One of the reasons both the 'food' and the 'blog' elements of my food blog have been keeping the most tenuous of finger-holds on the "land of the living" is due to the fact that I told myself I want to write a book. Writing a book seems like such a monumental task--a feat you can hold in your hands (Ha! Feat? Hands?!)-- the sort of accomplishment one would be justified in mentioning on one's grave stone. Like a marathon but more achievable.
In order to write a book, the first thing to do is certainly to neglect the blog. Check. But what kind of book to write. I have read enough M.C Beaton books to dream of tidy murders set in the tourist-idyll of rural England with such competence, I'm sure all I have to do is write it down (#hubris). But a lifestyle book would be fun, too. I could fill it with lists of house ware necessities and poetic essays on the virtues of white plates and platters. Also, if the general population only knew how cheap and easy it is to change your furnace filter-- the lives I could change. Let's not forget young adult fiction! That would be fun. I think the unicorn is due for a MAJOR comeback. Mark my words. You wait and see.
So, there you are with the critical moment of having to actually start. Even the flakey, such as myself, realize that neglecting one's blog can only be step one in the most informal of check-lists when writing a book. At some point, all that remains, when the toes are wriggled to the full edge of the cliff, is to lean forward and fall. How about an English murder mystery that features a unicorn with a penchant for formal teas (she calls them formalities). Let's give it a try...
Jane paused as the small tour group from London rattled the colorful glass pains of St. Martin's with their excited chatter and incessant photography. She was on her way to bring tea to the Vicar but first wanted to gather some chosen blossoms to liven up the dreary vestibule where the visitors awaited their audience with the local religious relics and relatively modest stained glass offerings.
Jane gathered her shears and pushed her way through the massive wooden panel that creaked in protest as it had for her entire memory and likely of that of generations before. The ancient door opened up to an efficiently joyous garden that contained politely restrained bunches of mid July blooms straining to break their garden twine restraints. Jane's joints groaned in sympathy with the shutting door as she dropped to her knees into the well worked soil of the vicar's garden to cut the creamy yellow dahlia's off from the base of their stems with the chinoiserie vase already in mind.
"Curse those deer!" she swore as she made her way toward the tangled and upset nasturtium lattice. Jane righted the wooden supports and propped the vines back up when she felt a steamy muzzly shove at her elbow nearly pushing her and her dahlias to the ground. Upon regaining her balance, Jane found herself staring into the eyes of a beast who looked every bit as befuddled as the 30 year old caretaker gazing back. How did a horse get in here? And what sort of horse is that, she thought with a slightly ludicrous dash of incredulity. What self respecting horse has a horn?
The outside world started to grow black and the ground grew close as Jane tried to assemble the swimming images slipping beyond her reach as her consciousness raced away. But how does one make sense of seeing what could only be a called a unicorn, in the vicar's garden no less, in Cottswald on Avon (a made-up place), 2013 year of our Lord?
To be continued...
So, of course, I could go on, but at what point is it morally questionable to write a book that is kind of ridiculous-silly? Does a book have to be 'good' in order to be worth writing? Or reading? I don't know, but if I'm ever going to write a book, I think I'll have to borrow a page from the Zen of Nike and Just Do It (registered trademark).
To be continued..