Raw shrimp, just because.
As it turns out, this blog isn’t just about food. It’s about other things, too, for which food serves as a convenient metaphor. You know, including food itself.
One of the things it’s about is honesty. But, actually, it’s just as much about dishonesty as it is honesty. For example, I mentioned in a previous post that I didn’t have any friends. Clearly, a lie. I have one friend. Actually, two (one is a backup). The other handful of people I’m sometimes seen with are acquaintances or, as I like to call them, “reserves” who get called up when “main friend” and “beta test friend” are busy having sex or something when I finally get a night out of the house.
I’ll just leave it up to my friends to figure out which one they are. And…now I have no friends.
Which brings me to my point. Sometimes, through dishonesty we find honesty. Other times, the reverse is true. Like when we use the right words, the polite words, but what we end up saying isn’t really the truth of it.
Where I was mistakenly hoping this tangent would lead was to the subject of writing. Only recently have I admitted to anyone, including myself, that I’m a writer. That I actually write things down, read them, rewrite them, reread them, think I’m brilliant for a few fleeting moments, come to my senses, and then refuse to ever let anyone see them. The reason is because, until now, I’ve always been afraid of “that look.” The look that says, “you silly, deluded little girl, just because you write in your diary twice a year doesn’t make you a writer.”
I’m not sure anyone really said that out loud, but it doesn’t matter because people who like to think of themselves as writers, or artists of any sort, are also psychic. Nothing gets by us. Nothing.
What’s worse than the look are the teacher’s comments. What’s worse than the teacher’s comments are the rejection letters. What’s worse than the letters are the editor’s comments. See where I’m going with this?
Except that they’re all good because they make you better. And you won’t get better unless you write. So write. The same goes for cooking.
I hope to write honestly (but not so honestly that disgruntled readers can hunt me down and kill me). I'm not above taking cheap shots, but I hope there is always a grain of truth in what I write. That's why I use my real name. However, as a former fact-checker, I can tell you with absolute certainty, truth is in the eye of the beholder. That's what the comment section is for. Use it.
My name is Tammy. I love food. I love to write.
Oh, and I use the F word occasionally. Sometimes, it’s the only word that can truly convey my meaning. You will see it again. My apologies in advance.