Author R.A. Gasparac

Ok, I have yet to work on the most important part of my Query Letter for my Novel, but I have sated the sleeping dragon. I realized recharging my batteries was more important than the multitudes of deadlines I imposed on myself. So, as I left my day job, sleet ( a wintery mix of ice and rain) began to trickle down from the heavens. A familiar bone chilling wind hit my face, and I was brought back to a better time.

I remembered myself as a child, coming in from the winter after hours of play on the south shore. I grew up in the suburbs between Montreal proper, and the end of the Appalachian ( for my US readers) mountains. I knew I wanted stew, but not just any kind – it wasn’t exactly French, but it was made with French technique. My father, a Serb/Croatian would favor thick hearty stews, and left me with the know how.

I spent an hour preparing all of the ingredients, and subsequently another two hours of cooking time. All I had eaten was oatmeal for breakfast, and four chocolate chip cookies for lunch ( because we all try to eat healthy meals apparently.) Thirty minutes into cooking. I chastised myself every time I would reach to tear open the pot and devour whatever was there our of sheer survival, but my head won out. Patience would reward me with layers of flavor.

Sitting down with that first bowl soothed something deep within me. I wasn’t judging myself for what I didn’t do for the day, and allowed myself to take in a bit of life before it starts all over again. This is my mental break. I know I’m no closer to being a bestselling Author the longer my Query collects digital dust, but I had to stop beating myself up about my unrealistic production goals. The Query will come, but like the stew, I have to layer the flavors, carefully prepare each sentence before I combine them all on the page to create something so savory, that I will have my choice of Agents and Publishers.

So far it’s been three days in a row that I’ve actually written sequentially on here. I should feel bad for that, and calling myself a writer – but it’s ok. I am perfectly imperfect. Rome was not built in a day, and my writing career will not be either. One ingredient at a time.