Okay. This is another one of those “bear with me” posts. I’ll get to the point. I promise. Not sure how, but I will.

I’m facing the weekend. That little island of writing in the shark-infested sea of my life. Okay not an island, no sea and no sharks. But a big ol’ pot of boiling me.

I have decided to move backward to move forward. To stand away from the hard-won plot of the book-in-progress to see where I can make it stronger. To make a soup of my head, and see what yumminess is possible.

Maybe I need carrots. Maybe an onion. Gotta find where the meat is; the herbs. Gotta let it simmer—and remind myself that it’ll be done when it wants to be, not when I say. Sure, it used to be a head. Now it’s something different. Perhaps not what I thought. Could be something gutsier, less ethereal. Maybe I’ll have to reduce it to concentrate it. Maybe I’ll need to take away in order to add.

Could wind up a little more stick-to-your-ribs than haute cuisine.  That’s how cooking goes, sometimes.

But one thing is sure: It’ll taste even better when I’m finished.

Because, see, writing’s like a goat-head soup. The flavor-maker’s in there, under that simmering surface. You may not want to know what down there, hidden beneath the lazy bubble. But without it, nothing would be quite the same. And it doesn’t happen all at once. You start with what you know, then taste and adjust until you get what you want.

I’m starting with good. I can make better.

It have gotten my own goat. May as well make soup.