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I recently saw Jerry Seinfeld perform on stage, and it was an absolute blast. I literally laughed so hard I cried. And I wasn't the only one. The audience roared with laughter, and we were on our feet in a standing ovation before he even left the stage. When I think about how much talent and hard work it takes to put on not only a show like that, but also a career, a lifetime, like that, it blows my mind.
I'm in kind of a writing funk. The creative energy is there - or so I'd like to believe! - but it's at a simmer, waiting for me to turn up the heat. Problem is, I don't know what I'm cooking anymore, what I'm creating. French onion soup? Chicken noodle? Chili? A novel? A novella? A collection of stories? Something I've never tasted before?
A very long time ago, I had a recipe, a career plan. I've since swapped some ingredients, changed things up, but the results aren't what I'd imagined.
I'm trying to figure out what to do next. Keep doing pretty much the same thing, maybe tweak a measurement here and there? Or wing it, throw everything I've got into the pot? It could boil over, spill and stain, burn everything in its path. But it could also, just maybe, bubble and burble, smell oddly delicious - like grilled cheese and new books and the sea! - and possibly end up weirdly tasty . . . .
