I haven’t been writing much lately and I have to blame the heat amongst other distractions. Yesterday I was thinking about it though and realized maybe one really needs to be a starving artist in order to get any writing done, hot or cold. I’m not starving which is why I’m not writing. I don’t need to write in order not to starve so why bother? Not that I would ever consider myself an artist, but writing can be considered an art, and here I am not writing because I am not starving. Ponder upon that for a moment.
In fact I used the new couple's night apart to make myself delicious prawn pasta. Ian, who in case you haven't guessed is the new boy on the block and according to Thekla I mustn't call him any nicknames, doesn’t like prawns. I find this so incredible that it actually makes me want to stomp my foot on the ground and shout “How can anyone not like prawns, Silly?” I don't, because I am still too flattered by his apparent love of me cooking anything but prawns that I don't want to go there quite yet.
So there with my huge plate of pasta, I, the non-starving artist, had this epiphany that art can never be fed by real food. It is just too distracting. If I have food to eat I will not only eat it and thus waste time I could spend on writing but also watch a movie while I eat thus wasting more time not writing.
Whenever I fantasize that the key to successful writing is probably just getting away, I already fail in the 'planning in my head stages. I can envision myself under an olive tree somewhere in Spain or France. Close to the ocean with a little simple white cottage which has the bare necessities: a bed, a desk, and … well, a kitchen. I wonder how difficult it would be to make my own olive oil. Or could I, the big city girl, ever learn to catch a fish? Then again I actually don't like fish all this much, but maybe when caught myself and prepared with my homemade olive oil it would taste totally different? Then there is the wine, which is of course a reason itself to go to Spain or France or in fact Italy would be great as well. Wine will help my art. To a certain degree. I have known myself to cross the line. The line is reached when each word has to be rewritten twice because my fingers and brain don't want to talk to each other anymore.
My other writing scenario pictures myself in New York. In this little cafe down by Houston Street where they had this amazing Salad Nicoise. Or at Caracas with some arepas and Coronas. Though maybe that might be too noisy and again with the alcohol. Coffee rather. But not Starbucks that's for sure, their coffee just sucks and though Dean & Deluca has the best scones, their table settings are basically non-existent.
See my dilemma? Getting away is even more exiting in terms of food than staying at home where I only have to deal with healthy pre-yoga snacks or dinners to impress the new boyfriend. Don’t even get me started on road trips. I don’t think I would write a single word if my life depended on it. Road trips make my heart and stomach race.
So be happy to read what you are reading right now as I will be off to plan lunch soon while wondering: who has time to write if not an artist who is truly starving or someone who doesn't care about food? These weird creatures apparently do exist. I only know one – my sister in law who as a poor fashion design student in Rome would rather spend her food money on Prada shoes and thus starve. Though keeping in mind that Prada shoes vs. food is a whole different ballgame compared to writing vs. food. A discussion I don’t want to get into as the Prada shoes in my closet are already starting to giggle and I don’t want to upset the pasta in my pantry.