I’m so terribly uninteresting. I’ve had the same best friend since I was 12. My trail of broken hearts looks more like a cul-de-sac: it goes no where. When I get wild and crazy, I write naughty stories. Usually, I go to work and think about philosophy, randomness, and plotting while I commute. Then I come home and put the dog out, fix myself some dinner, and write. Or watch reruns on NetFlix. Or obsess about my blog. And when I need to re-calibrate I chop up fabric and sew clothes.
What matters more, I hope, is what I’m interested in, which turns into what I write about.
I’m interested in the gap between our “supposed to’s” and our “is’s.” I’m interested in fear and the things we do to try to establish control when we’re feeling out of control. I’m interested in what happens after the worst possible thing happens to you. And that’s what I write about.
The dirty stories aren’t quite that serious.
And if you want to know what happens when I philosophize on the way home from work, it’s all there in the blog.