Bigfoot and Bread, Part 2

Here in Part 2 of 3...  I'd like to introduce you to my Bigfoot, my inner critic, that I spoke of and find so annoying. Today I'm aiming to shut it down. Why do that here? you ask. Fair question. Well, part of my aim with this here blog was to show, with almost complete transparency, the process of writing a cookbook. What would transparency be without showing the maddening, doubtful parts of it.

So as I said in Part 1, this particular post is the product of a writing exercise I took on in which I projected the voice of that Bigfoot onto paper - to see how it felt, to view its humor and to rob it of its power over the work. Deep down I don't believe these things... I couldn't keep writing, much less get out of bed, if I did. And I hope this transparency inspires a shutting down of your own inner critic, allowing your creative self to open and flourish...

Yes, I do organize cookbooks incessantly. 

You will organize your books for days – 
even the weird ones like “Wok Cookery from 1988” 

You will make lists on silly little overpriced French notepads.

But  you will check off nothing.

You will pin inspirational quotes on walls, pretty pictures in frames.

Turn on the internet, and then alphabetize the cookbooks.

You will look at bank accounts and worry about the weather.

You will call your sister. 
But not write.

So you will take a bath.

You will sit in your bathtub, paralyzed
thinking heat will make words come easy like sweat beads or razor burn.

But you’ll just be sweaty and razor-burned in a bathtub.  

You will feed those birds. Again.

You will want to write a book.
You will want to bake bread... at 7000 feet.

You’ll just watch the thing, the dough, rise and fall like a baby’s belly and then

sit flat, dense and disgusting.

You will sharpen pencils, move rugs, organize the cookbooks again.

You will straighten knives and forks.

Wash your hair. Put earrings on.

Make an omelet

Then read about making an omelet

Then watch a video about making an omelet.

All the while feeling guilty about your failures with omelets.

So you will check your Facebook.

You will never writing anything interesting because you won’t remember how you did it before, 
not that it was good before anyway.

You will ultimately fail because you have no good ideas. 
Boring. Been done. Said before.

You will make the wrong choice.

You will only ever make bad baked beans and big mistakes.

You will never write with humor, only mediocre melancholy.

And you will always believe they are better than you.

Probably because they are. They can all make omelets after all.

The Bigfoot will succeed and grow your fear in his garden. 
You will feast from this garden and not even see the irony in that meal. 
Because all irony will be lost on you.

You’ll regret the exertion till the day you die, (which will actually be sooner than you think.)

Also you will never have children. Even if you do you’ll be hated by them so you’ll die alone anyway.
Surrounded by your organized, alphabetized cookbooks. 

Proof of bread's beauty at 7000 feet, created by Norma. Photo courtesy of Jen Reyneri