Last night I was filling in the “Author Questionnaire” for HarperCollins. They want details about me they can use for promotion. Okay, this is cool. I’m an author! It’s official! Whooot!
The form is like an extended resume. Where have you worked? Are you a full time writer, if not, what’s your day job, blah blah blah.
Then I get to the question about stuff I do in my spare time. Anything I’m enthusiastic about. Interests, hobbies…
And it hits me.
When did I become so boring? Holy shit!
I. Am. Boring!
I blame the kids. They did this to me
I’m totally gonna get myself a hobby. No knitting, cuz well, I just don’t get that. And I tried it once and I promise you, I gave failure a new definition. I love to make jewelry, but I haven’t done that in a while, so can I still call it a hobby? I used to take pictures (real ones) and lots of them, but I’ve forgotten everything I ever learned about photography that didn’t include auto-focus.
Until I find my real hobby, this is what I told them:
Is laying in the sun on a pontoon boat in the middle of a lake a hobby? I enthusiastically support it becoming a hobby if it isn’t considered one already. It is my favorite summer past time.
I was an athlete in high school, played basketball and softball and was forced to run track in the off-season. Running is from the devil and should be banned.
Now I mostly play the role of soccer mom when I’m not at home writing. Both of my boys play and my husband plays and coaches. I yell from the sidelines. A lot. Yes, I’m one of those—don’t judge me.
So this is the year I get a hobby and you guys are gonna help me find it. Got it? Now, talk amongst yourselves.