I’ve realized something: I can only write for so many hours a week.
This has been a tough thing to come to terms with. I figured there are 40 hours in a standard work week, so I can write for 40 hours, right? This isn’t the case. My brain, it seems, only allows for a certain number of productive writing hours every day. After that, I stare numbly at my computer, drooling, while my brain forces me to look at shoes on Zappos that I will never, ever buy.
Or maybe I’ll buy them, but I’ll return them. Really, I will.
For the past year, I’ve been trying to maintain the blog while working on the
Great American Novel Pretty Good International Memoir. This has meant two things:
- I’ve written fewer blog posts than I would like this year.
- Writing the book is taking way longer that I thought.
“Wait, what kind of car do you drive?”
She is my cousin’s little girl. Blond, California-born and raised, nearly as tall as I am, and presently obsessed with cars. We are walking through downtown Seattle together. I’ve been back from Cambodia for less than a week.
“A 2002 KIA Spectra,” I reply, “with power locks.”
This last bit I say with just a little bit too much gusto, and she laughs. Immediately, I confess to the lie.
“It doesn’t have power locks.”
Rand always tells me he envies my palate, which cracks me up because it’s such an unlikely compliment. But it comes up time and again, whenever I identify a spice in a dish that he’s unable to, or I catch a whiff of a bakery blocks before he does. Others who’ve noticed it have commented as well, and I usually smile and tap the side of my ever-so-prominent nose and say, “It’s not just for show.”
Goodness, it really isn’t. Sometimes it feels like a superpower. I am the amazing girl WHO CAN SMELL EVERYTHING (note: superpower has very limited application. The X-Men aren’t calling, unless they need help determining whether or not the milk has gone bad).