What would be your ideal meal to eat on a wide, deteriorating balcony overlooking misshapen live oak branches, in the middle of a hot New Orleans summertime? What time of day would you suggest partaking of this meal? (It’s low 70′s in the morning and high 90′s by afternoon.)
The meal: it would always be evening for me. It’s lovely when the day is just ending & then to eat. My favorite meal would be pheasant—I don’t see that down here. Or quail. And spinach, probably creamed. And I love a good salad (with artichokes).
AB says: Writing is going pretty well, except for the fact that I missed a total of 4 days (two if you don’t count Sundays, which I wasn’t gonna count anyway) of writing in this packing up phase…still haven’t made it to New Orleans full time. The bed is the last to go. I’ve never drawn out a packing and moving process almost two months before. When you write and have fun and pack, time stands still.
Writers are supposed to write unreasonably. Meaning, the effort and energy into your work should be without reason. Trusting subconscious, not conscious patterns of engagement. But in my last novel attempt, I pushed the “unreason” part so far that my conscious mind demanded terribly long hours and I created while I revised. Each page was almost stained with anxiety and self doubt. I worked it over until all that was left of my words was terror–terror of not controlling what I was creating. And so I have to be careful these days when I stop work–I want to be unreasonable, but I know all too well what happens when you go into overdrive on a project, fueled not by play and non-reason, but by insistence, cruelty, and a need to order and control, instead of a need to discover and wonder.
Back to Irv.
Really, my favorite meal is when Jesse and I are fishing in British Columbia and we bring back to the lodge the fresh salmon from the day and Luke, the cook, always does something wonderful with it, and we drink a very good red wine and eat the salmon. Sometimes we stop by an island on our way back to the lodge and pick up bucketfuls of oysters (where we are in BC, it’s like picking apples off a tree) and eat them, too. This is Heaven. Jesse and I do this about every other year (his friend owns the lodge J ).