Here it is, and I’m already having a problem. I’m supposed to write about me. Good Lord, is there anything more challenging? I can write about others; characters in my novels, my children, husband and just about anyone else when I put my mind to it. When it comes to writing about me, I draw a blank. Don’t get me wrong, I can write endlessly about my world views and tidbits about other people that have affected me in one way or another but when it comes to just me, I’m better at deflecting. I’ve become something of an expert at it, too.
I love writing about my family in particular even though it stands to reason that they’ll never know about the cute, funny little quirks they have that I’ve smoothly incorporated into the characters I create. At least, I hope it’s been smoothly done or I’m silly and deluded. I’m still deflecting, aren’t I? Okay then, back to egomaniacal self-absorption.
The one thing my husband said I should do was make this original and witty. At which point I should probably tell you that I promptly demanded to know why he didn’t think anything else I’d ever written was witty. Then, I let out a comically over done, drawn out whine much like my kids do when their dad or I tell them to clean their rooms. It was kind of cute watching him smile and dodge the question though because he seems to know me rather well and probably guessed what I was up to right away. Blast it all, maybe I should become a little more unpredictable because he’s right; I’m a creature of habit.
I think what I want everyone to know about me the most; I do my best to find humor in every situation. No matter how dire or twisted and whether or not that humor is a bit arid or ironic, I still want to find the funny or bright side. It makes the rough parts easier to deal with in a way. It also keeps me from being surprised over just about anything, grossed out by very little and blindsided by almost nothing.
It comes in handy when you’re mothering three boys because things can get a little revolting from time to time. Mostly I have to work to conceal my disgust when one of my kids takes their shoes off and their socks could just about stand up without the kids’ feet in them. Who knew children could smell so bad? That’s not the extent of it, either but that’s not a story for here or now or maybe even ever.
I suppose I might as well face the fact that I’m the worst sort of pansy and coward and I hide behind my writing. The many facets of my personality shine through in the written word because it’s one of the few places that I’m truly free. Perhaps, there’s also a bit of worry that I identify more strongly with and color characters better because I have very little personality of my own so I’ve got space available where the interesting aspects of me would normally be. Did I just call myself boring? I think I did.
You know, if you really want to get to know me, read my novels. Both “Birthright” and “Sins of the Father” are on Amazon and they’ll tell you far more than I could about who I am. Just an errant thought. Also you could always become a wingnut with me on my blog Confessions of a Wingnut and Science Fiction Junkie.
