What am I going to do about dinner? This is the constant question in my house. And since I’m not the best in the areas of cleaning or doing laundry, feeding the people who live with me is my thing. And, in general, I’m good at it. But . . . I am also a writer. It’s taken me years to say those words out loud even though I’ve been writing since I was six and penned my first novel called–wait for it—The Cooking Mother. I’m not kidding, I swear! It was a novel about my own mother who would come in from work, tired as all get out, and have to cook dinner for us. Oh my Lordt! I think I just made a breakthrough. I understand my own life so much better now (thinking . . .).
Anyhow, I’ve been in the zone with my writing recently, I mean really getting in there. Characters are talking to me—they’re talking to one another (it happens, and when it does, it’s MA-GI-CAL), it’s been amazing. Then I look up and it’s 5:00. Dread. Groan. I ask myself, pasta again, Gail? Yes, pasta again. Thirteen minutes in the pot. Drain it. Throw some butter on it. Let the small people (and the hubs, too) go to town with the shaky cheese. Cut up green leaf lettuce. Voila. Family fed and alive.
Then it’s back to work for me! I hope my characters are still in the mood to chat.