I do my best writing while I cook. I've had my hands in enough colanders of green beans over the years so that now it seems their heads pop off on their own, while I write in my mind, murmuring to myself in the kitchen window. The stoic people living in the apartment that is level with ours, directly across the hairline street, probably think I'm nuts.
And I probably am.
But I feel like I owe it to the characters now, and their town, and their lives - and I feel like I owe it to myself, and to Daniel, and to my grandkids, and to Mrs. Rocker, and to my parents, and to my brothers and my dearest friends - to finish.
And so I write. Feverishly. When Daniel comes through the door, dropping his shoulders and his messenger bag, I race to the computer and type what I wrote in my head while I cooked.
And that is how 41,000 words have been written. I am half way through my book.
