It’s been a while. In the rush and hurly-burly of life in a new house, I’m afraid I’ve neglected to take the time to write. I could blame it on the fact that my washer suddenly stopped functioning mid-cycle, or that my children monopolize too much of my time, or any number of excuses, but that is exactly what they would be: excuses.
Truth be told, I’ve been baking. My youngest sister and I both bake when we are stressed, and I often bake or cook to avoid other responsibilities (such as this blog). I have two loaves of bread cooling on a wire rack, and a creamy, strawberry dessert solidifying in the fridge. Yesterday my children and I made fruit gummies and triple berry syrup for homemade, summertime sodas. I had intended on trying my hand at toffee this afternoon, but I left my candy thermometer at my mother’s house, so now I am forced to sit down and write.
Writing, for me, is a private thing. It is a peek inside my head at the (wo)man behind the curtain, the innermost thoughts and functions of an introverted bookworm. I don’t like putting my writing on display for everyone to see. It’s frightening. So I put it off.
I don’t know why.
When I finally do start writing, it feels..transcendent. I can almost hear a symphony orchestra playing Peer Gynt’s Suite no. 1, Op. 46: Morning Mood. I pour all my energy into the piece; angels harmonize and life is good.
But that’s just the first draft, of course. Editing is another story (pun intended). Still, it feels good to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, and let the words flow.
Meanwhile, I’m going to have a slice of fresh-baked bread, smeared with butter and Daniela’s delicious Saskatoon jam. I wish you all a transcendent weekend.