You mean writing's not a hobby? - #MRFW 52-week Blog Challenge

I missed last week's blog challenge because of vacation. I didn't go to an exotic paradise, but I did (for the most part) sever my connection to the computer. The brief separation was glorious.

So, here we are, nose to the grindstone once again and diving into this week's writing prompt: creative outlets. Yeah, these are usually found under the term "hobby."

My main creative outlet--writing--was, for a very long time, merely a hobby to be picked up and put down as the mood struck. Circumstances caused a decade-long hiatus in that creative outlet, but it slowly revved back up and stepped into public with the publication of Rowan, the first book in my Tree of Life series. It wasn't intended as the first book of trilogy.

So, writing has become a business, although not much of it can truly be considered creative. What else do I do that might fall under that adjective?

I cook. I seldom use a recipe and frequently cobble meals from whatever I find in the kitchen. The results usually turn out palatable, but sometimes not. I never remember what I did, so "chicken surprise" or "beef surprise" is never the same way twice.

A few years ago I took a class in stained glass. I found it interesting and enjoyed it, but soon realized that working with things that have sharp points and sharp edges isn't my forte. Still, it's an experience that may very well make it into a story, part of that statement "I know a little bit about a lot of things."

My husband enrolled me in a pottery course. I've long been interested in wheel pottery and, as a kid, spent hours with modeling clay. Now I've got the chance to learn and discover whether I have any aptitude for this craft. The first class is this week. Exciting!

I'd enjoy learning to paint. Back in high school I dabbled with water colors, but received no instruction on technique. I sketched all the time, trying out pastels (dismal results) and charcoal pencils (much better). Unfortunately, my skill of my hands never matched the images in my mind. Like most such things, I was better than most, but never quite good enough.

My mother tried to teach me to embroider. Let's just say that didn't go well. She taught me how to sew. I fought her every step of the way, but she managed to pound that skill into me. I still dislike sewing.

Mom also attempted to impart a love of gardening, which only half-succeeded. I love flower gardens; I loathe digging in the dirt. It's a good thing my husband tolerates yard work. The flowerbeds are his responsibility: I decide on the posies and he plants them.

For several years I did adopt one of my mom's former hobbies: Christmas ornaments. Following her example, I used pins, beads, sequins, ribbons, lace, and Styrofoam forms to create sparkly, handmade Christmas ornaments. Most of them turned out well, but look amateurish next to those Mom crafted. 

I sure as hell didn't inherit her talent for interior decorating. I think Mom could have made a great career as an interior decorator.

Another potential interest is glass blowing. That's hot, hard, heavy work--physical work--which usually defeats me. But I love art glass and would enjoy at least getting a taste of hands-on experience in how it's made. Maybe next year, if the attempt at pottery fizzles.