Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

writing

What cooking teaches me about writing

I never thought I’d like to cook. I was forced to learn and experiment when I lived on my own after college, and while I’ve always liked to bake, cooking has taken a little longer to enjoy. But I love it now. And I have my husband to thank. His love of cooking was infectious in our early days of dating and marriage. Cooking together was something we looked forward to. Those days are few and far between now but he has taught me so much.

While baking cookies and putting together a beef stew last week, I realized that cooking and writing–both creative endeavors–have some things in common. And what I’ve learned about cooking relates to my writing. Here’s what I discovered that cooking can teach me about writing:

Recipes are a good place to start. Follow the lead of someone who’s done this before. Then improvise. Add your own style. I used to fear deviating from the recipe. I would follow it to the letter, afraid that if I added anything, I would ruin it. When I’ve had to improvise because we didn’t have the ingredients necessary, it’s worked out just fine. In writing, the same goes. There are patterns that work. Devices that others have used that are helpful to learn and follow. That doesn’t mean all my writing is going to sound like someone else’s work, but it’s a good place to start.

Similarly, I need to learn the basics. Knowing the difference between a tablespoon and a teaspoon is essential. Early in our marriage, I misread a recipe that called for a teaspoon of salt. I added a tablespoon. Dish, ruined. If you don’t know the difference between cumin and cinnamon, you’re probably in trouble. Once you know what works and what doesn’t, then you can start experimenting with your own ingredient combinations. In writing, I need to know how to write sentences. Long ones and short ones. How to craft paragraphs and dialogue and chapters. When I’ve learned those things, then I can try something new. I used to think the idea of an outline was too inhibiting for creativity. Now, in the midst of my first novel, I’m wishing I’d done some more pre-work. And I bristle when told to read books about style and story structure, but I know they would help.

It’s not all gourmet. I enjoy cooking for my family. But last week, I was craving boxed mac and cheese. I was burnt out from housework and snow days and my body was tired, so that’s what we ate for dinner. Nothing fancy. Not terribly good for us. But it worked for that night. I’m not going to crank out my best writing every time I sit down to write. Maybe not even every fourth time I sit down to write. It’s going to take practice. And time. And I might not ever be a “gourmet” writer. But not everyone wants gourmet all the time. Maybe my mac-and-cheese-in-a-box writing will be just the food someone needs that day.

Trust my gut. While making  the beef stew, a dish I’ve made several times with my husband but never in this house, with this stove, I hit a snag. The first round of “browning” the meat was more like “blacking” the meat. I had the burner turned up too high. I could have pressed on, convinced that I was doing it right, or I could trust my instincts and start over. That’s what I did. I dumped the oil, rinsed out the pan and melted another scoop of shortening at a lower temperature. I don’t know what my writing instincts are right now, but I know if I do it long enough, I’ll be able to trust my gut more and more.

It’s not about me. (Or you.) Ultimately, when I’m cooking, I’m not cooking for myself. And I’m infinitely more satisfied when I share the food I’ve made with other people. While I do write partly for me (because if I didn’t I think my head might literally explode), the end goal is to have other people read my words. So, I’m willing to do what it takes for that to happen. If I have to alter my dream or work a little harder or spend a little more, then I must.

I’ve been cooking for my family for almost seven years now, and I’m still no expert, but I’m getting better and finding my groove. I’ve been writing a lot longer than that, but I’m still a novice in a lot of ways. Whether cooking or writing, I’ve got a lot to learn, but I’m finding joy in the practice.

How I need to remember that change is gradual

I woke up feeling unwell in body and spirit. A challenging sermon on holiness at church yesterday and the onset of a cold that’s making its way through our family have left me drained before I’ve even started today. That, and the need to do EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE IMMEDIATELY.

Tell me your Mondays are like this.

With piles of laundry mocking you as a failure.

With kitchen counters covered in dirty dishes singing “You’re no good, you’re no good, baby you’re no good.”

Back to school. Back to a sometimes routine. The first full week of a new year.

And I’m blowing it already.

—

While it’s true I no longer make resolutions, I still feel the need to make changes in my life every time the calendar turns another year. Maybe I’m not calling them resolutions, but I’m still taking the opportunity to change.

And there’s plenty of opportunity for change.

As the first of the year dawned, I pledged to myself (again, for the third time) that this would be the year I finish my novel.

Last year, I felt mostly bland about my writing. Frustrated. Discouraged. Sure that I’d never make anything of myself. I chipped away at the story, adding words here and there without regularity.

Give up. Give up. Give up. The voices told me lies, but I wanted to listen.

Nevermind that my husband switched jobs and we moved and our daughter started school. Transition upon transition.

And when I dared to look at how much writing I’d actually done, I was surprised to learn that in all of 2013, I added 20,000 words to my novel.

It felt small and like nothing when it was happening. But at the end, it had amounted to much more.

—

I tried on three outfits before church yesterday because I’m having a love-hate with my body. I have some clothes I’d like to wear, to rediscover, and they.don’t.fit. Curse them.

I had a plan for Christmas Eve, to wear this purple dress I love and got on sale and haven’t worn in two years. It looked awful, which in my mind means I feel like I look awful.

But Christmas is full of holidays and eating so I allowed myself the feast, knowing that there would be a season of less come January. On December 31, I started a new plan. I would get up early. I would exercise. I would intentionally eat healthier. Oatmeal instead of a bagel. More fruit. More salad. I love all those things but they take more time to prepare. More effort. And, of course, I have to have them in the house in the first place.

As of today, I’ve worked out four times in the last week, which is four times more than all of fall, I think.

Yet I feel like a failure because there are no results.

It’s only been a week.

Time. Discipline. It won’t happen overnight.

(And for the record, I’m not aiming for a weight or a size but a healthier lifestyle overall. The older I get the better care I want to take of myself so I can enjoy my kids and life as a whole.)

—

A few months ago while sorting through some old newspaper clippings of columns I’d written back in my mid-20s, I had the urge to wad them all up. Or burn them. Something destructive.

Because the girl who wrote those words has changed in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Some of it was her choice. Some of it wasn’t. But she’s different. I feel like that girl barely exists in my memory. I wanted to shake her. Or punch her in the face. And tell her that she had no idea what she was talking about.

Life wasn’t like she thought. Faith wasn’t what she thought.

It was like looking in a mirror and seeing a reflection of me 10 years ago. And I saw not only how I looked on the outside but what I thought on the inside.

The urge to destroy passed, and now I’m grateful for the look into the past.

Because change has happened. It has taken years. But the differences are obvious to me. Ten years seems like a long time, but with those clippings in my hands, I felt like no time had passed at all.

—

A week is not a worthwhile measure for change.

It is good to want to change. It is good to have a plan. It is good to pursue what is better and whole.

It is not good to expect immediate change. But oh, how I want a quick fix for everything.

It is not good to expect perfection. But oh, how I want to do it right the first time.

It is not good to give up after only a week. But oh, how I want to say “forget it” to all my plans and intentions.

Here is what I am learning. Slowly, but I’m learning.

Change can’t happen alone. I need community.

Part of my writing plan was to join a group for word count accountability. Nothing happens if I don’t meet my goal, but I can be encouraged by what others are writing and knowing I’m not the only one struggling.

As for the other areas where I want to change and need to change: community applies there too. But that’s hard. I can’t go to a gym right now. But I can let someone else know my plans.

Invitation is a key to transformation. I have to let people in, and that starts with talking about my failings. Then it moves to sharing my plans. It continues with commitment. And it doesn’t end with failure.