Wednesday 5th May

Day 16

I think I’m cooking myself. It’s this writing thing. I’m in a huge cauldron, simmering or boiling or spitting fat - all these bits of me swirling in the broth. But I don’t know what flavour I am yet.

The end of my 21 days is creeping up and I feel in a panic. I didn’t crack it yet, didn’t break the habit of not trusting my writing. Natalie Goldberg, in her glorious book “Writing Down The Bones”, says “Don’t think too much, enter the heat of the words, the sounds, the colour sensations...”

I always knew cooking and writing were the same - apply heat to raw ingredients - onions or adjectives - and it changes everything.

It’s upset the apple cart at home, me hotting up on the page. It means sometimes supper is late, a floor unswept, an email unanswered, a bath gone cold, a husband waiting in bed.

And I don’t want to stop till I’m a bit more cooked. I want to play with the temperature. And then I want to see what I conjure for dessert.