I’ve never been good at hobbies.
Maybe I should elaborate on that a bit.
I’ve never been good at maintaining hobbies. My attention span doesn’t really allow for it. I’ll become heavily invested in something for several months, burying myself in the minutia of whatever it happens to be. The history, what’s currently going on, facts, figures: whatever information that possibly exists on the subject at hand.
And then I drop it.
There’s no gradual decline in interest. It’s an off and off switch. One moment I care intensely about Care Bear merchandise, the next minute I’m into Dutch zombie manga. It’s sometimes frustrating. I want a hobby! And no, writing doesn’t count as a hobby. And neither does reading. Reading is something everyone should be doing and doesn’t count as a special, niche interest.
I want to hang out with my fellow enthusiasts and wax on and on about the tiny little niggling details about something and loudly harrumph about changes and misconceptions about whatever it is. I want to be one of THOSE people, who always wear t-shirts that loudly proclaim that they’re a part of some geek tribe and whose every other word somehow references that interest.
My last resort, the plan that I consider a desperate measure, is to make up a hobby. My hobby will be to have a fictional hobby. I will spout technobabble at the drop of a hat that pertains to nothing and means just the same! I will reference people who are experts in the field of my unreality! There will be dates and times, key points in the history of my elaborate fiction!
Granted, I will become tired of it after a few months, but, for those few months, I will be the foremost expert in gibberish.