When I got my first email from the man who would one day be my husband, it was very clear that he did not want to email me. Friends had set us up and he was obviously bowing to their pressure. His email consisted of a numerical list of facts about himself that he clearly meant to be the end of our correspondence.
My snarky response was a numerical list of facts about myself, and for some reason, he liked it. So that’s what I’m going to do here, since I’m not so good at writing about myself.
- Carter is not my real name. Imagine how you would feel if your strictly right-wing religious family and friends found out you wrote stuff with sex and bad words in it.
- I’ve been married 11 years and have three kids and two dogs.
- I like to garden but I DO NOT like to talk about gardening. So please, let’s not talk about gardening.
- I’m deeply introspective and welcome anyone who wants to bitch-slap me back into reality, should I float away a little too far into my own thoughts.
- I think fiction is a basic and essential element of our existence as humans. I think it’s part of what makes us human. And I think we relate better to each other through stories than we do through fact–bitch slap me now, I’m getting introspective.
- I’m a little flighty about hobbies. Reading, writing, and bread baking are the only ones that have stood the test of time. Current hobbies include mixing drinks, making mead, gardening, fermenting stuff from the garden…I think that’s all at the moment.
- I’ll read anything. Most of my loved ones stick to their favorite genre, so I will go read what they’re reading so we can have stuff to talk about at the dinner table.
- I homeschool my children. Not because of religious reasons. Not because I hate the system (although I’m not overly fond of it). But because I just want to be with them. And playing school is fun. Remember that? Playing teacher and making your younger sister do a bunch of homework? Was that just me?
- Last one: The first time I dropped out of college was because I was having one of those existential crises teenagers are so fond of having. When I went home, I found stacks and stacks of notebooks in my closet full of unfinished (and god-awful) stories. I didn’t even remember writing them. But that’s when I realized that I was a writer. Because I have to do it. It’s who I am. The publishing thing is virgin territory, but I have always, and always will, write. Because I have to.