
I remember my mother’s advice that “a watched pot never boils,” but I’ve learned that an un-watched pot burns. Like my very favorite stainless steel sauce pot. I walked away for 10 minutes, forgetting to turn down the burner, and returned to find irreversible damage. Or so I thought.
I almost tossed out my pot. My best and most-loved pot. I purchased another pot, but it wasn’t the same quality. In fact, it wasn’t good for anything but boiling water. I wasn’t alone in searching for one that matched the stamina of my old burned pot. Every review I read said the same thing. “They don’t make them like they used to.”
I soaked my burned pot daily, scrubbed it with metal, put it in the dishwasher often with caustic dishwasher detergent. The inside is somewhat pitted now, but most of the burn is gone. Then the test. Will it make my favorite white sauce without burning? It did!
I tell this tale because it’s a reminder to me that there should be a balance between watching my book ad results or my book reviews–and not watching them at all. I watch them three times a day. Is that too often? Did a book sell overnight? Did I get a coveted review? When I see nothing new, I hear my mother whisper in my head, “A watched pot never boils.”
“It’s OK, mom,” I say. “I’ll strike a balance one of these days.” In the meantime, I’m going to make sure that my work won’t go up in ashes. At least not irreversibly.

Some things are as clear as mud when it comes to being visionary. Metaphors not withstanding, we often can’t see the forest for the trees. Sometimes it takes a knock on the head, a kindly reminder, or even an “aha” moment.
Rome wasn’t built in a day, they say. A field of dreams didn’t happen overnight. It takes guts and stamina to orchestrate all of the facets of project management to create a platform. In my case, a writing platform.
I’m envious. Green with envy. Searching for words that elude me, like a python slithering away in an African savanna. Metaphors, similes, and senses–oh, my! Figures of speech and imagery should be easy to craft. But they’re not. At least not if they’re used in a way that doesn’t seem contrived.
a muddle. Like
I was somewhat anxious as I pulled into the police department driveway, wondering if I’d be considered a crime suspect or a kook. Neither was the case. The patrolman who met me at the door was exceptionally hospitable, inviting me to a whitewashed room down the hall.
Several months ago after publishing A Specter of Truth, I decided to update Living with a Springer Spaniel: Pete and Me. This would be no easy task, as Pete had died six months prior and I was fearful of opening the emotions that were still close to the surface. Still, the book needed closure, as did I.
d paper scattered across a desk. I had never experienced such a break in momentum. Whenever I finished one novel, an idea for the next one always popped into my head.
I’m a pantser. I admit it. Actually, I’m quite content as a pantser. I own my pantserism.