I'm about ready to explode.
I want to start writing now, but I am being patient. The desire to tell this story is dangerously obsessive. I want to be rid of this imbedded barb that I have been carrying for all these years. I've been sleepless, my mind writing the prose across the chalkboard inside my head, simple, honest prose. I am an American writer, I could never be anything else, my mental prose is Faulknerian, he is my true literary goal, simple and slow as molassas. I'm ready. The reality of needing to write about 2000 words a day hasn't quite hit home yet, especiallly with as much as I have to do in the real world.
I've been obsessively watching Iron Chef lately. I haven't been in a professional kitchen for four months, and as much as I would love to abandon it all for the sake of writing, I know that I cannot. When I am not cooking it is like there is a piece of me missing. I need it, the madness of the kitchen has always been the backbone of my life. The deep source of my peace of mind. I also know on some deep level that what have just now been able to admit. I am a far more talented chef then I am a writer. I am a good writer, publishable, and that's enough, I do it more for myself. However, I am amazing with food and given a decade I will be among the best in my field and I have no dount of this, my insticts are always right. I only fail when I second guess myself. It is what I am. There is not a thing in this world that brings me more joy then watching somebody's mind get blown as they eat a bite of my food.
Tommorow I a going to La Clos de Violette, it is a 2 Michelin star restaurant. I am going to demand to speak with the chef and proclaim in my best Frainglish how passionate I am about food. I will get that job. The dinner party on friday will get me back in shape. I am ready.
My life here is something pretty special.
I want to start writing now, but I am being patient. The desire to tell this story is dangerously obsessive. I want to be rid of this imbedded barb that I have been carrying for all these years. I've been sleepless, my mind writing the prose across the chalkboard inside my head, simple, honest prose. I am an American writer, I could never be anything else, my mental prose is Faulknerian, he is my true literary goal, simple and slow as molassas. I'm ready. The reality of needing to write about 2000 words a day hasn't quite hit home yet, especiallly with as much as I have to do in the real world.
I've been obsessively watching Iron Chef lately. I haven't been in a professional kitchen for four months, and as much as I would love to abandon it all for the sake of writing, I know that I cannot. When I am not cooking it is like there is a piece of me missing. I need it, the madness of the kitchen has always been the backbone of my life. The deep source of my peace of mind. I also know on some deep level that what have just now been able to admit. I am a far more talented chef then I am a writer. I am a good writer, publishable, and that's enough, I do it more for myself. However, I am amazing with food and given a decade I will be among the best in my field and I have no dount of this, my insticts are always right. I only fail when I second guess myself. It is what I am. There is not a thing in this world that brings me more joy then watching somebody's mind get blown as they eat a bite of my food.
Tommorow I a going to La Clos de Violette, it is a 2 Michelin star restaurant. I am going to demand to speak with the chef and proclaim in my best Frainglish how passionate I am about food. I will get that job. The dinner party on friday will get me back in shape. I am ready.
My life here is something pretty special.
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and you look super pretty in your prof pics!