In which I ask our AI robot overlords to bake me a cake

Bloganuary: Describe your perfect birthday cake

Mmmm. Did someone say cake?

I love cake. My perfect birthday cake would involve chocolate (maybe white or dark) with raspberries. Or maybe white and dark chocolate with raspberries! And ganache. I love a ganache.

For fun, I ran various descriptions through DALL·E just to see what it would come up with.

The prompt I used was: a dark chocolate birthday cake with raspberries professional food photograph in the style of a bestselling cookbook.

Something isn’t quite right here. You know? I mean, it’s close, but it’s like DALL·E has never actually seen a cake and is winging it. Also, I’m not sure what those spikey things are in the bottom photograph, but they’re frightening.

So I changed the prompt to: a dark chocolate birthday cake with raspberries and happy ghosts professional food photograph in the style of a bestselling cookbook.

Ah, now this is a cake! Although I’m not sure why we’re celebrating my birthday in some sort of futurist prison.

So, I tried again.

Now that’s more like it! I think we have a winner. And you doubted the abilities of our AI overlords.

My tomato friend

Bloganuary: What are the pros and cons of procrastination?

Poor procrastination. It gets such a bad rap. Blame the productivity/industrial complex for this (h/t Becca Syme).

One thing I like to remember is that procrastination is simply trying to tell you something (and that something isn’t that you’re lazy).

It’s unearthing what it’s trying to tell you. That’s the tricky part.

Can’t write? Maybe you need to ponder the story a bit more. Or maybe it’s tax season, and you need to clear the decks and finish your taxes. Maybe you’re procrastinating at work because there’s a problem elsewhere in your life.

Maybe you’re approaching burnout and really, really need to take a break.

How to tell? One trick I use is the Pomodoro technique. I set a timer for 25 minutes, focus on the thing I’ve been trying to do (but procrastinating), and see what happens. At the end of those twenty-five minutes, I’ll know whether I was wrestling with garden-variety resistance or if there’s a larger issue at hand.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

Bloganuary: What language do you wish you could speak?

Sigh. I wish I could speak the ones I’ve actually studied.

Over the years, I’ve studied German, Russian (my college major), a smattering of French (high school), and even a little Swedish.

But studying languages does not mean they can come out of my mouth. While stationed in Germany, I even took a beginning Russian class taught at the German equivalent of a community center.

Fortunately, the instructor also spoke English, which was handy for when I got stuck, which I invariably did. Two foreign languages at once? I don’t think my brain has hurt so much before or since.

I never had any issues with reading in a foreign language. My listening comprehension was adequate. Ask me to talk?

Then, it’s all over.

I visited Russia near the end of my tour overseas. When I returned to Germany, every time I attempted German, it came out as a strange mishmash of Russian and German. It was so bad that the locals looked alarmed every time I spoke.

Even ordering dinner was fraught.

So there you have it. I would dearly love to speak a foreign language.

Wild and precious

Bloganuary: What is a song or poem that speaks to you and why?

I recited Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day at my mom’s celebration of life. You’d think that, as a writer, I could come up with my own words. But that wasn’t happening. Some writers are brilliant in the moment, conjuring up the right thing to say without hesitation.

My writing BFF Darcy was like that. She could dazzle at a moment’s notice. On the other hand, I need to pause. I need to think and then go think some more.

These days, I’m more comfortable telling people I need to think before I produce words or give them an answer.

But back to the poem. It does encapsulate my mom’s love of nature. She had deep passions that included birding and gardening. Despite life-long and chronic back pain, she did both for as long as she was able.

I want to do things for as long as I’m able as well.

Perhaps this is why I hear the echo of those last lines more and more frequently:

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

And I pause. I stop what I’m doing—the busy work, the chores, or whatever—and remember I only have this one wild and precious life.

And I want to embrace it for as long as I’m able.

Martha Stewart, Snoop Dog, Mary Richards, and me

Bloganuary: How do you show love?

These final week prompts are getting a little personal.

I don’t know how true this is, but the first thing that came to mind was I do things for the people I love.

But not big things.

I’d be terrible at throwing someone a surprise party. Sure, I’d be able to keep it a secret. But, if you’re of an age, you may remember The Mary Tyler Moore Show. You may remember Mary Richards and her inability to throw a party.

I make Mary Richards look like Martha Stewart. I’m assuming Martha can throw a party.

People, wait. Wait. I just Googled Martha Stewart and discovered she had a reality show with Snoop Dog called Martha & Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party. How did I miss this? Okay, I’m going with yes. Yes, Martha (and Snoop) can definitely throw a party.

Anyway, we’ve established I’m not throwing a party for anyone. (And really, how can you compete with Martha & Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party?) But everyday things? Like making someone a cup of tea or finding their lost keys? That’s totally me.

In fact, if you’ve lost your keys, give me a call.

I might be able to find them—along with your missing homework assignment, the jazz shoes you need for dance class (the black, not the tan), and your favorite T-shirt.

However, if it’s a party you want, you’ll need to consult Martha and Snoop.

The stakes are a lie

Bloganuary: What’s a lie you tell yourself?

Well, this one’s a bit salty.

For me, it’s this idea that sometime in the misty future, I’ll be able to earn a living with my fiction writing.

This notion is so ingrained I’m not sure I can completely rid myself of it. But I’m trying to. Not because I dislike making money from my writing. I enjoy that.

But it was never my original motivation for writing fiction in the first place. I’ve been thinking a lot about this over the past several months. Interestingly, writing these prompts every morning has helped clarify some of the thinking, even those prompts that don’t relate to success or goals.

Or maybe especially those. It reminded me that I love to write. That my first motivation for doing so was to have stories I couldn’t find anywhere else.

When I started writing, I recognized the gap immediately. What I was writing did not match what I was reading in published novels. This frustrated me.

So I used publication as a way to gauge my progress. It was a great way to work with editors and learn.

At some point, instead of being a means to an end, publication became the end. Back in the days when traditional publishing ruled, the author with the most contracts (or awards or bestseller lists) won.

And I was—frankly—miserable. I maybe didn’t show it, but deep down, I was.

Then indie publishing came along. For a good couple of years, I had so much fun—again, learning and making progress. I love creating books, from the wispy first ideas to the finished project.

But then sales and money became the markers of success, to the point where it’s binary. If you aren’t earning “good money” (however you define that) with your writing, you should quit. Or at least, this is what it feels like. The notion permeates so many conversations about writing and publishing. It’s the water we swim in. (Which is why I’ve opted out of most of those conversations.)

For me, at least, it’s not a binary choice. Perhaps this is unique to American culture. But holy cats! We don’t need to monetize every last thing we do. Writing has worth. Whether you earn six figures from it or you simply blog for the joy of it.

I’m trying to unlearn this lie. And while I like it when people buy my books, it’s not why I write them.

So I’m searching for a new way forward. Perhaps, if I reach into the past and take the hand of the woman I once was, we can find our way into the future.

Girl Detective to the rescue

Bloganuary: What was your dream job as a child?

It was my heart’s desire to be a girl detective.

When I wasn’t reading the Betsy-Tacy books, I was probably reading a mystery. I even wandered into the adult stacks at the library and pulled Agatha Christies off the shelf when I was still fairly young.

But the mysteries I loved most were the Trixie Belden ones.

Yes, I read Nancy Drew. But Nancy was so … so … perfect. Trixie? Not so much. Trixie got into trouble, sometimes said the wrong things. To my young mind, the mysteries felt like they really could happen, and Trixie (and her club) really could solve them.

Which meant that maybe there were mysteries out there for me to solve.

I was certain there had to be. For instance, at least one mystery must have been going on in the dilapidated old workshop at the end of a dirt road not far from my house. It stood next to a copse of manicured pines—a strange sight for this part of our town. We had the slough and hills of deciduous trees, but these pines were clearly cultivated, but for what purpose wasn’t clear.

Truly a mystery. And they made excellent cover for spying on the neighborhood, particularly that old workshop. I only gathered the courage to approach the main door once. Then I thought I saw a face in the second-floor window (probably the old man who worked there and whom I was no doubt annoying). I’m not proud to say it. But.

I ran.

So much for my career as a girl detective.

On a positive note, I did not get into trouble for trying to solve mysteries that didn’t exist.

Sometime later, I realized that you could experience mysteries and adventures by not only daydreaming them but writing them down.

What a revelation!

I’m not sure where this early love of mysteries came from. Even now, I love reading (or writing) stories with secrets and mysteries. And I think I may need to go find one. The temperature is below zero, with no signs of warming up, and I could use a good mystery or secret to help me brave the day.

Down in the valley

Bloganuary: Who is your favorite author and why?

Like Anno, what I’m reading and why depends so much on my mood that I wasn’t sure I could pick a single favorite author.

But actually, I do have one.

It’s always bothered me that Maud Hart Lovelace never received the same attention as that other author who spent time in Minnesota.

The Betsy-Tacy books were my constant companions when I was growing up. How many times have I read the series? No idea. And I can’t remember when I “graduated” from the elementary school stories and started reading the high school (and beyond) ones. Relatively young, I think—I remember being dazzled.

I grew up in Maud’s Deep Valley (AKA Mankato). My house was in the area known as Little Syria in Maud’s day. And if I trudged up a sizable hill, I ended up in Betsy’s old neighborhood.

In fact, when I was in junior high, I had a paper route where I delivered papers to Betsy, Tacy, and Tib’s old homes. If you’re of an age, you’ll remember the weekly shoppers that landed on your doorstep—advertising and classifieds held together with a smattering of human interest articles. The route was only once a week (rain, shine, or snow). And I didn’t have to collect any money. Again, if you’re of an age, you’ll remember that part of newspaper delivery.

And it was in junior high that I needed Betsy the most. The progressive school I attended—which was run by the university—closed down when I was in sixth grade. The only other option was the public school system.

So on the first day of junior high, I had no friends. Worse, on the first day of junior high, I already had a reputation—as did everyone who attended the progressive school. Fill in the blank with every derogatory term for mentally deficient, and you’ll have what I was called daily.

By eighth grade, I had a friend group. By eighth grade, I’d spent every quarter on the honor roll, so I was deemed a bookworm, a brain, a nerd.

But in seventh grade, when the days were dark, and I was sore from lugging papers around the neighborhood, I’d pull the Betsy-Tacy high school books off the shelf. I’d escape into her world of picnics and dances, the crowd and crushes. My first inklings that I, too, could be a writer began with watching Betsy write.

There’s much I owe both Betsy and Maud. And that is why Maud Hart Lovelace is my favorite author.

But where will the vacuum live?

Bloganuary: What irritates you about the home you live in?

Our house was built in the late 80s and still has some of the décor to prove it. (We did finally rid the kitchen of the pink and green wallpaper—a major achievement.)

I’m not sure what the builders were thinking, but while there’s storage space and closets, there’s no good spot for storing upright cleaning equipment—like a vacuum.

The house still had wall-to-wall carpet when we bought it (with dusky pink borders). You’d think someone would’ve paused, looked around, and realized the vacuum needed a place to live.

But really, it’s a minor irritation, and at some point, we’ll rid ourselves of the last vestiges of the 80s. In the meantime, the vacuum will stand sentry, tucked away in one corner of the bedroom, constantly reminding me that I still need to vacuum something.

Tangled up in green

Bloganuary: What color describes your personality and why?

If you had asked about my favorite color from the time when I could answer that question, I would have said blue.

But I don’t think blue describes my personality.

What does describe my personality has been there from the start, in the author bio I’ve been using for publications:

Charity Tahmaseb has slung corn on the cob for Green Giant and jumped out of airplanes (but not at the same time).

She spent twelve years as a Girl Scout and six in the Army; that she wore a green uniform for both may not be a coincidence.

No, probably not a coincidence. What it is, though? I’m not sure.  

But green feels right, and that’s the answer I’m going with.