Thoughts on a Birthday

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY, ANOTHER YEAR *

“If it was only the other way! If it was I who were to be always young, and the picture that were to grow old! For this--for this--I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give!" - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray 

A summer day long, long ago, I drank from the fabled Fountain of Youth. I vaguely remember that afternoon, driving up to St. Augustine in the old green station wagon with dad, Sue, Michael and Andrew, climbing up and wandering around the ramparts, posing in front of the statue of the old Seminole, buying plastic swords in the gift shop, dad smiling for the camera with his head in the stocks and, yes indeed, patiently waiting in line to visit Ponce de Leon’s legendary Fountain. And of course I, basking in the aura, the mesmerizing glow of the golden rock, drank that tiny paper cup full of this magical elixir! I have always been a superstitious thing, even at that tender age, and clung on to that elusive promise of eternal youth. I knew even then the immeasurable value of youth and was ready to sell my soul, sip of the cup. Yet little did I realize, mere slip of an 8-year old that I was, how this one sip would change my life! But drink I did!

The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, 

and to lie about your age. 

- Lucille Ball 

“She’s not getting older, she’s getting better!” Or so the old saying goes, so the old ads wanted desperately to convince us. For years I played with fire, avoiding the question, allowing lies to slip out from between my lips. Changing the subject when the subject was broached, feigning ignorance, pretending that I just hadn’t heard. Was I afraid that merely uttering the number, any number, would age me in and of itself, that my hair would turn gray, my face shrivel, my shoulders hunch, my youth wither and fade? Oh, we can take the high road: color our hair, botox the face, plump up the lips, redo the bust, the whole nine yards, and run away from who or what we are, live behind the veil of illusion, pretend to be what we are not, but we cannot run away from who we are forever. Like the young man staring at the horrible portrait, it catches up one day.

My life has been a series of adventures, ups and downs, zigs and zags and I am sure that it has all left a mark, inside and out. I haven’t achieved half of what many people have achieved at this age and at times I think my life has been downright boring and uneventful, yet, as my brother reminded me to do every so often, I try to look at all I have done, all I have accomplished, the places I have seen, the people I have met and the friends that I have made. Everyone, I believe, lives their own singular adventure, and mine is as worthy as the next. In just the past handful of years, I have successfully turned what started out as a mere blogging adventure into a professional writing career. I teach writing at my own workshops and have spoken at conferences and events around the world. I have a damn fine marriage and home life, and even through tough times and tragedy, laughter still rings through our home.

Youth is a wonderful thing. 

What a crime to waste it on children. 

- George Bernard Shaw 

As we get older we realize that there is most definitely something to be said for aging, adding up the years, getting, yes, older; lines may mark our face, we may have to work that much harder to keep the body looking good, we may have to swallow our pride and accept the fact that strangers no longer call us “Mademoiselle” but now say “Madame”. My sons, just barely out of their teens, may scoff at me and accuse me of no longer being in the loop, of not understanding how things work today, but I take great comfort in the fact that many of their worries are long behind me. I am old enough to understand that life has its ups and its downs: successes to be proud of even while often being overcome by self-doubt; wildly happy carefree days tempered by bouts of depression; the knowledge and freedom to make any decision, any life change I choose while tip-toeing over the abyss of possible disaster; the thrill of watching one’s own children grow into smart, handsome, healthy, confident young adults who have each found their passion, their road in life, enjoying their company as adults while struggling with the occasional rip-roaring argument. At this ripe old age, we are who we want to be, we know how to get up every morning and face the world, sure of what we have become over the long years.

Time is fleeting, life is ephemeral, youth is a game. As Dorian Gray stayed young, so his portrait aged, the image withered, the eyes grew sunken and evil, jealousy and hatred painted lines across the face. Youth, lovely youth stared back out at him from his mirror, yet inside he aged, the age of struggle, spite, meanness and fear. His youth was mere shadow, beauty seen between squinted eyes. Beauty, as they say, is in the eyes of the beholder and I am satisfied with the beauty inside, the youth that makes me laugh and cry when I feel the urge, the youth inside that allows me to be crazy with friends, silly with husband, not afraid to kiss in public or laugh out loud.

Growing older means being unafraid to bare my soul to you who read what I write, feeling the bond of old friends, and just doing what I love best: writing. And baking. Baking, like storytelling, is what gives me pleasure while bringing pleasure to others. Growing older means being able to bake what I want, when I want it, how I like it. And eating without guilt. I am actually beginning to like being grown up!

 Old age ain’t no place for sissies. 

- Bette Davis 

Some favorite birthday posts, some favorite birthday cakes:

Chocolate Espresso Layer Cake with Chocolate Mocha Mascarpone Buttercream

Espresso Chocolate Cake with Mocha Mascarpone Frosting

Don't miss out on the chance to join photographer Ilva Beretta and I at our first Plated Stories Workshop in Tuscany, Italy. We will be joining Tuscan Muse for an extraordinary 10-day adventure learning, exploring, discovering, traveling and eating. Be a part of this truly inspiring group of talented, passionate students! Check it out here....

* Parts of this blog post first appeared on January 29, 2010 when I had just turned 50, when I had hit the half-century mark. I decided on this momentous occasion to take the same piece and rewrite it.

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A Winter's Tale

A BREAKFAST RITUAL

The beauty of our new home, the street upon which we lived, was that it was the crossroads between city and country, sandwiched as it was between Paris and le Forêt de Notre Dame, Notre Dame Forest, the first a half hour train ride from the local station, the latter a stone’s throw from the house and a place where we spent many an autumn afternoon, gathering chestnuts and mushrooms and catching the occasional glimpse of a deer or a lumbering wild boar. We had just moved back from Italy to France, settling in a new home in the suburbs, a home perched atop a hill with a wide expanse of a lawn stretched out behind where the boys could play and romp with the dog.



The house was a pieced-together contraption of drafty windows which let in the winter chill, a staircase that squeaked and groaned under even the lightest footstep, a cathedral-ceilinged living room that made it impossible to heat the house when the cold seeped in and a monstrosity of a stone fireplace taking up one entire living room wall, obviously fulfilling the owner’s cock-eyed dream of playing feudal lord. Many a winter evening was spent huddled around that hearth, warming ourselves, while cooking sausages over a wild blaze. The backyard, quite possibly the major reason for our decision to rent this house, was a boy’s dream, and as our two were 8 and 10 years old, it was the ideal new home.

Access to the backyard was either down one level from the main floor of the house and through the garage, or from the double French windows that opened up from the dining room, windows that gave onto a crude cement slab platform – a sort of jerry-rigged terrace that sat atop a dune of damp dirt and rocks that sloped down into the yard. Ideally, this terrace would have made a lovely spot for a summer breakfast, a small table and chairs for two set up facing the trees, but this unadorned gray slab was no idyllic perch but rather a blot on the landscape, bland and derelict. Over the long years since the house had been built, the ground beneath this terrace had evidently shifted, the rocks moving, the earth compacting or loosening with the seasons. By the time we had moved in, a series of cracks had appeared, crisscrossing the slab, adding to our discomfort and fear of spending too much time standing out there. It soon became a repository for old flowerpots, gardening tools and muddy rubber boots and sneakers, an observation deck for the dog.

Breakfast has always been a special morning ritual for my husband and me, a quiet tête-à-tête over steaming bowls of café au lait before waking the boys to join us and start their day. Our diningroom table with the view onto that old terrace and the trees edging the cement block was the perfect setup for muted conversation, husband and I sharing our day’s plans, the occasional witticism or a random thought as we sipped our coffees and ate our breakfast.

During the summer months, the sun already entering the house through the French windows, thrown open to catch the warm breeze, one of us would invariably flip on the radio to listen to the news, the weather report, a bit of music. The invigorating light flooding into the house, the whiff of the countryside invited activity and inspired bustle, the terrace an early-morning playground for tiny birds hopping after food and the vibrant lively cluck-clucking of a neighbor’s chickens, the random cocka-doodle-doos of their rooster rousing us and exhorting us to move.

But winter mornings were so much more conducive to silence. The morning sun rises late during the winter months here in France and, half-asleep, we would eat our breakfast quietly in that diningroom in the light of one single bulb hanging over our heads, the mysterious night still pushing against the panes. Bundled up against the cold that seeped in between the cracks in the frames of those old French windows, I would peer out into the darkness, through the winter mist, to look for signs of our dog snuffling in the bushes, but to little avail. The blackness was always so dense, so complete in those early hours that all I would see was my own reflection staring back at me. All outside was deathly still in the thick inky pre-dawn dark that swallowed up even the pale gray of that cement slab.

And then one cold, quiet morning as we sat together over breakfast I heard something: a faint scratching noise, a quiet shuffling. Odd, mysterious, the scratching and shuffling would start and stop. Start and stop, breaking the silence of the early hours. It was difficult to decipher where it was coming from, whether inside or out. We strained our ears trying to figure it out until, just minutes later, it would disappear. We were utterly baffled.

We noticed the noise again the following morning, the eerie scraping sound filtering into the dining room, pushing closer then pulling away, just lasting a few seconds. And, as autumn shifted into winter, it quickly became a ritual, our breakfast ritual, sitting at the table under the one dull bulb, near the tall glass panes giving out onto somber obscurity, straining our ears for the dark morning silence to be broken by those mysterious snuffling, scratching sounds as we sipped our coffee and ate thick slices of brioche. Sometimes my patience and my own silence would be rewarded with a faint noise; some mornings were filled with a disappointing nothing. We came to understand that something had crawled in among the network of tunnels under our feet and created a home close to the warmth of our own. But we still could not understand what.

Once the sun was up and my husband had left for work and the boys school, I would run around to the back of the house and, crouching down at the edge of the terrace, peer into the many tunnels that had formed over the years in the pile of earth, trying to see something, any form of life. But whatever it was making the noise, living under the terrace, remained still and sleeping during the sunlight hours, winning our little game of hide-and-seek.

Until finally we saw her, if ever so briefly. A fox. Sitting on the edge of the terrace before scuttling away out of sight. A fox had made her home, her nest under the cement of our terrace. I was charmed! Once I knew that it wasn’t rats or mice, I fell in love with the idea of a pretty little fox sleeping underneath our feet, close by! How very Beatrix Potter! I loved being the first out of bed, running down to set up breakfast and waiting by the window, quietly listening for that fox’s morning greeting! But pragmatic old husband saw it in a completely different light! Once he realized that our uninvited houseguest was a fox and as the scratching noise seemed daily to be getting closer, he begin worrying that she was not only burrowing further under the floor but also creating wider, larger tunnels under the terrace. He was haunted by visions of the whole terrace just caving in, cracking the supporting structure of the house – accompanied by visions of a crazed landlord materializing unexpectedly on the doorstep demanding we pay up for the damage. He was also scared that the fox would attack one of the boys or get in a tangle with the dog, and so decided enough was enough and he called the city for help.

The city put us in touch with a garde-forestier – a forest ranger – who arrived the following day and set up a fox trap in our backyard, looking for all the world like our own large metal dog cage. He placed a couple of eggs inside the trap and left. And so a new ritual was added to my day: every morning as I ate breakfast, I would listen for the noise of the fox and after the sun rose, breakfast dishes washed, I would scuttle around to the back of the house with my sons and we would look to see if the cage contained a fox or if the food inside the cage was still there. That garde-forestier, as silent and invisible as the fox he was chasing, would show up I never knew when and take out the old food and replace it with fresh. Sometimes we would find the trap empty and wonder if our old boxer had somehow succeeded in getting out whatever meat that ranger had stuck inside the cage. But the fox, much to my own delight, succeeded in avoiding getting caught. Every morning I greeted that empty cage with a mixture of admiration of that fox’s wily ways and relief.

And as the days flew by, between listening for the fox under my feet every day before dawn and checking the cage just after the sun rose higher in the sky, a new chapter unfolded. Suddenly, that early morning scratching began to be accompanied by a low mewling, as if kittens had found their way under the terrace. My husband listened closely, looked up at me and exclaimed “She had pups! Our fox is a mom!” Husband promptly called the forest ranger and had him take the cage away. Every morning, sitting at the breakfast table I listened for those babies between mouthfuls of coffee, heard the voices getting stronger joined by more movement. I tried to picture what they looked like, guess how many there were and prayed that one or the other would gather his or her courage and make a bold appearance on the terrace, but it never happened. The utter silence during the day made my breakfasts more special as those pups made their faint but distinct daily presence known.

Towards the end of that winter, as the nights grew shorter, the days longer and the sun begin to make its appearance at our breakfast table, the sounds suddenly stopped. I listened hard morning after morning, but after about a week, I had to admit that Mrs. Fox and her growing family had left to find a new home for the spring and summer. Four more years past, and though I waited for her to return each winter or a new fox family to move in, those tunnels remained empty, the morning silence only broken by the clatter of coffee mugs, the kitchen radio and the distant clucking of hens goaded on by the rooster’s crow, the only movement in the yard our dog snuffling in the bushes, my husband my only breakfast companion.

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The Pigeons of Mesquer

A VERY SPECIAL STORY

Kill no more pigeons than you can eat. 

– Benjamin Franklin 

I am thrilled to have my story The Man Who Spoke to Pigeons: Rémy Anézo and Les Pigeons de Mesquer published on Modern Farmer. You can find the piece online here…

Interviewing Matthieu Anézo at Les Pigeons de Mesquer

This is an article that is dear to my heart about a man with whom I am connected in two ways, through his lovely niece Mathilde, a friend of mine, and my own son Clem. Here is my story of how the interview and the article came about: Rémy Anezo is what the French call un homme comblé, a contented, satisfied man. He is surrounded by what he loves the most in the world every day from morning to night, living out his dream. A beautiful, tranquil setting and thousands of pigeons are his mission and his mainstay. And he is perfectly happy spending everyday in this universe he has created.

Pigeons. The idea of pigeons reminds me of Piazza del Duomo in the center of Milan, Italy and the hundreds upon hundreds of crazily flapping wings, the sharp tiny beaks coming perilously close to one’s legs, pigeons swooping much too close to one’s head. Pigeons remind me of every European city I have ever visited and the thin spikes left atop monuments to keep them from roosting; pigeons remind me of the various run-ins with our dogs and the one time Marty snapped at one as it crossed his path and…lunge…chomp and we were faced with a small Boston Terrier with a tremendous pigeon clasped in the iron grip of his jaws (The Strange Incident of the Dog and the Pigeon). Husband calls them rats with wings and shudders when he considers them at all.

Yet I know that pigeon is a culinary delicacy. Our very special wedding anniversary meal at the Michelin-starred La Mare aux Oiseaux an hour outside of Nantes showed me just how special when I saw “pigeon roti de l’ami Rémy” on the menu and although I did not order it, it stuck with me, my curiosity was certainly aroused. Pigeon with tender sweet French peas is a classic dish in this country since the time of Louis XIV. Yet what a coincidence when my friend Mathilde told me that Rémy is actually her uncle! Standing in my kitchen as we used to do, making macarons together and jabbering on about our lives, she informed me, as we were discussing possible subjects for articles that I could write, that not only is her father a fourth-generation salt farmer but her uncle raises pigeons, pigeons appreciated and sought after by many of France’s top chefs. This, I knew, would make a great story! So I called Rémy and set up a date to drive out and meet him in Mesquer at his pigeon farm. With JP. Who, I must admit kept a serious, straight face even when confronted by so many pigeons, up close and personal.

With Rémy Anézo

His place – Les Pigeons de Mesquer – is a pretty, idyllic setting, calm and quiet, but for the elegant cooing, and sits outside the lovely little picture-postcard village of Mesquer, so quiet, so sleepy when we drove through. But off to our meeting…

Rémy is a quiet but funny man, a mix of the old-fashioned and the thoroughly modern who speaks of his pigeons with a man’s respect and young boy’s passion and excitement. A true artisan, he raises his birds organically and naturally in such bucolic surroundings one is quickly swept up into his world, his ideology, his passion. His own son Matthieu now works with him and the two together are obviously one hell of a dynamic team. Matthieu jumped in and out of the coops, scooping up newborns, tiny babes and adults with ease and familiarity as we talked and snapped photos. Rémy talked about his work with chefs and led us to the old barn that he is renovating to make way for a demonstration kitchen where chefs come and teach classes for visitors… a barn that my own son Clem and his partner Valentin redesigned. Some connection, right?

And today…. Today my article about Les Pigeons de Mesquer and Rémy and Matthieu Anézo is published on Modern Farmer!

A funny ending of the story: Rémy generously and kindly handed me a bag of freshly killed and plucked birds to take home. We did. JP cooked a beautiful pigeon with peas. We sat down at the table to eat, took knife and fork in hand and as I carved off a piece and tasted – and truly enjoyed it (but I love game) – JP stared at it for a while, obviously gathering his courage and trying to put aside his prejudices – and finally put down his knife and fork, pushed himself away from the table and said “Sorry but I just can’t!” Well, more for me, I say.

(Please do leave a comment at the end of the article… all comments and all sharing are greatly appreciated!)

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Let’s Talk Writing IV

SESSION 4: VOICE AND STYLE

Create your own (sic) style... let it be unique for yourself and yet identifiable for others. 

– Orson Welles

For Session1: A Skillful Understanding link here.
For Session 2: Playing the Lead : Your Role as a Writer link here.
For Sesson 3 : Finding Your Voice link here.

“Find your voice! Find your style!” In Let’s Talk Writing III, I discussed finding your voice, yet take any writing workshop and the instructor is bound to encourage you to find both your voice and your style; the instructor will throw around voice and style as if they are two separate things, yet one and the same. It can certainly get confusing! And is it important to even understand the difference or can we just lump voice and style into one single entity and idea?

Let’s define and try and understand the difference. As defined by several dictionaries:

VOICE is an instrument of expression; a sound produced or the ability to produce those sounds.

STYLE is a distinctive manner of expression; a particular way in which something is done, created or performed.

In writing, this basically means that VOICE is the instrument, what is uttered, the choice of words and language used, the method of speaking. Think of the difference in voice between an 8 year-old boy and an 80 year-old women, the language and vocabulary they each use to express themselves. It is how you sound on the page. Or how your characters sound.

STYLE, on the other hand, concerns more the mechanics of writing and the overall effect of the piece, how you as a writer, no matter the voice or the language used, organizes and tells the story. Do you use long, complex sentences and paragraphs, very ornate and romantic, packed with metaphors and colorful imagery? Or do you tell a story much more straightforward using short, simple, concise sentences, sparse prose, more journalistic than storyteller? How does the story (or the post) flow, how do ideas connect? Style has to do with flow, rhythm, whether you use repetition, whether you write with a sense of humor or not, the overall tone, etc. STYLE is, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the characteristic manner of literary expression of a particular writer.

So, where does this leave you and what does it mean? And does one choose one’s voice and style, are these static or can they be altered or manipulated? Does a writer want to hang on to that voice and style one has developed, created, or be more flexible?

I know for a fact that I have my own voice and a particular style both. I use big words, lots of adjectives and adverbs. I use repetition and long sentences in order to create a certain rhythm to my writing, to my paragraphs, to accentuate certain things. I don’t just tell a story or describe a thing or a person, I attempt to create an overall “musical” effect and a particular mood to the work as a whole. My speaking voice – the language and the words I use and how I say them – is repeated and comes through in my writing voice, yet done very consciously and very conscientiously. My writing style, not necessarily how I tell a story aloud, is specifically thought out and chosen to create a certain effect.

Style is a simple way of saying complicated things 

– Jean Cocteau 

Creating one’s distinctive, personal voice and style is then a two step affair:

1) choose your language, your vocabulary carefully. Do you say - my son walked into the room and sat down or my son slunk into the room and slumped into the chair? - is your eggplant purple, shiny and curved or garnet-hued, glistening and voluptuous? - if writing a story or an interview, does the language and vocabulary you choose change with each character or person? When writing different blog posts or articles, does your language change depending upon the topic or the platform?

2) choose the way you tell the story, organize the story, the steps, the paragraphs. When you go back to edit, read the story out loud and listen to the flow, the musicality, the length of sentences. Read other people’s work aloud…. What is the effect the piece and the way the story is told has on you? Separate the words used from the overall effect.

Now, is voice and style set in stone? Think about the difference your approach would be in writing a blog post, a personal story or a feature article for Saveur magazine, The New York Times or Family Circle. Or think about telling a certain story or giving certain information on a given topic to a group of friends, a group of children or a group of work colleagues at a conference presentation. Would you change or alter your voice? Your style? Is the language you use too simple or too complicated for one or the other? Or is the way you have told the story too complicated, drawn out, too convoluted (confusing, elaborate, tangled) or too simple and straightforward, not exciting enough? Is it too funny, too romantic, too morose and gloomy? Too light and flippant or too heavy and serious? When one thinks in those terms – of writing for a different platform or speaking to a different group, for example, then you can more clearly separate the two ideas and see them more clearly, understand them as separate entities.

Sometimes you may have to, by necessity, keep your voice yet change your style (or vice versa) if, for example, you are writing for a different platform or a different audience. I rarely change my voice when I write yet I do change my style of writing when it is for publication in or on another platform than my blog, for example: changing the way I enter into a story, writing shorter sentences with less descriptive adjectives, etc. When I edit a piece for another writer, I am forced to change both my voice and my style, so it is imperative that I understand my own in order to understand how to change it.

Style is an expression of individualism mixed with charisma. 

– John Fairchild 

When we speak of FINDING your voice and your style, the word finding suggests an active search, an active effort. As I told you in Let’s Talk Writing III, you can (and often should) manipulate your speaking voice and style when putting it down on paper, yet the two must work together as each reflect who you are and your personality. Finding both a voice and a style that is recognizable as you, that is distinctively you, takes time and thought. And practice.

Start the process by reading and comparing other people’s writing. When you hop from blog to blog, read the different posts carefully, look for the language each writer uses and then how they tell the story or give information. Compare it to other writers and bloggers. Do the same for different magazines. And start to see the difference in voice and style, yet how the two work together to create an overall effect.

And then think about your own voice and style.

Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn. 

– Gore Vidal 

Here is a selection of blogs and blog posts to read and study for the writing (voice and style) – these blogs have a variety of purposes and goals, each have a written text for a specific purpose, whether to tell a story, to inform or both. Read carefully, notice the language used, the vocabulary chosen, the sentence and paragraph structure. Look for tone, rhythm and mood. Notice the voice and the style, think about each separately and then how they work together:

Michael Olivier
Eggs on the Roof
The David Blahg (Leite’s Culinaria)
Cook Sister
Not Quite Nigella
Hungry Rabbit
The Perfect Pantry

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Let’s Talk Writing III

THE STILL, SMALL VOICE: FINDING YOUR VOICE 

Words are the voice of the heart. 

- Confucious 

For Session1: A Skillful Understanding link here.
For Session 2: Playing the Lead : Your Role as a Writer link here.

"Find your voice!" they (the mysterious they) say all the time. Your authentic voice. Your unique voice. The voice that is distinctly you.

Yes, we as writers or as budding writers hear this constantly, the same refrain, the same charge, over and over again. And we nod our heads knowingly, “Oh, of course! My voice!” Yet, what does this even mean? What is our own authentic, unique, distinctive voice? And how do we find it? How do we recognize it? Well, let’s think about this for a minute.

Voice. Obviously, when speaking of our writer’s voice, we are talking about a mix of several things: the words and language used to express our thoughts; the tone and style, the personality that comes across on the page. "My readers, when they meet me in person, tell me that I write just like I speak (or sound just like I write)!" so many bloggers tell me. Does this mean that we should simply write the same way, with the same words with which we speak? Is it good enough to just put down on paper what we say aloud? Is it that easy? Well, yes and no. Yes, this is the first step towards finding that writer’s voice, yet it isn’t always that simple, and it doesn’t always stop there.

Think about the way you speak to family and friends. I’ll bet that it is dotted and punctuated with a smattering of cultural references, slang, colorful language or curse words, inside jokes and personal references understood only by a few. Not to mention the occasional half sentence or grammatical error. Personally, I have read several blogs in which the writer/blogger attempts to get all of this down in the blog post (“Mooooore pancakes! ("but you have to say it like, “Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!”) Not the Shining one ; the Johnny Carson One.") or ("It’s for those times when it feels like the holidays are jumping directly up your butt, and you’re wondering what sadist put Cinco de Mayo, the Derby and Mother’s Day in the same week because your dog is still hacking up Easter grass."). So if we just put down into print what we say when we speak aloud, there is the risk that much of what we say will be lost on too many of our readers who don’t understand the cultural or personal references or who are turned off by the slang, the “colorful” language or the bad grammar.

There is often a transformation or some kind of shift that happens between brain – speaking and thinking voice – and paper. For some, this shift is natural and one doesn’t even think of it: we automatically correct grammar, adjust or eliminate personal or cultural references, shift into “grownup” or “company” mode. For others, this transformation is conscious and mindful: words are carefully chosen, often from a well-thumbed thesaurus, ideas and story lines are thought through and reorganized to sound like something the author has read. This can work extremely well for the writer. But, again, there is a risk: this can often lead to writing that is “overdone”: the use of words or phrases that the writer or blogger normally does not use in everyday speech, a way of writing that the blogger assumes sounds “writerly”. This type of writing can sound stilted, unnatural, stiff. ("We first splash a cup of cool water into the shimmering silver pan, clouding the clarity with a dusting of frosted flour.") or ("My fingers very soon became sticky and dripping with fragrant peach juices.") Again, at the risk of turning off readers who feel the discomfort or the effort, the exertion.

Where is the middle ground? How does one find the perfect balance?

We must actively search for our voice, and clear a path for it to emerge. One’s voice is uncovered, not manufactured.

Basically, yes, you want to sound like YOU when you write, but a better you. A refined you, a purposeful you. You want your writing to be recognizable as you, distinctively you; just as someone will hear your voice or your laughter, listen to you express yourself and know it is you, your written voice should be just as familiar. But thought out, written expressly for an audience. But how?

1) Speak out loud, speak to yourself: as you prepare a blog post, tell the story out loud, to another person, to your reflection in the mirror, to the dog – listen to the way you tell that story or describe an experience or discuss your favorite spice. Say it naturally, as to a friend, not necessarily as you would tell it to Oprah. Be comfortable with it, be comfortable with the language you use. Then write it down. Then edit it, adjust it and read it aloud again. And again. This doesn’t even need to be published…this could simply be for practice. In fact, do this for practice.

Or

2) Write a blog post, read it aloud and ask yourself if this is really how you speak? If not, well, start over.

3) Read and experiment. You think your writing is too casual, too simple, doesn’t sound like a writer (whatever that sounds like)? Before you try and change your writing to sound more this way or less that way, change the way you speak, increase your speaking vocabulary… read. Read and absorb. And speak. A lot. Change the way you speak to others before changing the way you write for others. Practice.

4) Get to know your readers…. Decide who you want to write for. Will readers understand your language, your references, your jokes? Or does your writing fly above the heads of the average reader? Have someone else read a few of your past posts and listen to what they have to say about it. Make conscious choices when you transcribe that speaking voice onto paper, when you write, without changing the fundamentals of what you want to say or even how you express yourself.

5) Don’t forget that people will form an impression of you and who you are from your writing, how you write, the language you use, the things you say. They will decide whether you are funny, smart, serious, knowledgeable… but also whether or not you are silly, insincere, or acting, and whether you are professional or not. How do you want your readers to see you?

Writing, as I have said before, is a constant learning experience, a constant quest. Know why you are blogging or writing, who you are writing or blogging for. Think of your writing as if it was a musical instrument… you want to practice and get better. You want to enjoy playing and have others enjoy listening. You may want to play that instrument just for fun or you may want to sound like a professional musician. But either way, you want the instrument to feel comfortable in your hands and sound natural, easy but worth listening to.

- Practice. Read. Write.

- Find someone who will read what you write and give you honest feedback, both the positive and the negative. Take a writing workshop if you can and listen to the feedback carefully.

- Play little writing games: write something in your own voice (as you write now). Then rewrite the same in someone else’s voice, as someone else, a character in a book or someone who may be the complete opposite of you. Try different voices on for size, see what each character makes you write about, the vocabulary and the expressions that character makes you use and understand why. And then figure out what feels natural to the writer who you are.

Your mind knows only some things. Your inner voice, your instinct, knows everything. 

If you listen to what you know instinctively, it will always lead you down the right path. 

– Henry Winkler

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Writing II (Too)

PLAYING THE LEAD: YOUR ROLE AS A WRITER

I have no particular talent. I am merely inquisitive.

– Albert Einstein 

For Part I A Skillful Understanding link here.

“But I can’t write!” a student at Plate to Page wails as she clutches her camera desperately to her chest. “I came to improve my photography!” or “Oh, but you have talent, I don’t!” a friend and fellow blogger will tell me. “And writing takes so much talent!” But, really, what is talent? Who judges who has talent and who doesn’t? Can we be good at something without talent – or bypassing the whole notion of talent?

Talent is elusive, ambiguous. Mysterious.

Talent, as far as I am concerned, is a mixture of passion, desire, curiosity and effort – that old blood, sweat and tears. Toss in knowledge, experience, patience and a creative imagination and one can do most anything. I will admit that some people are better than others at one thing or another – I will never be the photographer that many of my friends are, but I also don’t take the time to improve much beyond where I am at now. I always thought I could not draw to save my life until a friend of mine patiently stood by me, coaxed me, coached and advised me, made me work at a sketch of fruit, charcoal on white, until I had a lovely semblance of pear, apple and banana. Certainly, some may have more of some je ne sais quoi than another, but that should keep no one from being the best they can.

It reminds me of a quote from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice:

``My fingers,'' said Elizabeth (as she sits at the piano), ``do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault -- because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution.''

If you can't excel with talent, triumph with effort. 

– Dave Weinbaum 

In my introductory post, I pointed out that writing is a skill just like photography. A skill that can be learned and mastered. But first we must understand just what your role as a writer is. And, more specifically, a food writer (or a writer writing about food!). You might decide that you write to inform your readers about new food trends or old food traditions, dangers of certain foods or the latest agro-political updates: quite possibly you have chosen to blog about nutrition or a particular country’s cuisine; perhaps you instruct others how to bake from scratch or introduce the less knowledgeable to new and unique spices, herbs or condiments; maybe your food bent is geared towards gluten-free, vegan or paleo. Or maybe you just desire to tell stories about the food you prepare, the places you have traveled or the producers behind the ingredients.

But whichever and whatever you are blogging or writing about you must connect with, engage and, in some way, entertain your readers. Your role as a writer is to manipulate your reader’s emotions, evoke an emotional response, inspire nostalgia or inspire action, bring them into your world, stimulate their senses. In other words, you want your readers to think, feel and desire.

What was that you said? Whether writing about the historical or symbolic significance of a food or a dish, whether supplying readers with information be it nutritional or health facts, cultural roots, information about a certain style of eating/diet or whether regaling readers with a personal tale, one must engage the readers, connect on a personal level, entertain them and make them feel as if the post was written personally for them. Don’t simply toss food at them.

Don’t just show them a pretty picture, something flashy and immediate. Invite them in and nourish them intellectually, creatively and emotionally.

And there really is only one way to do this successfully: Understand the ins and outs of writing as a skill; improve those writing skills. Learn how to tell a story. But above all, be fearless. Allow yourself to think out of the box and not be hemmed in either by the limitations and “rules” you have put upon yourself or those that you imagine are imposed upon you from what you see in the world of food blogging. Be creative! But there are a few rules I will set down:

Learn and get used to using Word Docs: Never write a blog post directly into your blogger or wordpress (or other) dashboard. Always compose on a separate word doc. This will take away the pressure to simply “write and publish”.

Install spellcheck and grammarcheck in your Word Doc: we all make mistakes, but don’t always catch them. Typos, double words, punctuation errors, grammar mishaps… even when we proofread a page twenty times, we still may miss one or the other. Spellcheck and grammarcheck are worth their weight in gold. Think of them as your own private copy editor!

Find your own natural voice and writing style: There are a lot of excellent writers out there. Although I will explain to you how to be inspired by their writing, how to learn from their writing, never feel that you must copy their style in order to be a “good writer”. Don’t simply go to your thesaurus and pick out cool, “writerly” words and expressions. I will write about how to find – and develop – your own voice.

Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow 

the talent to the dark place where it leads. 

– Erica Jong 

Now that we are set, now that we have gotten past the “I can’t” or “I have no talent” – and please do not even get me started on “the writing doesn’t really matter on blogs!” – we can begin. . . .

FINDING YOUR VOICE: PART I (props)

Unlike photography – or many other crafts – writing is difficult to separate out and talk about the equipment (language) on its own. Yes, one can (and sometimes should) pull out a good old-fashioned English primer and study up on one’s verb conjugation or sentence structure. Yes, many people should learn to differentiate between slang or text-speak and real live proper language and vocabulary. But while one can practice basic as well as more advanced photography skills with a single apple or the rose bushes out in one’s front yard, developing your writing is best done by bringing all of the elements together from the beginning as well as working with as many props as possible.

What one must first learn to do is, as a writing instructor once told me, become process-centered not product-centered. Stop thinking “I am going to sit down and write that post about my husband’s chocolate layer cake!” Begin thinking “chocolate cake….layer cake…husband… how does that make me feel? Of what does it make me think? How can I express these thoughts and feelings and my own desires? How can I communicate this to my readers? What words do I have at my command?

There are many resources that we have at our disposal, yet it all starts with the props. So let’s first turn to our props! What food blogger doesn’t love to prop shop? And what are the writer’s props? Words! Vocabulary! Expressions! Onomatopoeia, similes, metaphors and other groovy language toys and tools. And how does a writer prop shop?

Read! Without an extensive vocabulary at our fingertips, we are limited in what we can do as a writer. The greater our vocabulary, the more able we are to develop our own voice, find inspiration when we are blocked or at a loss….for words, create a mood, evoke an emotion and stimulate the senses. Simply flipping through a thesaurus does give us loads of great words to choose from, but they are not OUR words! As a writer, you want to OWN your props, your words.

The first thing I always recommend a student, a writer, a blogger is to read! Read everything: newspapers, magazines, blogs and websites, books; read different genres (news, op eds, murder mysteries and chick lit, fiction and non-fiction, how-to books, biographies and diaries, this century, last and the one before). But don’t just read. Study. Read in a way that you notice new words, new ways an author expresses something, how a writer brings a topic or a character alive, makes their voice sing in your head. And as you discover new words and expressions, use them, integrate them into your speaking voice. Once a word becomes naturally part of your speaking vocabulary (your voice), then will it become part of your natural writing vocabulary, and part of your own natural writing voice. Only then can you begin to fulfill your role as a writer.

(Next week: FINDING YOUR VOICE: PART II)

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LET'S TALK WRITING

SESSION I : A SKILLFUL UNDERSTANDING

There is nothing to writing. 

All you do is sit down at the typewriter and bleed. 

- Ernest Hemingway

Sometimes I feel that writing is like marriage. It takes a lot of hard work. The more time passes, the more we are in the relationship, the more we understand and build on that newfound understanding, one step at a time, in a never-ending attempt to get better at the whole darn thing. It is a constant struggle abounding in frustration, complications and compromises. And patience. Tremendous patience. Yet, swept up in the burning passion and desire, driven by love, we are certainly able to weather the rough storms that keep cropping up on the horizon. We strive to evolve, develop our skill and our knowledge in a constant effort to reach higher and farther, to improve and get it right.

But for all practical purposes, one must compare food writing to food photography.

Over the years I have learned that bloggers treat photography and writing differently. They understand the steps to what they consider a successful photograph. They are prepared to invest mightily in their photography: they buy cameras and lenses after lengthy discussions on Facebook, they invest in lighting equipment and learn how to take photos in natural light vs artificial light vs low-light situations. They invest in Photoshop or Lightroom and learn how to post process their photos – cropping, adjusting and redefining color, light, intensity, etc – to achieve the best possible image. They invest in props – backgrounds, linens, cutlery, dishes, holiday decorations, etc - and learn how to use them to the best of their advantage.

Food bloggers do understand that the secret to a beautiful photograph, one that tells a story, creates an ambiance that draws the viewer in, evokes and incites an emotion, one that titillates the senses and makes the visitor stay, ogle, enjoy… want to eat the food pictured and want to come back again and again requires skill, time, effort and thought. The food blogger knows that the more control he or she has over each element, the more one is able to manipulate the image, the better the chance he or she has to produce a powerful and effective photograph.

Rare is the food blogger today that snaps one single photo, slaps it onto the blog and hits publish.

Yet, what about the writing? Few bloggers think of writing in the same light. “I can write therefore I am a writer!” Yet writing is an art just as is photography – just like cooking, painting, knitting, surgery for that matter. Both are skills in which the understanding and mastering of the equipment – the camera and lens for a photographer, language for a writer – is crucial. Both are skills in which the gestures require constant practice, attention and improvement. Writing, like photography, becomes more interesting the more props – words – we have at our command, yet those props – words – must be used correctly and to effect.

Okay, let’s back up and I will make this comparison clear.

Your equipment:
Photographer: camera and lenses
Writer: language

Your props:
Photographer: linens (tablecloths, napkins, dishtowels, backdrops), background surfaces, cutlery, dishes, holiday tools and decorations, antique utensils, backgrounds, serving platters, etc.
Writer: vocabulary, idiomatic expressions, similes, metaphors, adjectives, adverbs, etc.

Post-processing:
Photographer: editing with Photoshop, Lightroom, etc.
Writer: editing

Don't only think about your photos!

There is so much to say about writing. There is both a technical side of writing and a creative side of writing (storytelling), and, like any skill or craft, writing – good, interesting, effective writing, takes a long time to develop and evolve, learn and master. What I want to do is get you to look at and think about writing in a different way, from a different angle than you might normally do. In a series of posts, I will offer you my thoughts on the process, urging you to consider writing in a new light. I will offer my thoughts and ideas on everything from how to master the equipment, grow your prop collection (prop shopping for the writer!) and self-edit. I will give advice, explanations and tips. Feel free to leave any questions you might have on writing in the comment section! And away we go!

* This post was sponsored by Grammarly on-line grammar check. I rarely, if ever, agree to do a sponsored post, but as a writer, a writing instructor and someone who is passionate about language, I couldn’t but agree. The first thing – or one of the first things - I always point out to my students is (and the First Rule!) The Trifecta of Good Writing… (and respect for one’s readers):

1) Grammar
2) Spelling
3) Punctuation

Equip yourself with Spell Check and Grammar Check – or use a service like Grammarly.com! Inviting someone to read a post riddled with grammar, punctuation and spelling errors is like inviting someone to a dirty home; editing for these three things shows that you care!

For Part II Playing the Lead: Your Role as a Writer link here

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WRITING A BOOK

THE DARK SIDE


How does one begin to paint a picture in black when one has been using a palette of green to blue to red and every hue in between? Shades of grey edged in somber coal, murky and thick with emotion. I sit at my keyboard where optimism normally nudges my fingers across the letters like one of those old Ouija Boards, mysterious forces that always seem to know the secrets hidden deep inside. I spend my life cheering others up; I write in order to find the positive of any situation, no matter how dark, a kind of therapy or catharsis, always able to stand up and walk away from the computer feeling just a bit better. But as I sit at my desk, chin nestled heavily in the palm of my upturned hand, or my body curved into the corner of the sofa pondering over the words, the sentences, the paragraphs that spill out of my brain and my heart and onto the pristine white document in front of me, I wonder what I should write about, how deeply to delve.

Every life is touched by despair, personal failure, death of a loved one, anguish and sorrow that shape who we are, if ever so gently. Melancholy that hovers over us, day in and day out, smile smeared across our face, a constant battle with our own worse demons no matter how brave a face we present to the outside world. I have been filling pages with bits and pieces of stories – my story – that will one day be organized and filled in to create a whole. A tough project under any circumstances, yet what continues to elude me is the angle: Where do I begin? How much do I cover? Is this just an enchanting jaunt through the exciting moments of my life? A humorous account of my decision to drop everything and run away to Paris? A romance to end all romance stories of my marriage to a dashing young Frenchman, just another fairytale of American girl escaping to the City of Lights to find love and passion, an intriguing tale offered up on a rose-strewn silver platter of Champagne and caviar?


Or do I go further, dig deeper, tell the “True Life Narrative” of why someone would run away to Paris, how living in this magnificent country may be romantic and enchanting indeed, filled with silliness and humorous faux pas yet scattered with tears and more difficult than others like to portray in popular fiction? I have written in a previous post about how my life is truly incomplete without the sadness that allows me to appreciate how wonderful the happiness is. Touching on my own brother’s illness and death and the gaping hole it has left in my life, the hurt I feel every single day is only part of it. The pain of watching a child hurt and angry, his mistrust keeping him from living his life and reaching his true potential is excruciating agony that has kept us awake at night and tormented during the day. But that is still not enough. The dark tunnel that I have walked through day after day, year after year, yearning for a glimpse of the brilliant light off in the distance that never comes, slogging through mud, feet heavy as in a dream… does one write about this? Devote a chapter to the obscure, bleak moments of a life, those moments that in fact led to where I am now?

There are things that I have spoken of with no one, not even my husband to whom I am an open book. Maybe I have simply been looking for an excuse to share the sordid details with someone, anyone; possibly after keeping these dark secrets buried deep inside of me for all of these years there is an inherent need to purge myself of these tortuous demons. But is there a place for this in any story I could tell? But if truth be told, my truth, then how can I possibly write bits and pieces of my life without speaking of the essential, of what makes me me? Ah, painting a picture in brilliant reds, feminine pinks, soothing blues, cheerful yellows, by necessity there needs be spots of black, streaks of grey hovering at the edges; silent ghosts and chimeras peeping around the joy, laughter sometimes muted by silent tears.


And why do I write at all? To what purpose? I love the physical, the intellectual, the emotional act of writing; like a joyous, rambunctious childhood game or a very-adult sensual experience, it is exhilarating, exciting, even liberating; frustration and dissatisfaction transformed through concentration and hard work, blood, sweat and tears! into the perfect phrase, the perfect sentiment, an idea captured in black and white just as I imagined it. Yet the goal, that intended purpose, is hidden behind all of those descriptive, perfect words, sneaking in unexpectedly, surprising the reader with meaning. Thus giving this author an even deeper sense of satisfaction and purpose.

And why write a book at all if it is not to convey a message, weighty with substance? Every book must have some significance if one doesn’t want to fall into the domain of fluff. I ask myself these questions as my fingers fly across the keyboard. I am a writer with a passion for writing about food and culture, a goal to create pieces for magazines, so why this yearning to write a story of my life, or at least convey bits and pieces of that life, sandwiched between two covers? These questions grow larger each and every day as this craving grows stronger, as the thoughts and ideas take shape in my head, as my goal becomes clearer and now it has all spilled over onto my humble little blog, a blog that will slowly transform with my own transformation. Life, after all, is a feast.

And then we return to the question of darkness.

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