Yesterday I felt frustrated over the writing, so I just hung out in the kitchen for several hours cooking. No one was home, who would eat? I didn't care. I could always take it to the neighbors. I wanted to do something creative that could be enjoyed instantly by people, unlike writing which takes forever to make good, to finish, then it has to be accepted for publication, then it takes forever in editing, until finally it comes out in the form of a book--oh happy day! oh what brief joy!-- for it takes forever for people to read it and decide if they like it or not, and when they do, you are happy, and when they don't, you are sad. And the pay is awful.
Better to take an hour or two in the kitchen stirring pots of unusual combinations and flavors, baking the best chocolate cake ever from scratch, with the most delicious fudge icing. No one complains that it needs more editing, or that it doesn't flow right, or that it's too depressing, or that they can't relate. No one says, "I really wanted to like this, but...." No one says anything. They are too busy eating happily and all is well. This is why I like creative cooking.
Still, creative writing remains in the shadows calling my name-- the Dark Master who whispers, sings, calls out to me, who beckons and I can't say no. Oh, how I hate him.