Sunday night rambling: What do I write about?

I never quite know how to answer the inevitable question that pops up as soon as someone discovers I'm a writer. (Well, other than "Have you written anything I've read?" I alternate between loving this, because it gives me an excuse to show off, and feeling totally irked and invalidated. Do I ask to see toilets you've plunged, or ask whether you've performed surgery on any of my friends or managed any departments I might have heard of?)

The other inevitable question. What do you write about? What's my niche? What's my specialty? What am I about?

"Everything" doesn't sound too terribly focused, and it makes me look like a total wannabe. And really, how do parenting, nature, Arizona itself, and science-denying kooks go together?

I have opinions. Strong ones. Sometimes even political ones. But that's not it. I'm not a politics writer.

I'm not a scientist. I'm not a professional photographer. I'm not a mommy blogger. I play at all those things, but that's not what I'm about.

I think it's this:



This ridiculous, wonderful state I live in. Science, parenting, mucking about, being totally and spectacularly wrong. Getting it just right, once in a while. It's absolutely connected, and that's what I'm about.

I screw up almost every single thing I do. I mess up parenting on a daily basis. But I'm good at this: Being. Discovering the world. Enjoying the mundane, laughing at the stupid shit. Pulling everything apart, just to see what's what. Looking.

I think, maybe, being about that is enough.