I hate the word "interesting". I have for a long time, ever since the first time it was used as an excuse. In college, a girl I had taken out on a first date had been listening to one of my ideas for a book, and told me I'm a really interesting guy. Subsequently she needed to go to the restroom. But she disappeared. When I saw her next on campus she told me she was really sorry, but something came up. That's why she left the restaurant. Something about that didn't ring true.
Over the years a lot of people have called me an "interesting guy", often enough that I've gotten used to hearing the insult. Whether they don't understand me or maybe they are bored, it doesn't matter. I've always been the way I am. I talk about unusual things. And so, when I write, I also write about unusual things. It's the way I'm wired. I see things differently.
I've known for a while that I am INFJ (Introversion, iNtuition, Feeling, Judging). INFJ is an initialism used in the publications of the Myers–Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) to refer to one of the sixteen personality types. The MBTI assessment was developed from the work of prominent psychiatrist Carl Jung in his book Psychological Types. If you've never heard the term, you're not alone. It's an obscure psychological/personality related assessment almost as rare as those who receive the label, something less than 2% of the overall population. It's not a great thing, although some may wear it as a status symbol because it is rare. But it does explain a lot about those of us who have the orientation.
Many of us are creative. It isn't a prerequisite, of course, but more that those with INFJ tend toward the arts. We enjoy privacy and exploring the parameters of our somewhat unique world view. Also, we filter our perceptions with particular emphasis on what we thing is important, like the colors, sounds, smells, textures and such that our senses provide and the insights we draw from perception. Unfortunately, that doesn't make us all that popular in day to day interactions with others who do not share our sensitivity.
A few years ago, I wrote a manuscript with a strange title, Fried Windows (In a Light White Sauce). In a way, it is an exploration of how my mind works. Some readers have called it trippy or psychedelic. Others called it imaginative and mind blowing. It's about a middle aged man who reconnects with his inner child and, in the process, gets the chance to continue his relationship with the imaginary friends that populated his childhood adventures as he learns that they weren't imaginary after all. Brent Woods, the MC, re-engages with his past and he must adjust. At first his friends seem to speak non-sense. But as the story progresses he begins to appreciate the bit of wisdom contained in their points of view as he remembers a purpose long forgotten.
An acquaintance from my work is going on a trip and plans to read the book while away from home. He's been warned. He knows what he is getting into. And he has promised that on his return he will tell me what he thinks. That is what every writer is after, isn't it? We want to have people read our stuff and tell us what they think - that is, once we are brave enough to allow others to enter one of our worlds made of words bound to imagination.