Dispatches from the Desk #16: Dangerous to write and cook

The thing about writing is that when it is going well, one doesn’t want to do anything else. Supper? I can take it or leave it, I’m certainly not going to make it. Fortunately last week, planning ahead for a stretch in which I had to do nothing but write, I filled the freezer with lasagne and tortiere, so we have food. (The Spouse is currently wrestling with his subplots, so he’s not doing much in that department either, and Mr Wicked doesn’t cook.)

This morning I managed to put butter in the frying pan, put the porridge pot on, and return to the computer. Smell of burning butter begins to permeate house … dash to stove, throw egg (blue — Number One Nephew has a couple of interesting hens) into pan, stir egg frantically. No fire hazard, butter merely tastily browned, egg cooked almost instantly. Eat egg standing up at stove. Realize forgot to turn on heat under porridge. Turn on heat under porridge. Remember that I didn’t finish that sentence. Return to computer … Strange noise. Porridge is carrying on like a New Zealand boiling mud-pit. Stir frantically. Resign self gloomily to much scouring of porridge-pot at a later point in the day. Realize kettle has been boiling for quite a while. Make tea. Barely enough water. Convey porridge and tea to somnolent spouse. Eat porridge. Drink tea. Drink more tea.

Realize blog hasn’t been updated in quite a while. What to write about? Dog’s efforts in the garden? I have some nice photos — too much work at present. (Something for you to look forward to — Mr Wicked carrying around a pail of water.) Possible upcoming literary event abroad? Better wait till the details are certain. House still smells like almost-burnt butter … ah, inspiration.

Just look on it as a progress report on the book. The more distracted the cooking, the greater the progress. Holla-Sayan is back into it, and Ivah. I’m very fond of Ivah. Holla, not unnaturally given what she did, feels she ought to come to a gruesome end and that he could do something about that if I’d just let him. We’ll see. I have plans for Ivah.

Not much weeding happening in the garden, either, except what Mr Wicked has been doing.

That was a lobelia, not a weed.

Chewies do not grow into rawhide trees, and anyway, things don’t grow if you keep digging them up and burying them again. Not rawhide chewies, and certainly not my lobelias.

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About KV Johansen

The author of Blackdog, The Leopard, The Lady, and the forthcoming Gods of Nabban, epic fantasies from Pyr, I also write for teens and children, including the "Torrie", "Warlocks of Talverdin", and "Cassandra Virus" series, and the "Pippin and Mabel" picture books, as well as a couple of short story collections and two works of adult literary criticism on the history of children's fantasy literature. I have a Master's degree in Mediaeval Studies, and read a lot of fantasy, science fiction, and history. Blog at thewildforest.wordpress.com
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