I forgot how much I love baking bread. The hours of anticipation, combined with the moments of work, the amazing yeasty aroma which premeates the house, and the textures and tastes of the finished product, provide a full experience of life. I feel connected to an ancient chain -- a hand on the staff of life passed for thousands of years. As I tenderly pull apart the delicately strong weaving of wheat, I see the connection to my writing life.
I have combined elements, deftly employed imagination, and allowed for ideas to rise, like the yeasty bubbles in the dough. I've kneaded -- oh, how I've kneaded. And rested. And kneaded. And allowed for more rising.
As yet, I've no finished product, no enticing aroma wafting through my home. Obviously, what is the point, if not to taste the fruits of my labor?
I'm making a vow to finish MAGIC IN THE MIX, one of my four novels, by the end of 2006.
Meanwhile, I'm hooked on baking bread.
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