Archive for September, 2012

Anything is possible.  It’s proven time and time again.  Impossible can be reshaped into plausible with imagination, talent and, lest we forget, a ton of hard work.  Creativity is the sell, the appeal and the draw and expert fabrication is why they buy.  It’s the heartfelt hustle and they’re the happy hoarders.

They howl at the TV; “Oh, come on!” as they check to ensure the next episode is set to PVR.  Favorite authors are inhaled even though the ending of their latest book leaves readers mouthing the words; “What the…?”

Fulfillment.  Contentment.  Enjoyment.    The value they get out of these experiences goes a long way.  They sink into convincing characters cloaked in far-fetched fables and have faith in the web of worlds spun smoothly over their sleek screens.

A well-told story where things that would never, could never happen in a million years can bring home the gold.  Gold that is, provided we’ve upheld but a few of our reader’s simple standards and expectations; our characters must be interesting, likeable, tragic, tormented, flawed, endearing, heroic, vulnerable, quirky, sad with just enough happy and of course, impeccably written which inevitably leads us to believable.

Effortless.  Painless.  Sleepless

Serve up believable and they’ll hunker down, guzzle, gobble and gorge.  If they get their fill, they will, without a doubt, be back for the next round.

They want blood.  Throw down a goblet.  Open a vein.

Ernest Hemingway

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I’m afraid I’ve become a sayer rather than a doer. This wasn’t my intent. In fact, it was just the opposite. This blog was, in my eyes, a way for me to write on a regular basis; a stovetop on which to whip up tidy, complete meals and instant satisfaction. But in my forage for nourishment, it may have instead become a fridge full of leftovers; empty calories and unfulfilled dreams. Ironically, a little like my own cooking.

Speaking of mad kitchen skills, my husband and I had a lovely meal the other night, me nowhere near the oven. We cozied up in a wonderful, local restaurant. I sat taking in a view of the glistening ocean, a few glasses of robust vino and, a little later, an off the cuff comment; “You write too much about writing. You should, you know, write a novel (again) or something,” he said.

I won’t lie; it didn’t come as a shock. I have, in the very back crevices of my noggin’, felt a pang of recognition regarding this every time I start a new post.

He’s right, I do write about writing…a lot, but I feel I’m moving forward, albeit in baby steps. Perhaps this is how I’m finding my way, a cookbook of sorts.

I enjoy writing these posts immensely. I take great pleasure in imagining that I’m honing my skill and revving my engine. I cherish the fact that I may be of some slight inspiration to others who are attempting to follow their hearts and fulfill their dreams. I feel like I’m doing something about the direction in which I want my life to head. All good things, yes? Yes.

He’d second-guessed himself the moment it was out; worried he’d smothered the struggling fire of hope only just beginning to catch in my heart.

But I can only see the positive in my husband’s observation. A touch of lighter fluid always fuels a flame.

It means my subject matter has been clear, my blog has a theme (who knew),  and (this is the best part) he’s actually been reading my posts. Hope burns eternal.

Fiery Vintage Stove

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