Cop-out, thy name is moi
Aug. 10th, 2011 07:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceI came home from the Lit & Phil needing another 750 words to round the day out. I'd already written 1750; the rest, y'know. Should be easy, right? I had half the afternoon and all the evening.
There's a reason I go to the Lit & Phil to work. I've been home for hours, the afternoon is gone and there's a limit to the evening, and what have I done? Cooked and fadgeted and listened to the cricket, amused the cats, read the internets and written 350 words.
I need another 400. So I'm cheating: I'm writing about food. When in doubt - as Chandler never said - give the characters a meal.
Somewhere deep inside, I fear I may be a frustrated restaurant critic. I don't get to write about real food, so I wax lyrical about the meals I make up. (The first book I wrote in this house, fifteen years ago, a reviewer said "Brenchley is obsessed with food." Back then - until then - I had no idea that it showed.)
*writes about soup, and bread*
There's a reason I go to the Lit & Phil to work. I've been home for hours, the afternoon is gone and there's a limit to the evening, and what have I done? Cooked and fadgeted and listened to the cricket, amused the cats, read the internets and written 350 words.
I need another 400. So I'm cheating: I'm writing about food. When in doubt - as Chandler never said - give the characters a meal.
Somewhere deep inside, I fear I may be a frustrated restaurant critic. I don't get to write about real food, so I wax lyrical about the meals I make up. (The first book I wrote in this house, fifteen years ago, a reviewer said "Brenchley is obsessed with food." Back then - until then - I had no idea that it showed.)
*writes about soup, and bread*