Novels in the oven

For me novels are like that recipe you vaguely remember your dearly departed grandmother making in your childhood. You know what you want, but no one can tell you just how to put it all together. The exact taste is right there on the tip of your tongue, but you just can't quite name the ingredient you keep missing. And you need to give it time to cook. But now much time? Too much and it's overdone and dry, not enough and you've got a mushy mess of stark flavors on your hands (or fork).

I write a rough draft, add in some notes of intent for the really rough spots and toss that puppy in the subconsicious oven. (No real puppies were harmed during this post.) I turn the light on inside the oven and sit and stare. Nothing cooks when you watch it, I swear. So I walk away. I have no freaking idea when this meal is going to be done. Rushing the process just makes me bang my head on walls. So I go look for something to eat while I wait for the DING!

I eat my obligatory vegetables. I enjoy some broccoli while editing, some carrots while I read books and blogs on writing. Sometimes I munch on a salad go on critique sprees. I do enjoy my veggies, but I long for that main course. It smells so darn good. Why isn't it done yet?

I sneak a few pieces of chocolate cake while I read books for fun and catch up on the tv shows I otherise ignore. That cake is indulgently wonderful, but it's not filling.

Nothing quite hits the spot, so I sneak off with a sandwhich and write short stories. Filling yes, but still not what I'm craving.

And then it comes. A DING that fills my head and sends my fingers flying over the keyboard to find that draft I'd set aside so long ago. All that time waiting, smelling, drooling, and now I grab my fork and dive in. I can't stop eating. I must. Keep. Eating.

Once I wash the dishes and get over the stomach ache, I'll sit back and ponder if I got the recipe right this time. If I did, who knows, I might finally be ready to invite some friends to dinner.