Winter has long been used as a literary metaphor for death, or the time before rebirth, or the end of an event. Unfortunately, I must admit that my novel is in the winter stage of its life and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. When I realized that I still didn’t know my main character after six years of writing her, I also realized that perhaps this is not her story, and it may not even be my story. Or it’s possible that she’s settling down for a long winter’s nap, as they say. Whatever the case may be, it won’t be finished, at least not now, possibly not ever. Surprisingly, I’m comfortable with this. I think it shows even more that I’m ready to let go, and that I must.

I don’t want this to be a long post of reminiscences about how much the experience taught me, or how I’ll always love the characters and the story, or even more assurances that it may not be the last gasp quite yet. While all of those things are true, I think it can be destructive to other potential works to linger overlong on this one. I have been saying my goodbyes for some time now, without realizing it, and my main character has been silent for longer than I care to think about.

That said, I’m not without other ideas. It’s not the death of my writing career (or, the writing career I hope to have) by any means. I’ll certainly keep everyone posted–ha, ha, a reason to write more posts. In fact, if you’ve got an idea you want to see in story form and you don’t mind handing it off, let me know!  I always love suggestions and submissions. Also, feel free to share if you had experiences like these, where a long (or short, it doesn’t matter) project has either fallen by the wayside or had to be put aside, or stopped altogether. How did you handle it? Did you pick it up again? I love to hear from everyone!

Because I’m kind of obsessed with the show Inside the Actors Studio and because it doesn’t look too likely that I’ll be asked to appear any time soon, I decided that I’m going to answer the end-of-show questionnaire, first developed by Marcel Proust, adapted by Bernard Pivot and enunciated into perfection by James Lipton. Here goes:

What is your favourite word?
As a words girl, this question is quite difficult, but my favorite word is sesquipedalian.

What is your least favorite word?
Again, rather difficult, but I think I’ll go with ginormous or tornado.

What turns you on?
It’s such an obvious and clichéd answer, but music. Music gets me going more than anything else. Music and food, actually.

What turns you off?
Human nature.

What is your favorite curse word?
F***. Can you think of anything more versatile? I do believe it’s possible to use that word in every single tense in the English language. And it just feels good to say it, truly.

What sound or noise do you love?
High heels on a highly polished tile floor in an echoey building.

What sound or noise do you hate?
Strong winds or anything grating.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
Meteorologist or architecture.

What profession would you not like to do?
Anything involving cleaning, because I’m rubbish at it and you’d definitely not be getting your money’s worth.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
Don’t worry…there wasn’t a right or wrong answer.

And now I turn it over to you all…what would your answers be? Feel free to share all or just a few. Let’s hear from the readers!

Or at the very least, gets written. Sort of. Why, yes, ladies and gentlemen, my book finally has gone from outline to cohesive plot! I mean, of course it always had a plot, but it wasn’t anything to write home about as it was kind of…well…gapey. But! Those gapes, have, for the most part, been filled in and I have a linear story! WOO HOO!

I’m such a nerd and I so don’t even care.

It’s been such an arduous – well, can you call procrastinating creatively for fiveish years arduous? – journey to this point but I’m so happy to actually have the thing semi-written that it eclipses the previous half-decade it took to actually arrive. Of course, a wise author never counts her words before the word count but still…those of you that know my writing process and how utterly molasses-like it is (except for that one thing, which we shall not mention here…It-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named; or, You-Know-What) will probably agree that this is pretty freakin’ big. PLOT!

You know, I don’t think I felt like an author until this point. After all, the thing’s just been a random collection of vignettes for so long that it might have been something I did one day because I was bored (which, of course, is the real reason this whole thing started in the first place, naturally – more on that at some point).

But, dear readers, I’m happy to inform you that my extended absences have not yielded nothing (though a few more posts might have been helpful, I’m sure). Things are starting to line up, it would seem, and it feels faster and faster every time. Who knows? I could have a good start by Christmas.

Then again, I hear the door knocking, and it just might be that Murphy fellow…

Well, this is a shamefully overdue post, isn’t it?

No, I really haven’t fallen off the face of the Earth, though not for lack of trying, I’m told, by those attempting to contact me. I had a bit of a change in my life this past August and it’s taken me six rather long months to adjust to it. After all, it’s only a new occupation. Does that seem excessive to you, too? Oh, good. I thought it was just me. How I managed that last post in November boggles my mind and I’ve spent obscene amounts of the time getting my brain to catch up with the rest of the events in my life. I know how jealous you all must be, but really, I have to ask you to restrain yourselves. We’re all adults here and that kind of attitude doesn’t get anyone anywhere.

Are you rolling your eyes right along with me? Good. Glad to see you’re still reading.

Anyway, the past six months notwithstanding, I have discovered the secret to life. Holy non-sequitur, Batman! Not really, especially if you consider that forcing myself to become a real-life grown-up adult in the past six months wasn’t the only thing I spent my time on. Not only have I discovered it, however, but I will also share it here with you, right here on Allegro Moderato!

“Surely not!” you cry.

Yes! Surely! Oh, do, please get ahold of yourself…I can hardly let you in on the secret if you’ve swooned all over the conveniently-placed Oriental rug, now can I? And if you can’t handle even knowing that I have alighted upon this important fact, how do you suppose you’ll react if I tell you what it is? I do believe that’s a quandary–or at the very least, a large dilemma.

Now that I think about it, you’re clearly not ready for this secret. After all, it is quite an important piece of knowledge and I would hate to burden my conscience with the idea that I’ve passed it along to you in good faith, only to see you collapse under the very weight of its enormity. You would try your hardest to forget it but let’s not kid ourselves that the secret of life would really just flit out of your mind at a moment’s notice simply because you wanted it to. I can only imagine, then, that you would fill your head with other thoughts to try and jam it out but the secret of life is no flimsy piece of speculation built on a mound of hearsay, after all. And with all of those mental gymnastics, coupled with the secret oozing back like the pink stuff in Ghostbusters, you’d spend the rest of your days walking around and swooning on elaborately-worked carpetry. What kind of karma would I get for that?

It is only fitting, then, that I keep it to myself. I’m sorry, but I just can’t trust you with it. Perhaps one day you’ll prove to me that I should let you in on it but for now, it stays precariously ensconced in the cottage cheese that stands in for my mind these days.

Lovely to be back, ladies and gentlemen.

So, nearly five-and-a-half years have passed since I started the story that would eventually become what will eventually become my novel. Five? you ask, eyebrow raised. Why, yes, I reply. Five. I know, not really that long, I explain in an attempt to ingratiate you, but I really was trying. Why, Tom Wolfe took eleven years to write a second fiction novel after Bonfire! How can anyone compete with that? The research! The detail! After all, I’m only just making things up and putting them on paper, I plead. As your brow inches further and further up your forehead (near your hairline surely is not natural) and I think it must simply pop off at some point, I realize what it means: five is pathetic for entirely the opposite reason; to you, this is not a test of stamina (perhaps), or attention equating with greatness. You must wonder how it could take anyone five years to write a measly little novel, especially one that’s not going to be anywhere near as good as Tom Wolfe’s worst day of writing ever. Well, I say meekly, turning my eyes shyly to the floor in an infantile attempt to hide myself, I do have a little bit of research. The only response I receive is an esteem-shattering scoff.

To make matters worse, the bit of knowledge I wanted to impart will not impress, I’m sure, especially if you already think I’m writing scum for having taken five years to get practically nowhere. But here it is anyway, because I’m going to tell you what I came to say, whether you like it or not. I note your pesky eyebrow again and plunge in, despite my misgivings. IfinallyfinishedmyoutlineandIthinkitsreallyreallygood, I intone quickly, hoping, like Band-Aids, to get the worst over quickly. A sneaky and superior smile spreads across your face and I’m reminded a bit of the Joker from Batman. Your condescendingness, however, causes me to react like a human being: I puff out my chest a bit, stand up straight and say rather nasally and as snobbishly as I can possibly muster at that moment (teetering on the edge of a British accent, even), I’ve finished an outline and I think it’s really quite fabulous, what do you think of that? Thankfully, I refrain from adding the old chap part.

An outline? you question, suddenly confused. But I thought you were writing a novel? Well, yes, I add hastily, clear that I’ve made entirely the wrong impression, but I have to know what I’m writing, so I outline it, put all the events in order, get a structure of some sort, then plan what I’m going to do in each section…a book doesn’t write itself, you know, one must really plan for these sorts of things…I trail off, each word driving me deeper and deeper into the pit of nonsense.

Didn’t you say you were just making things up? you ask, pregnant with irony.

I flush and smile in embarrassment. I scuff my toe on the sidewalk for nearly ten seconds before I do what everyone in my situation must do: make a break for it.

I can hear you laughing as I run away like a little girl, sure that you’ll never, ever see my novel (whatever that pithy thing may be) on a bookstore shelf. Then again, I had no idea who you were or why I was talking to you about such a personal thing as my creative outlets.

There you have it. I finished the outline. I think it shows promise. For now, however, I’ll renew my membership to the Ten-Year-Club. At least I’ll have Tom Wolfe for company.

So, it’s been awhile. My blog’s been thoroughly wished happy birthday for over a month now and while goodness knows I certainly love a party, a month is really quite pushing it. Then again, I recently switched professions and I’m still getting used to the whole “normal people hours” thing. That and being a bit overwhelmed by the whole scenario. Forgive my lapse in posting.

That said, I don’t have much to post about, yet, so I thought I’d do a bit of a filler entry and shamelessly advertise my favorite blog, Think Denk. Pianist Jeremy Denk writes it and really, I can’t say enough about it. In fact, I think I can see the trailer now…

[fade to black, exciting and tension-filled music starts]

Announcer (v/o)

When darkness hits…

[flashed image of grand piano crook]

Announcer (v/o)

And there’s nowhere else to turn…

[flashed image of piano keys]

Announcer (v/o)

There’s only one man who can save the day.

[music stops]

Announcer (v/o)

Denk.

[cut to Jeremy playing something wild and crazy]

Announcer (v/o)

Coming soon to a theater near you. Can you Denk it?

(Thanks, Mike, for the cool film lingo!)

Ok, so the last line is roughly about the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard. Most trailers are pretty much the cheesiest thing I’ve ever seen, so…I guess it works out.  At any rate, go read it. Read it if you’re bored. Read it if you’re not. As further enticement, the latest entry deals with the aftermath of Jeremy’s learning his piano can talk. For real. Now if that doesn’t make you want to read…well, it should! A talking piano! How often does that happen? Gah!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, an entire year has flown by since the inception of this blog–holy cow! Who knew a year could go so fast? Who knew my attention span was long enough to actually post meaningful content for an entire 12 months? Not I, that’s for sure. At any rate, I just wanted to throw out a little wahoo for my blog’s first birthday. Happy birthday, bloggie!

Cake: great idea. Fire and ice cream: not so much.

I am often asked (especially by people my own age) why I love classical music so much. Apparently, it’s strange for someone in her 20s to have a passion for something so…well…old and stuffy, something grandparents listen to. There are the obvious reasons, of course: I was raised listening to classical music; I started learning music itself at a very young age, classical included. It has always been a part of my life and I can’t imagine it otherwise. While these are both important factors, the obvious does not really touch upon why I hold this kind above all other types of musical expression.

I won’t trouble you, readers, with a lot of very fine prose concerning all of the minutiae in my musical love: there is nothing in 2000 words that will make you understand it any better than 500 can. There is a scene in the film Mr. Holland’s Opus (one of my favorite musically-themed movies of all time) where Mr. Holland is explaining how Beethoven’s deafness, given his profession, was unthinkable. In the background, there is a record playing the second movement to Beethoven’s 7th symphony. As Mr. Holland explains why Beethoven’s situation was so devastating, the music builds and builds, almost as if in slow desperation–perhaps the desperation of the composer himself. It ends with a gruff and tearful Mr. Holland clarifying how the man could have composed at all because of his hearing loss (he wasn’t born deaf) and we know it’s a stark contrast to the teacher’s little son, who we recently learned, like Beethoven, is also deaf (he was born that way). The movement, at that very moment, explodes into emotion: joy, despair, ecstasy, passion, tragedy, all of it, all so seamlessly intertwined that they exist only as one, rather than many. It tears at me, it gnaws so terribly and yet…I am filled with a hope and a love I do not really understand. The music, at that point, has moved beyond a sensory experience and into the realm of the physical; it imbues. If Beethoven was alive to explain it, he would have no need. It speaks, and it says more than any one could possibly hope to say in a lifetime.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the power of music.

All I have to say for an introduction is that this is an extremely long overdue post.

After a shipping/post office mishap and a friend helping to distract me for half the day (with the film The Painted Veil–SEE IT), I finally settled down to read the seventh installment of J.K. Rowling’s massive series at about 6:30 p.m, July 21st, 2007. With the exception of a reading break that totaled about an hour and a half, I did not set it down again until 3:41 a.m. Harry’s epic story had finally come to an end and while I still had questions, the major plot points had been revealed.

I know a lot of people felt that it was disappointing and she wasted a lot of her best characters, that Harry had no moral struggle, etc., but then again, what they have to remember is that it’s Jo’s story. She told it exactly the way she wanted to and that’s exactly the way it should be told. I admit that I would have liked to see certain things but it’s not my place to demand them. Better yet, rather than trying to please all her fans (and thank you, Jo Rowling, for realizing it’s not possible), she wrote the story she’d always intended to. Maybe you don’t like it, maybe you do, but at the end of the day, it’s not your decision to make. As a writer, I know what it’s like to sell out on your story and it makes me deliriously happy that Jo did not.

Of course, on first read-through, I absolutely loathed it. But I stepped back from it for awhile and then read it again. I got over myself and remembered that I’m not the author of the series and once I did that, I loved the book.  There are so many moving images, so many things that she pulled together perfectly and in ways I did not expect, only adding pleasant surprises to the reading experience. Yes, I had guessed quite a bit of it, having done a careful rereading of the series but I still managed to find the edge of my seat more than a few times.

At the end of the day, I learned to accept Deathly Hallows for what it was, which is Harry’s story. A wonderful, amazing, thrilling, beautiful story, but more importantly, Harry Potter’s. A million and one thanks to Jo Rowling for having the courage to share it with all of us.

Accidents truly can be a blessing in disguise (unless, of course, it’s an accident involving steak-grilling, concrete and wet grass…true story). Today, in a most haphazard fashion, I happened to stumble over a little website called The Bachelor’s Kitchen. Sounds like an oxymoron, right? Or at the very least, a horrible idea. Ew. Most surprisingly, however, it turned out to be a veritable font of extremely useful kitcheny information. Quite a bit of the site covered various types of food–fruits, veggies, meats, etc–as well as how to select quality and then best ways for preparation, while encouraging experimentation.

Admittedly, I was a little bit hesitant about the site at first, figuring it was something about how to cook macaroni and cheese seven different ways; rather, it turned out to be a charming little website devoted to the utter cluelessness of guys on their own in the kitchen. While the site is a bit…male-oriented (fart joke, anyone?), the information it provides is good advice for anyone who isn’t experienced with how to use that room where the fridge is. Also, it includes some tasty-sounding recipes that don’t include ingredients entirely out of a box, as well as cookware sets for those who are starting out and helpful links to places like the USDA’s guidelines for proper handling of meats. What I liked especially was the sections devoted to storage and re-use of food. The site is heavy on the leftovers emphasis and rightly so, as it saves both time and money. Make sure to look for the quotes located under the topic headings. They include such inspirational sayings as “Life is tough…it’s tougher if you’re stupid,” and “Essential ingredients: if you don’t have this stuff, you’re screwed.” After all, who doesn’t need a tough-love kitchen coach?

At any rate, it’s a great site to check out if you have questions about getting started on the road to becoming your own personal chef. Enjoy!

The Bachelor’s Kitchen