There is something soothing to the soul when it comes to making bread. No, I’m not talking about throwing ingredients together into the bread maker and three and half hours later coming out with a brick of bread that has a weird paddle shaped hole in the bottom end that always seems to taste like yeast. I’m talking about putting the flour, yeast, salt and water together in a bowl, mixing, kneading, giving time to rise, punching down and rising again. I’m talking about taking the dough, cutting it into long strands, forming a pleasing and practical braided shape and letting it rise once more and then putting it into the oven on a pizza stone and letting the whole house smell delicious as it bakes in the steamy heat.  I’m talking about really making bread.

I used to be very scared of trying to bake with yeast. I had a disaster when I was eight or so (us foodies start early!) with hot cross buns and decided then and there that yeast baking was not for me; until this year. When I got thoroughly sick to death of reading all the preservatives and additives to what should essentially be a very basic food item.  It has taken time to learn to bake a good loaf of bread. My first attempts were a little, shall we say – flat? But now? Now when I make bread people think I have bought it at a very exclusive bakery. People ask, ‘where did you get this….? It’s so gooooood,’ and then I tell them that I baked it myself.  It’s a satisfying thing to watch people gobble down my bread, sighing with contentment as they munch away.

Just like it’s a satisfying thing to put a novel together. It starts with separate ingredients, character sketches and possible plot lines and then adding the all important yeasty question of “what if….?”  Melding it all together, giving the yeast time to work through the ingredients so that it becomes soft pliable dough.  I’ve been working on my novel since February 2009. It’s at the point in which I take the dough and shape it together for the final editorial rise before baking.  And it was as I was cutting the characters story lines apart into rolls to braid into a bread shape that I discovered that there wasn’t enough dough in one of the rolls; that two characters had plenty of drama and personal development, but one of them fell flat.

A year of baking bread every second day or so has taught me very well how to eyeball the orb of dough and cut it out into the right measurements. But seeing this is the first novel I’ve ever written, I’m guessing that such a mistake in creating equal story lengths is inevitable. So basically I have had to roll all the dough of my novel together and start all over again. 

But here is the exciting part. The new storyline that I’ve created for the weakest character is full of angst, personal growth and unexpected twists. I love the story as I write it down. It’s flowing free and fast from my mind, making the whole remixing and cutting as painless as such extra work can be.

The truth of the matter is that the  timetable I had for having a book ready to be sent out to publishers by the end of the year has to be thrown out of the window.  I may have a draft ready for some trusted friends to read by the end of February next year.  Good things take time. Good things are made from simple ingredients and feed not just the body, but the soul. And so it’s OK with me. Because in the end, I want my novel to be as beautiful as one of my loaves of bread – and just as satisfying.

There are times when writing comes so easily to me its breath taking. I sit down at the desk, only to rise up again a few hours later with a couple of thousand words written. The next day I sit down and again the words flow like water down a fast moving stream gliding over river stones.  And when I go back over my work several days later, I realise with a strange sort of pride, that all that flowing was really pretty good.
And then there are times – like right now – when writing and editing a novel feels like the hardest thing ever I have ever done – and I’ve given birth!  This past week it has felt like I have been pushing boulders uphill only to get close to the summit, stub my toe, loose my grip and watch the boulder roll back to the bottom of the ravine where I know I have to start all over again. Cue much frustration.
This edit has been agonisingly slow work. I’ve read every word written and tried to justify its existence in the final product. Except that I don’t want to read my own work.  And my inability to concentrate the past week has only added to my frustration. And I keep thinking, why can’t I concentrate? I think it’s because I’m having oh look… there’s a fluffy cloud shaped like a teddy bear…..
I have a writing group meeting this Wednesday; maybe dealing with four people critiquing my work will pull my head back into line. I have the deadline of September 1st as to when I hoped to have this edit finished.  When the work should be complete enough to give to a few trusted friends to read and give first opinions at the very least.  And if you don’t have a mathematical mind that worked it out in a nano-second, September 1st is eight days away.

Eight. Days. People. 

Currently I’m working through page 133 of a 177 page manuscript. Sounds like I’m close, right? What am I belly-aching about, right?  So now is where I confess that there are several scenes that need re-working or just waiting to be written for the first time. There are a few timeline mix ups that I need to sort out. In fact, the more I edit, the more convinced I become that my novel is pure gobblty-gook.  The Itty Bitty S(h)itty Committee in my head have been raising their objections (loudly) for the last few weeks too. Telling me that I’m wasting my time, that this novel will end up stuffed under the bed keeping only the dust bunnies entertained, and wondering at the absurdity of my belief that I could ever be a writer.
So whats a girl to do when she hits the wall and can’t bear to look at her own manuscript any longer? She writes a blog post of course.  And now that that’s done, I really have no excuse. So please, feel free to entertain yourselves for a while as I go back to my work and push on for September 1st.

When I set my mind to something, I generally aim to excel at anything I turn my hand to. Take my final subject for my post grad work – another High Distinction. I’m really thrilled that I got 88% for the essay, but secretly I’m wondering how I lost the last 12%. And my current novel? In yet another round of edits as I polish it up a little more.  See – its all about the excellence. Because I want to be the very best at anything I do. Which obviously including being dumb.

I mean, reeeeeeally dumb.

Today Matthew asked me to call him after he finished at 4pm. OK. Admittedly I wasn’t so gracious about the idea of having to change my afternoon plans so I could be around to call him, but as I aim to excel  in being  dutiful (there is a word I won’t use too often about myself in a relationship!)  at 4:05pm I started to punch the numbers in the phone keypad.

613 – 123-4567
Beeeeeeeeeeep of the busy signal.

4:08pm
613 – 123-4567
Beeeeeeeeeeep – get off the phone already!

4:14pm
613 – 123-4567
Beeeeeeeeeeep – mumbling under my breath.

4:19pm
613 – 123-4567
Beeeeeeeeeeep – openly calling out curses from the heavens in front of the girl child.

4:25pm
613 – 123-4567
Beeeeeeeeeeep – Fine! Bugger you. I’m not wasting any more of my time.

Flounce into the family room where my desk is set up, flip open the computer and sit down to start editing my current novel.

4:28pm
Realise that I’ve been calling 613- 123- 4567, that being my own home phone number instead of his mobile phone number.

And tonight, as his chest puffed out, wearing the hardly ever worn “I Am Right” shirt and he bragged about my stellar ditz moment to his friends over the phone, I confess I had tears of laughter streaming down my face all over again.

Oh my Lawd.  Talk about dumb.