Hard to know where to start with this photo shown above. I’ll tell you the first thing which came to mind: a lawyer joke.
In the 80s and 90s, I worked in an accounting and consulting firm as a Research Associate (or some such title) and I heard a lot of lawyer jokes. So this photo froze the moment in time when my “Manager” (I refused to call him that; he called me “Punk” and I called him by his first name which was very bold for a time when women still weren’t allowed to wear pants in the office… no kidding) told me the following joke:
Q: What do you call it when you have a lawyer buried up to his/her/its neck in sand (actually, my “Manager” said “his” but we’ve progressed since the 80s)?
A: Not enough sand.
This is a photo of not enough sand.
It’s my Nutella jar with only a modicum of Nutella contained therein. You get the idea.
I’m out. But hey, that’s ok. I don’t even spread this stuff onto anything. I spoonline it.
Now this blog isn’t about Nutella, or my jar which is neither half-empty nor half-full. And it’s not about chick peas. But here is a photo of ones I whipped up today AFTER I discovered the paucity of Nutella. They have chili and cayenne on them. Can’t go wrong, there.
This is about the fact that I have a plethora of semi-finished (or semi-started) novels and I am at a complete loss as to what to do.
So I do what any other writer would do: stress eat.
And all that’s left me with is an extra 300 grams I didn’t need (cushioning my left buttock, I hate when the weight-gain is unbalanced!) and a sense of remorse that when I should have just arbitrarily picked a novel, I nibbled a jar of Nutella (well, contents only) then moved onto chick peas. I can’t seem to cope with reality.
There’s an analogy in all this somewhere: my alternate universe, my mostly empty Nutella jar, my abundance of chick peas, and forensic accounting research, sand. But what oh what is it, Cosmos? What are you trying to tell me?
Hey, you can’t think I’d let this “Nora Roberts” person have the last word on my blog. My value-add? I’ve stepped away from the kitchen (I can hear Pamela Mason telling me to “spit it out” oh my Obi-Pam!) and I’m off to the writing cave.