The Truth, or Something Like It.

I was going to spend this week celebrating the contents of my closet, rustling through my archives and sharing my daily rediscovery process.

But here it is:

I am SO bored of talking about myself.

Writing in one's own voice is a treat for a mercenary wordsmith such as myself.

But the central presumption of the blogosphere will never cease to perplex me: that somebody other than myself and my grandma and my very patient HCB wants to hear the minutiae of my life.

Grandma did always say I was special, but nobody is that interesting.

So, inspired by this woman, whom I discovered through a very random turn of events, I hereby name this Fiction Week at someonemightcare.

I have never written fiction before, so I may very well be spelling D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R one agonizing post at a time. Or you won't hear from me until the week is over, like the folks at NaNoWriMo.

At the very least, it will be interesting. As a bonus, I'll sneak in descriptions of my shoe selections somehow.

You know, because committing to writing fiction isn't hard enough.