Greetings from the Hobby-Impaired

by Karen MacInerney

I was thrilled to be invited to guest blog on Killer Hobbies -- what a fabulous group of writers! What an honor!

But then a niggling little thought occurred to me. Gosh. I'm really not much of a hobbyist.

It's not that I haven't tried. My garage and attic contain huge boxes of half-finished latch-hook rugs, skeins of yarn, and crochet needles (I think that's what they are), not to mention a variety of paints, most of which I think are watercolors.

My mother's gift of a sewing machine a few years ago (It still puzzles me -- have we met, mom?) inspired me to take one class that resulted in a lopsided check jumper for my daughter. I even tried knitting a while back, thinking it would be a relaxing and soothing break from writing. I could almost envision the chunky, soft throws, knitted in soft, organic wool, tossed casually over the living room couches. But since knitting gave me carpal tunnel syndrome and eye strain, I was forced to abandon it. (Fortunately, I have since discovered that Pottery Barn sells several very nice, knitted-looking throws. But handing people credit cards and unwrapping packages hardly constitutes a real hobby.)

So despite my love of handmade things, I count myself among the hobby-impaired. (I love to cook, though; does that count?)

My poor daughter, on the other hand, has the hobby gene in spades, as a result of which I am forced to face my inadequacy on an almost daily basis. Afternoons off from school invariably mean suggestions we undertake any number of little projects, including, but not limited to, say, shearing sheep, spinning yarn, weaving cloth for and then constructing a period outfit for my daughter's baby doll. Or sponge painting her room with organic paints we have created from sweet potatoes and crushed cherry pits. Or building an origami village out of homemade paper.

My philosophy has been pared down to this: I will undertake a craft only if it is possible to achieve results using thumb tacks and Scotch tape. (My son seems to have inherited this gene, as I find wads of Scotch tape and rocks/toothpicks/feathers/legos stuck in the most interesting places.)

But my poor daughter will grow up deprived, and I feel powerless to help her. I can envision the counseling sessions now: "In third grade, I was a pumpkin in the school play. My mom thumbtacked a Hefty bag together, taped the seams, and spray-painted it orange. I was the laughingstock of the school. And can you believe she thought a collage was something you pinned to your dress for prom?"

Ah, well. I may not be crafty... but at least my kids will know how to make a mean meatloaf.

Karen MacInerney is the author of the Agatha-nominated Gray Whale Inn mystery series and the forthcoming Tales of an Urban Werewolf (Ballantine, Spring '08). You can find her online at http://karenmacinerney.blogspot.com and www.karenmacinerney.com.