Book Club Food

It is my turn to host our monthly book club.  Which reminds me, I probably ought to read the book.  I host frequently, not because I am gracious or a masterfully creative cook.  Let's face it, on most nights I find making mashed potatoes too much to handle.  Nope, I do it 10 out of 12 times simply because my husband travels . . . A LOT and with very little notice.  I have found it easier just to host our book club at my own home rather than  scramble for a babysitter last minute.  

Problem is, I recycle the same five recipes over, and over, and over.  Easy for me, boring for my friends.  So I am turning to you, my faithful writing friends.  I need some  recipe ideas for book club. Something tasty and pretty to look at.   Please, I beg you, for the sake of my friends, help me come up with something more creative than store-bought fruit dip this time around.

Sum it Up in One Line

A writer friend  asked me to break down her entire ms into one line.  She is preparing for a conference and trying to work on her elevator pitch.  I laughed.  I spent days trying to break my 65,000 word ms down into a 250 word query and she wants me to do it in 140 characters . .  at eight in the morning when I am under-caffeinated nonetheless

But that got me thinking.  There is one line in every book we can never seem to forget, that has such an emotional impact we find those few short words coming to the forefront of our minds at the mere mention of the title.  Here are some of mine.  I would love to hear yours!

"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." ~ The Shining

"This is you life, and it is ending one minute at a time." ~ The Fight Club

"What a treacherous thing to believe a person is more than a person."  ~ Paper Towns

"NO animal shall sleep in a bed...:WITH SHEETS"  ~Animal Farm

Shh . . . I did the Unthinkable

It was my friend’s birthday yesterday. She is from the South and as kind and generous as they come.  You know, the type of person who brings you homemade chicken soup when you're sick and actually cares about the answer to the often rhetorical question “How have you been?” She listens intently when you talk to her and often jokes that I have “affection issues.”  She right, I have a habit of deflecting compliments and the friendly gestures with sarcasm and suffer from what she lovingly refers to as “personal space issues.”   

Anyhow, I was revising and old manuscript and trying to decide what to get her for her birthday.  Sure I could get her a nice bottle of wine (which I did) or make her a five layer German Chocolate Cake (which I did) but I wanted something that I could actually wrap . . . with nice paper and ribbons and all.  At a complete loss, I did the unthinkable  – I let her in on my little secret.  Yep, I told her that I am a writer complete with a copy of a mid-revision manuscript of mine – CEDAR.

I handed off the cake and wine, but clung to that nicely wrapped package with all my might until she literally pried it from my hands with some comment about how it was her birthday and she had a right to open her presents.  She opened it, stood there holding 286 pages in her hand looking confused.  I sunk down into a chair, fiercely regretting my choice of presents, and whispered, “I didn’t know what to get you for your birthday, so I wrote you a book.”   Her confusion turned to wonder, then to what I could only assume was happiness when she turned to me laughing, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “Get ready,” she said “because I am going to hug you now.”

I survived the hug, personal space issues and all. Apparently the fact that I had given her a book, one that I wrote, one that was filled with all the intensity of emotion that I never share, was better than the insanely expensive bottle of wine I’d given her.  Hmm . . . maybe she’ll change her mind after she reads the ms.   Or better yet, maybe she will drink the entire bottle of wine while she is reading it – then no matter what I have written, she will think it amazing :)

Painfully Bad Timing

I was down at the yacht club yesterday.  My husband had just come in from racing his death-sled of a sailboat, and we were all sitting around talking about nothing.  The kids (about 10 in all -- only one mine) were happily building sand castles on the beach and catching spider crabs off the dock.  After a few rounds of beer encouragement, the adults (a mixture of friends and family) decided to launch ourselves off the dock in a juvenile debate over who had the best cannonball form.  I was fourth in and had some pretty amazing competition ahead of me.  My body was positioned just right, mere inches from the water when it struck me -- an idea for the ending of a manuscript that has been 3/4 written and plaguing me for the past month.

Ecstatic, relieved, and a little amazed that I had "finally figured it out"  I let go of the tight hold I had on my knees and hit the water.  I surfaced to a roar of laughter, sputtering and in pain from my rather ungraceful slap of skin against the water.  My husband, doing everything he could to suppress his own amusement, kindly reached down and offered me his hand.  He heaved me out, his hand rubbing at the red marks covering my thighs. He wrapped me in a towel and pulled me in, I presumed to whisper something insanely stupid and sarcastic.  He didn't, just looked at me and whispered "you got an idea, don't you?"  I nodded, and he laughed, told be his laptop was in his bag on the club's patio and that I had ten minutes to hammer it out before people started asking questions (see none of our friends or family know that I write).  I did and now have a rather crude outline of an ending sitting on his laptop, just waiting for me to smooth out.

So tell me, where is the most insane place your muse decided to strike?

What Card to Play

My dad was teaching me how to play Texas Hold 'em Poker yesterday.  I knew the fundamentals before we started, but was sorely lacking in the finer points.   After an hour of watching him patiently kick my a*% and strip me of all my cash, I gave up, told him I would stick to playing Go Fish with the kids.  He laughed, gave me back my money, and imparted this advice:  "Every hand is a winner, Trisha.  You just got to know which card to play."

Hmm . . . he's right.  In more ways then one.

I have four manuscripts sitting in front of me -- two done, one 10,000 words from completion, and one only 3,000 words deep.  Each one of those has the potential to be a masterpiece, can be crafted into a literary work that I am proud to put my name to.  The trick is knowing which one to attack first, which character's point of view to write it from, and which threads to toss out.  I will weigh my options, look at the market, and try to gauge what the smartest move to make is. Then I'll gamble, pull one of those manuscripts to the forefront, pour my heart and soul into re-shaping it, and hope it was the right card to play.

Swallowing Your Own Advice

My husband, who has very little knowledge of the publishing world, has this theory.  People have been writing books about about certain themes well before I started. They well write them at the same time I am writing mine, and they will continue to write them well after I am done.  He calls it simple supply and demand --readers want books  about certain subjects therefore, authors supply them. Combine that with his believe that ALL books revolve around one of several emotional themes -- love, hate, death, fear, desire -- and his argument is pretty solid.  He is right. Case in point -- trends.  But all his sound logic dissipates when you read a blurb about a "just sold"  book with the same general theme as your own.

So I sit here and reiterate the same advice I have dolled out countless time myself . . . just put your own unique twist on it, make it yours, and make it better.  Now,  I just have to find a way to swallow my own advice . . . one word written at at time.  I will; I will hack that book up and come at it from a different angle, make sparkle like that vampire we all hate to admit we love. And at the end of the day, I will be a stronger, a better writer for it.  Or, at least here's to hoping I do :)

Every Wednesday Night is Mine!

Summer is crazy here on Cape Cod.  School is out, the tourists outnumber us locals by three to one, and most of them seem to be directionally challenged.  It's hot, the grass I spent all spring re-seeding is burnt to a crisp, and my kids think I am their personal chauffeur and ATM Machine. My black lab has taken up residence on the only AC vent near my writing desk, and I've been staring at three unfinished manuscripts for the better part of a week and haven't dug into a single one of them.  So, at my husband's suggestion to "go out and doing something to get rid of your crankiness"  I signed up to take a class.  No, it's not a writing course or even a cooking class (much to my husband's dismay).  Nope, tonight at exactly 6:45pm, me and ten other women are going to learn how to belly dance.

As any good wife in desperate need of child care would do, I sweetly informed my husband that I had plans tonight, told him he was stuck with the kids every Wednesday night for the next 6 weeks.  He asked why, and I told him, laughed as he face screwed up in disbelief.  His expression smoothed out, and he asked what was in it for him.  My response .  . . a simple "It depends how good I am!"

Ohh, and do any of you know how much food two teenagers can consume in a given day when they don't have school to keep them away from the refrigerator.  Holy Crap!  And yes the cost of milk, eggs, and bread is higher here in the summer . . . got to gouge the tourists and locals alike, apparently!

So enough complaining.  I am off to tackle fun, non-cranky activities!