Okay, I'll say it right now, writing makes you very strange to talk to.
Not blog writing--that sort of helps you hone up your stories and anecdotes--personally, I find that my stories are more polished and interesting when I've worked some rhythm, good word choices and zinging punchlines. Writing the blog is PRACTICE--for example, the 'I skinned the family cat' story can now be told in such a way as to excite laughter instead of disgust and funny looks denoting my imploding sanity. Blogging makes me sort of fun--not weird. No, the writing that makes me the most boring human on the planet is fiction writing.
And it's so unfair! What did I do this weekend (besides take charming pictures of my children and finish those funk-adorable hats, that is!)?
Well, I touched upon the lives of two children growing up destined to fall in love and the plan of vengeance that makes their love potentially tragic! I planned a Beltane Faire, executed it rather nicely but didn't dwell too long on the onerous details, caught a breathless moment of seeing a bright destiny, and wrote a parable in verse for a religion that doesn't really exist but that I'm starting to wish did.
I mean, really--that's some weekend. Now ask me--I dare you, ask me.
"Well, Amy Lane, what did you do this weekend?"
Answer? (Imagine my self deprecating grin, my shrug, and the exuding aura of embarrassment with the implication that my life is frittered away in daydreams and rocky road ice cream with the occasional baby nuzzle on the side.) "I wrote twenty-three pages." Pause. "And ate ice cream."
See--I really am the most boring human on the planet--I can only thank the twin gods and the wandering Goddess that you all like me enough to say 'Hi!'.