I’m trying to write about my year of baking. Not as a series of blog posts, but in book form. It’s all so fascinating, and I’ve learned a great many things. My personal growth, how it has built community… it’s all remarkable.
Case in point: I’m having a housewarming party this weekend. And 150 people are coming. Fortunately, I had the foresight to make it pot luck, because my bake sale is the day before. But 150 people.
I’ve thrown parties where only two people came. No one ever comes to my parties. I had more or less stopped having parties for this very reason. So, two lessons here. One, my year of baking has made me confident enough to have a party. Two, I’ve built enough relationships—and I would argue it’s through my baking—to have a party that 150 people are looking forward to.
It feels like if I’m going to try to get a book out of this, I need to get it done and out there right after the year is over. Because it’s so wrapped up in the current political situation that it probably has a short shelf life. And, when timely, it could be big, but in 2020, it probably won’t be.
But I can’t write it. Everything I put into chapter form feels stiff, and not in the good egg whites kind of way but in the bad I-should-have-used-more-butter kind of way. Dry.
It doesn’t do to force it.
Moreover, I’m really not interested in writing things that have a short shelf life. I don’t like reading those things, and I don’t seem to enjoy writing them. So, I need to stop. I am wasting the precious 5:30-6:30 hour—which only comes once a day—on a book that doesn’t want to be a book yet. It may eventually, but not today. And I have no idea what form it will take when it becomes a book.
Wordsworth called this “emotion recollected in tranquility,” which he called an essential ingredient to poetry. Yes, I just compared my writing about food to poetry and Wordsworth. Which is totally insufferable. But so was Wordsworth.
On this beautiful day—when Vermont is exploding with all the spring everything at the same time and I don’t know which way to look—I’m not going to worry about it. If it’s ready, it’ll be ready.
That’s the good thing about this past six months. Most days, I have no fucks left to give.