I write: novels, songs, screenplays, plays, musicals.
When inspired, 1,500 words every morning, then I'm game for anything. When not, I read novels and intellectual tomes (Heidegger, anyone?) to braid the void.
I also perform -- the singer-songwriter thing, one-man shows, slam poetry.
So instead of being a consumer of culture, like most of us, I'm having a go at producing it, too.
Plus I make the fluffiest omelets you can imagine. They're like munching warm summer air.
I love doing the dishes. No kidding.
I run a few miles every day (though it's years since a marathon).
I'm financially independent (but live modestly); bohemian (gave up 9-to-5 wage-slavery in 1997 and mostly wear black); highbrow (prefer Wallace Stevens to Billy Collins, Bob Dylan to Barry Manilow); off-the-grid eccentric (no TV, no Facebook, no Twitter, no phone, though I check my email every day); peace-loving (would rather be a bonobo than a chimpanzee); and bawdy (I like to make love till we're both reduced to senseless blobs of gasping pleasure: I find it really makes up for a bad hair day).
Low maintenance. Don't mix well with high-maintenance partners.
Can't quite decide if I'm more romantic than sentimental, or vice versa. This song I wrote and sang embroiders some of this confusion:
I spent the first half of my life acquiring a thick skin, and now I'm trying to shed it to become the sweet, sensitive chap I am at heart.