As the song goes, there are “miles and miles of Texas.” Miles of desert to the west, miles of piney woods to the east, miles of highway and byway streaking every which way in between, and Austin, the sparkling jewel nestled at the center, a kaleidoscope of color and movement ... and weird. Those of us lucky enough to move here from Houston, Dallas, and beyond hung on like runner weeds, determined to stay whether we really belonged or not.

But who could say, really, who belonged and who didn’t—conformance was a dirty word here in the capital city, where the unofficial slogan, emblazoned across T-shirts in all-capped, bold white font, was “Keep Austin Weird.” I didn’t own one of these shirts. Not yet. I’d held off, waiting for the moment when my own personal weirdness factor justified the purchase. Otherwise, I’d just be a poseur, part of the problem. Geeky not being synonymous with weird, I’d been under the impression I still had a long way to go. But as of approximately ten seconds ago, I think, just maybe, I might have crossed over into the realm of “weird.”

Having lived in this city for eight serious-minded years as somewhat of an outsider, skulking on the fringe in T-shirts from Old Navy, you’d think I’d be excited, giddy even. But honestly, I was getting more and more panicky by the minute. All because of a journal.

The journal had been intended as the perfect Austenesque birthday gift for my vintage-obsessed younger cousin. I’d found it lying alongside a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice in a quirky antiques shop down on South Congress and simply couldn’t pass it up, hobnobbing, as it was, with greatness. I had a bit of a soft spot for Ms. Austen and all she touched. The book was even inscribed with a quirky and rather perplexing dedication in an old-fashioned script: