Gosh, it’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Hello to you all. I haven’t actually taken early retirement from the blogosphere. I’ve just spent the past few weeks – well, much more really – polishing up my manuscript, ready to take to the York Festival of Writing next weekend.

Next weekend. Yikes.

I’ve been buoyed up with excitement for this festival for a long time; looking forward to taking part in the workshops, meeting industry people and talking to agents. I am also looking forward to meeting up with fellow writers embarking on a similar journey and to top it off, I will be going with a dear fellow writing friend. I’ve been breathing into a brown paper bag for a while now.

I’m sure it’s been said and observed many times before, how incredible it is that we writers can spend stupid amounts of years drafting up our hot dam masterpieces only to have it read and devoured in less than a week for some.

The time frames may not be similar but there are parallels between writing and the experience of baking; the effort and preparation followed by the execution or to be exact, the consumption. The baker can spend all frigging morning or afternoon or an entire night making something quite special only for it to be polished off in a couple of hours- if you’re lucky to have a stay of execution, but that’s usually through some intervention of the baker with a sharp and willing slap of the hand.

But you remember that smile and that inner glow you had when you baked? And the sublime irritation towards your party of consumers who had left nothing but crumbs? Crumbs? A response to your efforts?  It doesn’t matter. They liked it.

Well, I shall be serving cake next weekend and I won’t be slapping away hands if the opportunity arises.

Gulp.