Sometimes I’ll say something out of left field. Out of turn. Off color. Sometimes those things I say may be surprising even to me! I suppose that would be understandable if one were soused in suds (and things get really colorful then, like once a year or so) but these days I surprise myself more often than not —sans substances. My wife actually keeps a running list of “Markisms” that she’s threatened to publish, and whenever she reads one back to me I am astonished and amused all over again with her. I guess I am in the good company of others known for memorable malapropisms and goofy gaffes, people like Yogi Berra and George W. Bush though I am not yet famous for them.

In addition to just stupid things I may say, I am also renown for being surprised by things I have written. I attribute this to something philosophical, like “living in the now,” or to something mechanical like my very busy brain’s carrying capacity.

Most people think it odd that I can have all the intention of writing something, say these books I’m writing these recent years, and yet still forget something that I have written and edited ten times.

Here’s how it happens in my writing closet. I’ll pull up a chapter I wrote a year (or an hour) ago, I’ll read over a passage, and I’ll say something aloud like, “Huh, I didn’t see that coming!” or I’ll comment that, “You know, this passage here sounds pretty good!” The first makes my wife laugh out loud, and the latter invariably gets some comment like, “I told you so, idiot.” It’s odd, I agree, but not uncommon for me to be surprised at how good something comes across. I literally ask, “Where did THAT come from?”

I guess it’s okay to be astonished with oneself. (yes, third-person singular reflexive pronoun, and yes, I looked it up.)