What's Cooking?

[Sisters In Crime]

I had a conversation this morning with a fellow writer who was in a deep dark place with his new book. Not that he had no ideas; he had plenty. And not that he has no tools, skills, talent: this is a very gifted guy. But, he said, he was feeling like when you've decided to make soup. You know just what you're going to do: heat up some broth, chop up carrots and onions, and then to be fancy put in a little dill. Except when you go to the cupboard where the pots are, there's no saucepan. And when you go to the cabinet where you keep the broth, there are no cans. And when you go the the fridge, the vegetable crisper's empty. Forget about herbs, you can't get anything like that far along.

Now, two things struck me about what he was saying.

One: I know that feeling. It's a bad one, because in truth, that's where the writing happens. We go into the cupboards and cabinets for ingredients -- character, setting, plot -- and the equipment -- style and technique -- once we've got an idea of the book we want to write. But the fact we're looking for that stuff doesn't mean we'll find it. Non-writers sometimes think it does. That either having an idea will itself stock the cabinets, so when we go looking we're bound to find what we need. Or on the other hand, that we can throw open the cupboards and, seeing what's there, concoct something splendid out of it.

Would that it were so. I'm always storing away ingredients and techniques that turned out to be wrong for a previous project, thinking they'll be useful later; but you know that cumin aging on the back of your shelf from the one time you made curry? That egg poacher you've never found anything else to do with? That's what I find when I root around just to see what's there. No, mostly you use the stuff from up front, the stuff you started laying in when the new idea came to you. But sometimes, as in my friend's case this morning, what you expected to find is just not there. Maybe you forgot to stock the shelf in the first place, or maybe the cat got to it. Whatever, your ingredients and tools are gone.

So my friend, in this situation, was upset, and I was upset for him. But I also couldn't help noticing this: what a writerly way he'd chosen to describe the problem. He didn't tell me he was depressed, he didn't tell me his inability to write was giving him a headache or that he was thinking of resuming his old career. He gave me metaphor and simile. And I instantly understood.

I couldn't give him any advice on restocking his cabinets. I don't know how my own get restocked, though I know reading a lot has something to do with it. But he's a born, and hardworking, writer. One day soon he'll open those cabinet doors and there'll be more broth, and fresher spices, than he knows what to do with. And we'll all be better fed for it.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have some hot-and-sour soup on the stove.

S.J. Rozan is Sisters-In-Crime National's member at large and the Edgar-award winning author of nine novels.