. It has been literal torture resisting the urge to come here and write.
. I miss you. And you. Andyouandyouandyou, too.
. It’s true, that I am focused on a writing a book, but writing a book is not at all like writing a blog post. Not. At. All.
. Writing blog posts are like whipping up full fat cream and serving it with a bowl of summer-warmed raspberries. It’s light and easy and I want to indulge in it willingly every night while stretched out in bed.
. Writing a book is like making a 3-tier wedding cake with only half the instructions in an easy-bake oven. There is a lot of cursing, dreading, and avoidance. It’s torturous and, so far, unrewarding. I have learned that this is a normal reaction to have, so there’s that for comfort.
. It’s also bad form, or so I hear, to even talk about writing a book while in the throes of trying to write a book. There are reasons for this and I am disregarding all of them. You guys, I am upset and need to talk.
. At this moment, there are no less than 6 1/2 bottles of wine in my kitchen (most of these gifted from a friend who only wants to be identified as Anastasia Beaverhausen and who is aware that we are probably infringing on some sort of copyright and she will need to pick a new pseudonym soonly), and I can’t stop pinning recipes for cake.
. Things are getting desperate over here.
. I needed a fix, to take the edge off, something to scratch the itch, just a taste. (Sorry).
. All this to say, I can’t wait to be back to blogging on a regular basis. I’m also really hoping that someone comes up with a new word for blogging before then. Till then I am sticking with “blogette”.
. I also need to confess that I ate the most amazing smashed potatoes last night, made with teeny tiny potatoes (this was their actual name), 5 pounds of butter (no regrets), and lots and lots of salt and pepper. I watched as Anastasia Beaverhausen nuked, squished, and crisped the adorable morsels into perfect little nuggets of crunchy gold in her iron skillet, while I drooled all over her kitchen floor. Needless to say, I never want to live another day without teeny tiny smashed potatoes.
. Shew, I feel so much better.