Maybe I’m a writer because I’m desperately trying to clean up my mess. Other people go into therapy or become psychiatrists just to clean up the mess. Well, I couldn’t afford therapy at the time I needed it the most, so I started writing. And now I know that the writing helps me a little because, Why do I write about these things? Why do I choose those characters? Why am I so desperate to tell that story? Because there is something inside of me that is bothering me, that gives me a lot of pain and that I need to solve. And by exploring it through writing about other people’s lives, I might reach a particle of truth. Maybe. If I’m lucky.
—Isabelle Allende (from Writers Dreaming: 26 Writers Talk About Their Dreams and the Creative Process, Naomi Epel)
Because all I do is laze around and dream big, I did not blog last week after posting the weekend quote I forgot to post on the weekend. While I was lazing around dreaming big, I made blueberry/coconut popsicles, agave lemonade, Mexican stuffed shells (veggie “meat” instead of beef, no cream cheese), cowboy caviar , berry cobbler, and frozen watermelon stars on sticks. And apple chips. While the sky made threatening rumbles, I made chicken/apple nuggets. Also grilled cheese paninis, of course, as I waited for the rain that never came. And somewhere in there I used cookie cutters on veggie baloney and whole wheat honey bread and when I glanced up from sandwich making, the sky through the windows was blue again and the humidity was practically visible. We took down the old playset in the yard and set it in the alley and from the time it took to walk from the back gate to the house, to the back gate again, the playset was gone. Alley Fairies. We moved the canopy gazebo thingy over the bald spot in the grass left by the perpetually algae-struck swimming pool, rolled a boulder up an Everest-type mountain, and were victorious in bringing peace to many countries after mowing the grass and cutting back the morning glory (followed by a glass of chardonnay for me, a Fat Tire beer for him, and agave lemonade for the boy). Somewhere in there I was revising my novel while juggling 3 oranges to entertain my son (and wearing a stack of books on my head), and explaining to the little guy the kind of unicycle we’re going to purchase soon because you’re never too old or too young to start learning how to ride a unicycle or learning French, for that matter. Oui! He listened, nodding, taking the unicycle thing very seriously. We also made “chocolate” cookies, saved the world and played with the Batcave (possibly same thing as saving the world). Yes, we’re all lazing about dreaming big around here, when not watching Wild Krats, cooking and taking a turn at creativity, that is. Or sleeping. Sleeeeeep. Remember that?
PB Rippey Writes 
All the foooood! I’m stuffed from dinner, but salivated while reading about yours.
Saving the world I totally bought, but got a little skeptical at the juggling oranges with books stacked on your head.
Ah, sleep. Yes, I do remember her. Time it was, and what a time it was.
Juggling oranges with books on head while speaking to child AND revising novel. It’s ok. I don’t believe it either. But I do juggle oranges to make him laugh. That year of mime class eons ago finally pays off in the 21st C.
Mime class? You are a woman who wears many hats. Or many books. Whichever. Both.