I sat here today for hours and hours and, admittedly, in between numerous games of Free Cell, I wrote unacceptable, boring, why-bother sentences. I was getting terribly frustrated and beating myself up for my inability to produce something for this blog. You see, I made a promise to myself that I would faithfully produce words into sentences into paragraphs into pages every week. I not only made the promise to myself, but, perhaps foolishly, wrote it down and gave a copy to my friend, Moo. She checks up on me to see how my work fares — as I do for her. It’s not a “scolding” sort of check-up relationship we have but, rather, having a “buddy” to help us along on the somewhat lonely path of our creative endeavours. She’s a wonderful cartoonist and illustrator, who it seems to me, doesn’t need my help since she’s always drawing and meeting her weekly goals. But a promise is a promise and I am trying to keep my end of it.
But today, oh today, it was just too much. I know I’m not a capital “W” writer but I usually am able to come up with some pretty decent — and often humorous — stuff. It’s true that I do set the bar higher for me than I do for some of the so-called writers I’m reading. Perhaps that’s because I have, once again, slipped into a pretty steady diet of mystery books. Not that I’m claiming that mystery writers aren’t good writers heavens no but, really, some of the ones I’ve read recently should never have made their way into my house. They’re the kinds of books that when my friend, Jenny, asks, “What are you reading, Ann?” I answer with something like, “Oh, nothing particular.” too embarrassed to give the story line, let alone the title.
So today, rather than stay mired in the fruitless search for meaningful words to appear in my head and on this page, I left the computer and went out into my teeny-tiny kitchen and chopped onions and apples and browned meat from a hot Italian sausage and threw in some kale and broth and spices and made a pot of soup. Just like that. Making soup is right up there with doing laundry as almost instant gratification. I know that sounds weird — especially the laundry part — but it’s so true in my life. Maybe part of it is I have a lot more confidence in my soup making than I do in my writing ability. So why wouldn’t I slough off on the one and go for the other, eh?