This Is Not A Recipe Blog

But I do like to cook.

The thing about cooking--and writing--is that when you're done, you have something that you made. That you can eat. Your metaphor is getting away from you, Rowan, I can hear you saying. No it's not. You can totally eat the things you've written.

Stop crumpling up that paper and shoving it into your mouth. That's not what I mean.

I write (and I think this is probably true for a lot of people) because there are stories I want to read, and many of them don't yet exist in the world, and they're not going to write themselves. This is a source of frustration, often, because really what I want to do is eat 24 chocolate chip cookies right now, not mix them up and bake them first. But I don't have 24 chocolate chip cookies. So there's only one thing to do.

I also don't have a story about Theseus' pegasus being the real hero, or one where an old blind woman accidentally befriends Medusa because they live in the same apartment building. There's a story I can't read yet in which a house occupies the same space as an ancient fairy ring, and they uneasily band together to stop the place from being turned into a 56 story shopping district. A high-school algebra teacher solves a murder and saves the local arts program. The moon grants your wishes to someone else. A body is found in a local park and looks just like a US senator.

I can't cook everything at once.

Also, the metaphor starts to break down a bit, because while you can cook the same dish again and again, once you've written something, it's there forever. Well, for a reasonable facsimile of forever, anyway.

And gosh, if it's on the internet, it never goes away.

I have fruit flies that get rid of anything that stays in my kitchen for too long.

Where am I going with this? Good question.

Take half a cup of yogurt mixed with three mashed bananas...

Just kidding.

I always want to know the stories. I want to discover the stories. The stories beg to be told, the pie to be made. Look, I am so delicious, they cry. Imagine what I might have inside me. Just imagine. Two pounds of strawberries? 24 blackbirds? A superhero who only speaks in similes?

Maybe the stories do tell themselves. They just need an arm and a pen.

And two dozen chocolate chip cookies.

Hmmm. I'll be right back.