That's probably the nicest way I could think of to not call myself crazy. Not that the term bothers me. Especially since I'm pretty sure no writer alive would pass a sanity test (does such a thing exist?) I have friends who write fiction and they imagine whole worlds inhabited by dream people with dream lives and dream quirks and dream drama that is all somehow wrapped in a pretty and linear bow and wrapped in a beautifully crafted plot. I call them crazy to their faces all the time. Then I recommend therapy.
Non-fiction writers are our own special breed. The world of make-believe eludes me. I sucked at playing pretend as a child and I suck at playing pretend with my child. But I can write the hell out of how I sucked at playing pretend as a child and how that has reflected on my relationship with said child. And depending on my mood, that essay could tumble out thoughtfully and serious or full of sarcasm and humor. I think every non-fiction writer has that ability to let any given side of their personality shine through when writing a particular piece. And this is where my fiction writing friends call me crazy to my face and recommend therapy.
Check me out at the incredible Story Bleed where my essay, Truth and Drumsticks, explores my relationship with my body and the one I am hoping to cultivate for my daughter with her own. And then stop by Funny not Slutty where I explore the as-of-yet untapped Bloggiversary e-card market.
I'll let you figure out which one is the serious piece for yourselves.