Sick of It All

Sometimes, don't you just not want to talk or think about anything writing related? Don't you get sick of discussing industry and sales figures and who-sold-what? Don't you want to blow off writing your freaking blog and ditch on your revisions?

Yeah, yeah, yeah—I know what you're thinking. Kate, you're smoking crack. Writing is my passion. I live, breathe, and sleep goals, motivation, and conflict. Plotting: bring it on.

To which I say, "Pfft."

Sometimes, wouldn't you rather talk about food? About a honking leg of lamb lovingly caressed with garlic, rosemary, and olive oil. About a massive plate of pasta tossed with a fresh pomodoro sauce (carbs be damned). Or cake! Rich and moist cake topped with fluffy whipped cream and strawberries.

Sigh. I need cake. Stat.

Must Love Dogs

"Love, smell this." I held out the hardcover book I'd just started reading.

Nate** glanced at me suspiciously as he flipped channels. "Why?"

"It stinks."

"And you want me to smell it?"

"Yeah. Duh. Otherwise I wouldn't have said anything." I leaned over and waved it at him. "Here. Sniff."

"I think I'll pass." He huddled closer to the end of the couch.

"But it smells like crap."

"What?"

"It smells like crap." I brought the book up to my nose to get another whiff. "Dog crap, to be exact."

Nate frowned at me, the Golf Channel momentarily forgotten. "Then why would I want to smell it?"

"To share the experience with me." I got up on my knees, shuffled across the couch to sit on his lap, and held the book open under his nostrils.

"Ugh." He tried to shift away from me.

"Doesn't it smell terrible?" Inhaling again, I wrinkled my nose. "Susan once told me she loves the scent of books. You don't think she meant this scent, do you?"

"Maybe she loves dogs." He pushed me off his lap—gently—and returned his attention to the TV.

"Hmm." With Susan, anything was possible.

** Nate would want me to mention that he wasn't in his robe during this conversation—he wore shorts and a T-shirt. He'd also want it stated that, contrary to popular belief, he doesn't wear his robe 24/7.

On the Porch

My sister wanted me to write about elephants today. (Yeah, I can't explain it either. Maybe it's my fault because I dropped her once when she was a baby.) I, however, need to write about orange mochas. Sorry, brat.

I don't usually go to Starbucks to write. There are literally hundreds of cafés in San Francisco, and I prefer supporting local businesses. But once a week, I go to write at the Starbucks by Nate's office before I pick him up. There are no other cafés that are open that late in his neighborhood and—fine, drag it out of me—the cute boy who works there doesn't charge me full price. (He's not cuter than you, Nate.)

Anyway, today is that day, and I'm sitting here, completely distracted by this orange mocha advertisement they have by the door. It says: Life's better on the porch.

Hmm. Do we believe this? What if it's raining and water is dripping from the porch's awning straight onto your forehead? What if your porch is cockroach infested? What if you're on the porch and a tornado comes up and whips it (and you along with it) away? Is life still better then? I have doubts.

I don't even want to get started on what life on a porch has to do with an orange mocha. Maybe one drinks orange mochas on the porch. Shrug. Seems like a Pabst Blue Ribbon is more of a porch drink.

Unless your porch is attached to a 15,000 square foot house—then you'd probably have your own mini Starbucks inside with a cute barista to serve you. And I guess life would be better.

Light My Fire

This year, I'm passing that mark where we'll need to get a fire permit to light candles for my birthday cake—if I wanted one for every year, which I do. I could look at this like it sucks that I'm getting older. However, I'm choosing to see it as an opportunity to revel in the glory of a cake ablaze.

My family is probably freaking out right now. They think I'm a pyromaniac.

I am not.

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, pyromania is the irresistible urge to start fires. I don't have any kind of irresistible urge to set things aflame—I have total control over myself.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a good torching from time to time. Fireworks? Love them. Explosions? The bigger, the better. But just because I get a small amount of satisfaction from, say, lighting a bonfire and jumping over it, is that reason to ban me from being around anything that produces sparks?

Total overreaction if you ask me.

By the way, I need a blow torch if anyone wants gift ideas. For making crème brulée, of course.

Miscellany

Every topic I came up with for today seemed too meager for its own post. But then my brilliant mind kicked into gear and solved the problem: I'm writing about all of them.

First Topic: Suzie

I miss my friend Suzie. The only thing I don't love about living in San Francisco is that I live so far from her. If I had my way, I'd stop by her house this evening to drink wine and chat. In that order, because Suzie has her priorities straight.

Oh—I also miss Samantha and Tigger, her cats.

Topic Two: Soundtrack to Gabe

I don't have a soundtrack to my current work-in-progress. The few times I've tried to write, I've put on random music. Only it feels wrong and I don't get anything done.

Maybe I need to buy the new Nine Inch Nails CD. My heroine loves NIN. I've tried listening to old NIN but that doesn't work either. The closest I've come to a soundtrack is the latest Justin Timberlake mixed with the Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights CD (which is actually great even if the movie sucked).

If my heroine were real, she's seriously mock me for my musical selection. While she popped peanut M&M's into her mouth.

Three: Pajamas

My Superman pajamas are in a sad state. Today I noticed there were a couple holes in the thinning cotton. The holes aren't anyplace, um, critical, which is fortunate because I wore them into the world this morning.

Numero Quattro: Chic Kate

I want a pair of olive colored boots.

Fifth: Tartare

I've had a major craving for tartare this past week. Steak, salmon, ahi—I don't care. Accompanied with a Kir Royale, of course.

For those of you who are gastronomically naive, tartare is ground or finely chopped meat (or fish) that's mixed with stuff (like onions, capers, herbs, or whatever else the chef chooses) and served raw. In the immortal words of the Wiggles: yummy, yummy.

Lastly: Bucking Up

I've been doing an admirable job procrastinating the past couple weeks. Instead of working on my current work-in-progress, I'm spending my time worrying about the music I listen to, shopping for pajamas, and thinking about food.

Ergo, I'm making the declaration here and now that I'm finishing the gosh darn manuscript by the end of May. Really. I can do it. (That was more for my benefit than yours.)