So here's the thing: Outside of work and this house, I have no life.
Not that this is a bad thing. I don't particularly love where I live or most of the other people who live here. (CG1 and anyone who knows me well enough to read this blog, obviously excluded).
It's your classic case of square peg : round hole.
Sure, reading and cooking and eonophelia (no, that is NOT sex with dead people) are hobbies, but they don't require much social contact.
Like the self love, you can get by for a while, but there's no substitute for real human interaction.
So tonight I attended my very first writing work group. With other people. In a home other than my own.
And it was pretty cool.
Now, I don't write fiction. Sure, I exaggerate a lot but I'm not sure that counts.
I write non-fiction. Boring, work-related articles, essays, blah-blah-blah.
But I've been noodling around with an idea for about a year. A fiction-ish idea.
I know, right? It shocked me, too, when I found it rattling around in my head.
The problem is that I have no idea how to let it out. I need help. So when a friendly-acquaintance mentioned a writers group, I jumped on board.
It's a minor commitment: two hours, twice a week. Hell, I spend more time than that folding laundry.....and at the very least it forces me out of the house and into creative mode.
And I don't have to do anything gross like pre-soak or clean the lint filter. So, we shall see.