Writing is Like Baking (Full of Pain)

Just a little essay I whipped up while trying to resist the urge to light everything on fire. I am almost thirty and I think I’m failing at adulthood. Also I am afraid- of everything. I get more time to write and suddenly the “publish” button becomes a creature of nightmares. Here is an analogy about writing, looked at through the lens of baking- two things I usually love but on occasion make me want to die. Or at least get melodramatic. Or get tequila even though I don’t drink, but sometimes I feel like iiiiit. More on that later.

Writing your first novel is sort of like baking a cake from scratch.

And you’ve never even set foot in the kitchen. You’ve seen it from a distance, possible touched things within, but the inner workings are as complicated as your friends home- brewed D&D/Dune crossover campaign that’s lasted five years.

So, you start with the idea- you know you want cake, but you aren’t even one hundred percent sure what sort of cake you want. This leads to research, books read, blogs scrutinized, Chuck Windig cornered, kidnapped, questioned, then Neuralized by Agent J and released, and three weeks of making a Pinterest board; slowly, you narrow it down. You eliminate the sort of cakes you don’t like, which, if you’re like me, is not many, and you are left a with a bunch you do. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that funfetti box mix and frosting combo though- that stuffs legit.  Continue reading

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The End is Also the Beginning

I know how my story ends.

I knew from the beginning and while the main events of the story have shifted, shrunk, morphed and grew, the end has always been a relative constant.

That is, until I got to the end of the second act of my second draft and realized what I wrote has changed the requirement for the beginning, thus changing the results of the end. Some things remain unchanged, who will be there and what will be used, for instance. But what must be said, well, that’s where I am floundering.

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My Novel Writing Battles: Part One

It was almost a year ago I set out with only one goal in mind; to write my first novel.

I had found myself at a crossroads, spurred by my twenty-eighth birthday and an encroaching sense of doom. I’ve spent my twenties working a dead-end job that usually leaves me emotionally and physically exhausted at the end of every day. I needed something to give me hope, or at least a long term distraction.

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