I’ve taken such a hiatus.
I realized a couple of months ago, while in a complete compulsory tizzy of clorox wipes and laundry and rearranged furniture, that I was trying to regain a sense of control that I clearly felt I had lost. Writing is about control. Cooking is about control. My fear of flying is about control… but that’s beside the point.
The point is, when I started this blog I was a hot mess. A total wreck. I had just graduated from college without a clue as to what my “career” might be, I had moved out of my boyfriend’s house and back home, and I was leaving the country for an unknown period of time in just one week. I needed an outlet, and this was it.
So I cooked and wrote, and I traveled and I wrote, and I cried and I wrote, and I bitched and I wrote, and I dreamed and I wrote, and I realized some really important shit, and I wrote about all of it. I let it all hang out without much of a thought as to what anyone else who was reading it would think.
I don’t want this to be a blog that you like to read. I mean I do, that would be great, but let’s be honest — I want this to be a blog that I like to write. This is for me. Period. If anyone else can gain any amount of joy from my words, my recipes, my experiences, my travels and photos, my fuck ups — that’s fantastic. But, that is not the point of all of this.
I really lost sight of that. I was trying to make this something it was never intended to be. Something inauthentic. It took me rearranging all of the furniture in my house, deep cleaning my kitchen, and probably scaring my sweet boyfriend who courageously shook me by the shoulders and said, “What is going on here?!” for me to come to terms with the fact that I was making myself miserable.
So I basically threw in the towel, threw my hands up in the air, and walked away. Which ironically, is not so different from the scenario that led to the birth of this blog. But this time I was giving up on something I actually believed in, and I was giving up on myself.
One afternoon, while I was laying on the beach contemplating what the f*ck to do with my life, I came across this passage in a book that literally made me roll over with laughter. I identified completely with the following paragraphs,
” ‘Writing is a dog’s life, but the only life worth living.’ That was Flaubert’s opinion, and it is a fair expression of the way it feels if you choose to spend your working days putting words down on pieces of paper.
For most of the time, it’s a solitary, monotonous business. There is the occasional reward of a good sentence — or rather, what you think is a good sentence, since there’s nobody else to tell you. There are long, unproductive stretches when you consider taking up some form of regular and useful employment like chartered accountancy. There is constant doubt that anyone will want to read what you’re writing, panic at missing deadlines that you have imposed on yourself, and the deflating realization that those deadlines couldn’t matter less to the rest of the world. A thousand words a day, or nothing; it makes no difference to anyone else but you. That part of writing is undoubtedly a dog’s life.
What makes it worth living is the happy shock of discovering that you have managed to give a few hours of entertainment to people you’ve never met. And if some of them should write to tell you, the pleasure of receiving their letters is like applause. It makes up for all the grind.”
I suppose the applause had become more important to me than the process. But it’s the process that drags me out of bed, that clears my mind, that dries my tears or cracks me up, and forces me to exist in this moment. Applause fades, and if what you’re left with is a container of clorox wipes and a broom, you better take another look at your true intentions.
This blog post has been marinating in my mind for a while. I’ve been a hot mess again. I’ve been doubtful, I’ve felt guilty and deflated. I’ve considered taking a corporate job. And I’ve scared my sweet boyfriend several times into believing that he has attached himself to a crazy person, I’m sure.
So, here’s the whole truth: I am writing to you in a rose haze with a big bowl of roasted summer veggie quinoa salad dressed with pistachio pesto and topped with chicken piccata drumsticks that I braised in my own home made chicken stock. And no, there is no recipe included in this blog post. No pretty, perfectly plated picture. Just me, venting, letting it all hang out.
You don’t like it? Google “Giada” or “Chicken”, I’m sure you’ll come up with something on your own. And instead of feeling guilty that I didn’t take any photos of this food, or formulate a recipe (because, surprise, I don’t follow recipes!) I’m going to eat this delicious dinner I’ve prepared for myself, and I very well might finish this bottle of rose, and then I’m going to watch a movie and fall asleep. And when my boyfriend comes over after work, smelling like a stinky kitchen, I’m not going to scare him. I’m going to thank him for being my sweet somebody.
And tomorrow, I won’t feel guilt, or pressure to do or be anything or anyone that I am not. And neither should you, no matter what it is that you do.