or her intoxicating habit by claiming that Edgar Allen Poe would have been nothing without his drugs. (And he wouldn't have been.) So is it any wonder that our mates often drink too.

Our mood swings are more unpredictable than those of a thirteen-year-old girl. On the rare occasions when we win arguments with ourselves, that joy can quickly become grief after we assassinate another one of our fictional characters. Imagine the frustration for our spouses when they find us in the morning crying in our Fruit Loops and beer again. We routinely engage in arguments with our mates concerning the behavior and motives of fictional people that don't even exist. And God help them if they actually offer advise to us after we have spent the entire evening soliciting their suggestions.

It's a good thing there are writer's conferences held around the country throughout the year. It gives our mates a chance to consult their therapists and writers a chance to get together and swap lies. We don't actually accomplish anything at these conferences with the exception of polishing our butt-kissing skills. There are actually writers there that are successful though. Unfortunately, I'm not one of them, but going to these conferences gives me the chance to park their cars.

Finally, there are the financial rewards. Few people can claim that every bill collection agency in the country sends them Christmas cards. Money isn't a problem for me as I have none. This has led me back to a more primitive state; I have become a hunter/gatherer. First I hunt down lost change in parking lots, then I gather items off the dollar menu at Wendy's. At the end of the day though, it is our mates that suffer most.

So since there is an"Oscar," a "Grammy" and a "Cleo" Award, I submit that we create the "Paper Cut" Award. This distinguished honor should be bestowed upon individuals who choose to make writers their mates. It should also come with a huge cash award too, for how can anyone possibly expect writers to pay for their mates' therapists?

Learn more about this author, Casey Case.
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