Why Weird Is the New Power Move in Authorship
Inspired by the words of author Robert Greene: “Stick with what makes you weird, odd, and different. That’s your power.”
Some of the most memorable and enduring books in the technical genres of personal development, self-help, and business aren’t remembered because of their bullet points or frameworks. They’re remembered because of their metaphors.
Consider:
Good to Great by Jim Collins, with its unforgettable “Hedgehog Concept”
The Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff, using a beloved bear to explain Eastern philosophy
Orbiting the Giant Hairball by Gordon MacKenzie, a creative call to resist corporate conformity
The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, where Resistance becomes a character as real as the writer reading it
Each of these books has one thing in common: they dared to be weird. They took something metaphorical, unexpected, even odd, and turned it into a lens for insight.
In contrast, many books in these same genres today have become sterilized. Safe. Predictable. Structured around how-to advice and instructional frameworks that get the job done but rarely leave a mark.
Where is the author in all of it? Not just their expertise, but their essence?
It’s not that utility is the problem. But when a book forgets to carry the signature of its maker—when it strips away the quirks and the personal lens—it forgets to be remembered.
That’s why Robert Greene’s quote matters so much now: “Stick with what makes you weird, odd, and different. That’s your power.”
Not your limitation. Not your red flag. Your power.
A Farmer’s Market, A Chance Encounter, A Hidden Framework
Last year, I met an author at a local farmer’s market. We were sitting on the grass, not talking about business or books. A mutual friend introduced us. We easily dropped into an interesting conversation, sharing stories and life experiences. Hers included surviving cancer and building a legacy over four decades of meaningful work. Mid-conversation, she looked at me and said, “I think you can help me.”
She had everything you might expect from someone ready to write a great book—awards, experience, expertise, and a body of work that spanned generations. What she didn’t yet have was a lens. A narrative arc. A frame for her originality.
We started working together. Weeks into our collaboration, we uncovered something hidden in her archive of materials. It wasn’t a new idea. It was a hobby. A deeply personal, almost secretive pastime that, at first glance, had nothing to do with her work. Immediately, I knew that this was a powerful, metaphorical framework for her book. It’s her unique inkblot. There’s nothing like it.
The metaphor revealed itself as a clarifying agent for every chapter of the book.
Her hobby became the story engine. It offered rhythm, imagery, and insight. It gave readers a way to feel what she meant, not just understand what she said. And it allowed her to express herself, not as another expert in a suit and tie, but as the fully dimensional, deeply human thinker she is.
From Uniformity to Signature Stories
Too many books today wear the equivalent of a uniform. They follow formulas, flatten personality, and call it professionalism. Real authority isn’t built by stripping away what makes you different. It’s built by embracing it.
Imagine the difference between a school uniform and a self-styled outfit. One helps you blend in. The other helps you be seen.
In authorship, your quirks are your cut. Your metaphor is your fabric. Your stories are your color.
That doesn’t mean you should throw everything on the page. This isn’t about oversharing or being strange just for the sake of it. The real art lies in translating your oddities into something useful. That takes structure. It takes craft. It often takes collaboration.
That’s where collaboration comes in.
Every author I work with has a kind of magic they can’t see. It’s too close. Too familiar. Like trying to read the label from inside the bottle. My role is to hear their magic. To explore their blind spots. To ask the questions they didn’t know needed asking. Then, together, we find the details that elevate the book—the architecture and the words—so it not only stands out, but stands the test of time.
In ancient texts, parables didn’t tell you exactly what to do. They offered a story to hold. A lens through which to see. Metaphorically rich short stories are told centuries later for a reason. They resonate and they are timeless. You can take yourself out of metaphors, parables, and allegories if you choose. They can be your stories and lessons told without you as a character. These are choices you can make with your collaborator.
The best nonfiction books today borrow from that tradition. They don’t micromanage the reader’s growth. They don’t hand over all the thinking. They create space for insight.
They trust the reader to meet the message.
And those kinds of books are only possible when the author brings their whole self to the page—including the weird, the personal, and the oddly specific.
Weird Is the Way
So if you’re writing a book—especially in the genres of personal development, self-help, or business—remember this: the point is not to repeat what has worked for others. The point is to uncover what only you can say.
Your metaphor might come from gardening, board games, falconry, or disco dancing. It might not seem professional at first. But when shaped well, it becomes unforgettable.
Don’t just write what you know. Write in collaboration with your magic.
Let the strange details in your life lead the way. Let your difference do the teaching.
In a world of templates and tactics, readers want someone brave enough to be real—and weird enough to be remembered.