Vegetables and Writing

I don't have a lot of time to blog-- Helen finally just started moving today, instead of being totally the most stubborn manuscript on the face of the earth, so I am writing writing writing for as long as it lasts. I hate the idea of opening this chapter with a dream, but I suppose since it isn't the FIRST chapter of the book it isn't breaking any rules. (I totally broke that one already anyway. I know, I know. But at least I'm not PRETENDING it's NOT a dream in the scene! More on how rules should sometimes be broken over at Mia's blog, which apparently I am determined to promote of late!)

Also, I have the monstrous task of cooking up all the vegetables my mother sent us home with. I have a giant pile of Swiss chard, a second giant pile of beets with greens attached, a smaller pile of green beans and lots of tomatoes and cucumbers, fresh basil, garden garlic, and fresh parsley. This would be great eating for the rest of the week if my husband were actually going to be home for dinner ever. Unfortunately that isn't meant to be.

I'm going to use up the fresh parsley, and a portion of the garlic with some home made clam sauce, then cook up some shell pasta. It just happens to go super well with swiss chard, and if I'm really on my a-game, maybe I'll crack open the white wine and toss some of that in too (it's been sitting in my fridge for WAY too long). Either way I need to chop the greens off the beets and store them separately so they'll keep a bit longer, and get everything squared up that way. Plus dishwashing. Oh, dishwashing, you are, as ever, the most frustrating of kitchen chores. You are the boulder to my Sisyphus.


And you know, sometimes writing can feel that way too-- like we're Sisyphus, pushing that gosh darn boulder up the hill only to have it come crashing back down on us before we make it to the top. The job is never finished. The manuscript is never complete, never perfect, never up to par with whatever it is we're doing next. Like the dishes, when you think you're done, more stuff crops up that needs revision or rewriting or editing. Or maybe it's just the new book, and the same old challenge of making it sing. But remember, as long as we're writing, even if the "finished" manuscript doesn't sell, even if we have to roll that boulder back up the hill by writing a new book, it's still practice, and with every struggle to the top, we're honing our craft and becoming stronger writers for it.

Just like Sisyphus is going to have the most awesomely sculpted thighs and arms of any man who ever lived. If, uh, he ever gets to quit rolling his boulder and show them off...