Tag: novel

It’s too darn cold

annebower

There was a pop song ages ago about it being “too darn hot,” and of course, the double entendre was clear. I guess we could apply different meanings to cold, but mostly, at least as I intend it, my reference is to the outdoor temperature exclusively. We laugh and say, it’s Vermont, what do you expect? And for those of you sporty types, skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, the cold is welcome, preserving the snow.

When I’ve been outside–shoveling paths, bringing in wood from our double stack, I come inside, get something hot to drink, kick back and dream of warm places, imagining myself transported to southern California, Puerto Rico, Key West. That imaginary respite works wonders. Do I want to live in any of those places? Noooooo. Even traveling to one of them for a vacation holds but slight appeal–airports, airplanes, the nonluxury hotel that would “make sense.”

Isn’t the imagination a wonderful thing? It allows travel, it allows fantasies of writing the Great American Novel, of magically becoming a ballerina or an accomplished watercolorist. And once an imaginative excursion has been enjoyed, we return to our normal pursuits, indoors or out, and can feel a bit renewed.

Pickling season begins

annebower
In an earlier post I noted cucumbers were growing. Well–now they are HERE and abundant. I love making fermented pickles because it’s so easy. With just salt, water, dill, and garlic magic happens! As you can see in this snapshot, there’s a little white ramekin shoved in the jartop; that keeps the cucumbers pressed below the top 2″ of brine and is essential for successful pickling.

By comparison, writing a novel takes constant work (more like making some intricate cake). I’m on the 5th draft of “Beyond Measure: A Cookbook Novel,” and almost ready to start querying agents. Wish me luck!!

Rainy day reflections on writing a novel

annebower

Our Vermont ground is covered in snow, the air is moist with drifting drizzle, and after an hour and a half of practicing Yang Cane form, my mind is focusing back on my morning’s writing session (yes, EVERYTHING is recursive).

The novel I’m working on, “Her Last Cookbook,” currently has 18 chapters each of which has been revised a few times. Now it’s time to put them back together into a complete manuscript, adding more sensory details, clearing up the time line, making sure that the characters are consistently themselves, even as they waiver in their intentions or decisions. This process is fun but so demanding and requires such attention that I can only proceed for an hour or two and then my mind empties.

It’s difficult not to be too self-critical, but at the same time, I have to be somewhat tough on myself. “Come on, Anne,” I say, “you know that can be more vivid.” At another point the voice in my head asks, “Is that really how she’d say that” or “Wouldn’t he take offense at what she just said”?

So then it’s time to back up a little, try again, revise, and finally, end that session, trusting that the next day will bring insight and improvements. Just like tai chi–we revise, improve, alter, ask for other’s suggestions, revise, try, try again and hope that the whole thing will eventually flow together.