Stretch Those Muscles...

by Janis Susan May

No, my dear friends, I have not gone over to the dark side and become an exercise freak. My main idea of exercise is pushing my luck and jumping to conclusions.

No, I'm talking about a more cerebral form of exercise – writing. Yeah, a writer regarding writing as exercise – weird, huh? Only those who do not write would think so. Writing can be as demanding and exhausting physically as any calisthenic, but just in a different way. Between the demands of the body having to stay still, except for the hands and fingers which work double and triple time, and the mind constantly laboring to create, writing is downright draining.

The only thing worse is not being able to write.

Oh, I haven't had writers' block or physical problems or anything like that. I've had work. My book-every-two-weeks 30 June-30 October publishing blitz is winding down (Hallelujah!) but it has been an insane amount of work. Every book is freshly edited – the re-releases by me, the two new ones first by me, then by a professional (and very tough!) editor. Then it's on to my wonderful formatter, who is a delight and puts up with all my weird fits and starts and – let's be honest – mistakes, and my extremely gifted cover artist who tries to make my weird ideas reality. All that, plus all the normal duties of life like family and laundry and cooking. The Husband has been kind and very supportive, but he's so anxious for me to get back into the kitchen. Man cannot be expected to live on frozen pizza alone!

I have always been a writer – wrote my first 'book' at the tender age of four, and no, it's not part of this publishing blitz! The creation of stories, of lives and worlds beyond that of my own rather mundane existence, is like air to me. Deprivation of it is a hardship.

But deprived I was during this work-filled summer. New ideas and half-finished manuscripts – I always work on a minimum of three projects at once – jammed up in my brain, demanding the release of being written. I tried, but there are only so many hours in the day and only so much energy, both of which seem to decrease as I age. Most nights I was too tired even to read. That, thankfully, is passing, and once more on most days I can give a short time to my bulging Kindle.

Once more, too, I can begin to write again. Despite the urgency of the clamoring characters in my head, the process is slow and tentative, like stretching and then walking before running. Hesitantly, the words are starting to creep out from my fingers, almost as if unsure of their welcome. The stories are coming, building in strength and complexity. I feel almost as if I were waking from a long sleep.

It is a welcome feeling.

UPDATE :

Believe it or not, my publishing blitz is still right on schedule. And that schedule is getting shorter – after this book there are only two more in this particular round. The Husband is insistent that once this is done I am to take some time away from the computer and – according to him – reacquaint myself with the kitchen. He does like frozen pizza and takeaway, but even the mildest mannered man has his limits!

This fortnight's offering is THE OTHER HALF OF YOUR HEART, a romantic adventure set in the jungles of Mexico – not far from Puerto Vallarta, where I lived for a short but happy while. None of the wild escapades that befall the heroine ever happened to me (drat!) but writing about a country I love was great fun.

A weekend in a Mexican resort with the man she loves quickly becomes a nightmare of fear and danger for Cara Walters. If she can just survive being lost in the jungle, captured by the army, hunted by drug lords and a man who wants to kill her, all the while being held prisoner by the man who has stalked her, she just might find out who is the other half of her heart.

And – for all you calorie lovers – my super-special dessert recipe called Chocolate Sin (try it and you'll know why it's named that!) was chosen for inclusion in the new book of desserts called BAKE LOVE WRITE, a wonderful compendium of calories and advice.  

Intentional Omissions

Some people ask me why I don’t put recipes in my books. They point out that I often mention food, and cooking, especially in my current work in progress, and they also say that many successful mystery series have featured recipes.

All true.

Here is my response.

A.      I rarely cook. I can make some food my children liked when they were small, a Friday night chicken dinner, great brisket, and little else.  My husband does most of the cooking, which is why we don’t starve or eat cereal for dinner (which I do when he isn’t home.)

B.      I don’t like to cook. Pots require watching, stirring, tasting, all of which slips my mind, which inevitably wanders elsewhere.

C.      None of my recipes are my own, meaning that I would be publishing something that wasn’t rightfully mine. My husband makes up recipes all the time, but never writes them down. Whenever I try to do that, it requires take-out food.

As much as I don’t like to cook, I do like to bake, and I am pretty good at it. I can look at a recipe and tell whether it is worth the effort, or whether I should leave the cookbook page undirtied by splatters and crumbs.  Most of the time I am right and there are few pages in any of my cookbooks that advise me to not try that at home.

I mostly make cakes and challah, some pies, some cheesecakes, and sometimes a gallette or a clafoutie. I also used to decorate cakes for birthdays and other occasions.

I’ve done cakes of people’s faces, gym bags, tie-dyed tee shirts, a miniature golf course, a computer, and a basket of flowers for my mother that the restaurant did not realize was a birthday cake. I also did a wedding cake once, keeping it simple with fresh flower decorations. Luckily, I had time to wipe away the condensation in the humid venue before the bride saw it.

When I have a book signing, I do it at home, completely covering my dining room table with home baked goods, fruit, and cheeses. I serve wine and I honestly think I care more about people eating than buying  books.

What I like about baking is the simplicity (okay, not always) of making a recipe, measuring ingredients, mixing them as directed, and putting them into the required baking pan and then into the oven. I can set the time and do whatever I want until it goes off.

However, as with cooking, and maybe even more so, I cannot share my recipes with readers. They were not handed down to me through the generations, they come from cookbooks, magazines, and from the internet. They all belong to someone else. Sure I might tweak a recipe slightly to enhance the flavor, but I don’t do it much. I get rave reviews when I bake for other people, and I do share recipes, but I don’t take credit for them.

So I don’t put recipes in books. What I do put in is a slice of me, a pinch of my family, a dollop of my husband, a scintilla of reality, all completely my own. And that is what I’m willing to publish.