Dr. Pepper and Strawberries

“Let’s all write about our crossover art form,” they said in my writing group. And everyone picked up their pen and began writing furiously about the “other” things they do.

I wrote,

Crossover Art Form. Do I have one? It seems that all I do is write. Every moment of every day. And since I am a working writer, I am pretty sure this makes me a workaholic. I never stop spinning words. Perhaps it’s why my therapist tells me I need to stop spinning. But when you love what you do and you do what you love, how can you stop? How does one stop?

I only stop to read. To fill the pond with fish again. I am kind of a doodler, but is that a crossover art form? It’s usually just clusters of daisies and steaming coffee cups and eyelashed giraffe faces, oogling from the envelope. I don’t feel like that counts.

Maybe my crossover art is loving people. Learning them, knowing their details, and holding their pieces. That really is an art. And it’s something I’m good at… as much as an introvert can be. (But the truth may be that I really want to write about them. And then the cycle begins again.)

I love what I do, and there was something very pure about the time when writing was only what I loved.

Maybe I could bake. I’ll be the writer who bakes. The baker who writes.

~ ~ ~

And that’s how it came to be that I now bake one cake a week. Sort of.

My happy little children have deemed themselves Food Network judges, and not only will they request certain dishes, but then they will describe the textures and tolerance.

We started with Dr. Pepper cake, which we learned is delicious, though it tastes not a lick like Dr. Pepper.

Then we had strawberry cake, about which Peter said, “I mean, I don’t not like it,” which wasn’t exactly raving.  The poor guy will eat anything I put in front of him, so that’s as negative as he gets.

And the next week, I bought an angel food cake, counting it nonetheless. (That’s where the “sort of” comes into play.)

I might just be the writer who eats cake.

Send me your Pins, everybody.  (Hurry, maybe though. These whims are often fleeting.)