Another turkey. Another abandoned attempt at making turkey soup.

I always start the soup. I almost always forsake it half way through. I think that is because making turkey soup, by definition, follows thawing, wrestling, tying, roasting, resting, carving a turkey. And then usually collapsing into a chair. I get as far as boiling the carcass and then I simply cannot force myself to go any further. I glare at the pot. It glares back. I begin to hate it. I throw it out.

For me, this has everything to do with writing. I was reminded this weekend at a David Festival writing seminar (after which I came home and cooked a turkey), that if you don’t make time for creative, soul-nourishing, delicious writing, you probably won’t ever do it. I think because I write for a living — thawing, wrestling, tying, roasting, resting and carving almost every day — I rarely write for joy. This, I must change.