Baking a Flop
I’m not a baker. Never have been. Don’t intend to become one. Blame it on the false advertising of the Easy Bake Oven. Nothing I made looked like the commercial, although what was I expecting with a lightbulb for a heating element? The only time I really think about baked goods is when I’m craving a double-chocolate brownie, but before I drive across the potholes to the grocery store, I remember one of those delicious dark squares equals two sweaty five-mile treks down the beach to burn off the calories. I will also tell you that before I married the Hubster (who is a terrific baker), my oven was used for storage, and anything placed on my cake plate came from the bakery at the Piggly Wiggly. I think this opening paragraph tells you a lot about me. Oh come on, you know me.
But recently, I found myself drawing a parallel between baking and writing. Both are creative processes that involve a series of steps, both bring joy, and both can result in something beautiful or, at times, less than perfect. Some of you are already thinking, She’s gone off the deep end, but hear me out.
Some stories rise beautifully—effortless, airy, practically floating out of the oven like a picture-perfect soufflé. I envy those authors. I imagine they also have spotless kitchens, perfectly starched aprons, and cartoon birds that flutter in to help with the dishes. Me? I’m the girl with flour smudges on her face and a shirt streaked with every ingredient used who opens the oven only to feel her eyelashes melting, sees the sunken cake, and thinks, Okay, how do we salvage this? But in these moments, I find a unique joy in the creative process, in the imperfections that make the end result uniquely mine.
On the rare occasion that I bake and produce a flop, it’s usually because I missed a step. And when a rough draft flops? That’s usually because I faceplanted on a literary pothole. I didn’t think the idea through all the way. Like a fallen soufflé, sometimes, as much as I want that fantastic plot or subplot, a motive, a method, a funny character, or a classic one-liner to work, it just… doesn’t. But that’s when a sunken cake turns into a stunning trifle, just waiting to be devoured.
Case in point: I have a notecard with a chef’s kiss, a perfect zinger from Dolly, my nonagenarian beauty contestant, and yet I cannot find a single place for it in my story. It's a great line, but it just doesn't fit anywhere. Don’t force it, I remind myself. But it’s so good! Keep searching in one of your twenty edits before it gets sent off to your editor. I’m willing to bet we can find a place for it, my writer ego says.
Here’s another one: how this entire book was supposed to go has nothing to do with the story I wrote. Not. One. Thing. It was supposed to be a robbery on the ship by a band of beauty queen thieves. Now it’s something completely different. Talk about grabbing the wrong bag of flour!
I also have to remind myself not to over-edit. When I do, my manuscript turns into the literary equivalent of an overwhipped meringue—dry, deflated, and wondering where all its joy went.
At the end of the day, whether in the kitchen or at the keyboard, the goal is the same—make something that brings people joy. And if it flops?
Well, as we all know, frosting fixes everything. Until next month!
But recently, I found myself drawing a parallel between baking and writing. Both are creative processes that involve a series of steps, both bring joy, and both can result in something beautiful or, at times, less than perfect. Some of you are already thinking, She’s gone off the deep end, but hear me out.
Some stories rise beautifully—effortless, airy, practically floating out of the oven like a picture-perfect soufflé. I envy those authors. I imagine they also have spotless kitchens, perfectly starched aprons, and cartoon birds that flutter in to help with the dishes. Me? I’m the girl with flour smudges on her face and a shirt streaked with every ingredient used who opens the oven only to feel her eyelashes melting, sees the sunken cake, and thinks, Okay, how do we salvage this? But in these moments, I find a unique joy in the creative process, in the imperfections that make the end result uniquely mine.
On the rare occasion that I bake and produce a flop, it’s usually because I missed a step. And when a rough draft flops? That’s usually because I faceplanted on a literary pothole. I didn’t think the idea through all the way. Like a fallen soufflé, sometimes, as much as I want that fantastic plot or subplot, a motive, a method, a funny character, or a classic one-liner to work, it just… doesn’t. But that’s when a sunken cake turns into a stunning trifle, just waiting to be devoured.
Case in point: I have a notecard with a chef’s kiss, a perfect zinger from Dolly, my nonagenarian beauty contestant, and yet I cannot find a single place for it in my story. It's a great line, but it just doesn't fit anywhere. Don’t force it, I remind myself. But it’s so good! Keep searching in one of your twenty edits before it gets sent off to your editor. I’m willing to bet we can find a place for it, my writer ego says.
Here’s another one: how this entire book was supposed to go has nothing to do with the story I wrote. Not. One. Thing. It was supposed to be a robbery on the ship by a band of beauty queen thieves. Now it’s something completely different. Talk about grabbing the wrong bag of flour!
I also have to remind myself not to over-edit. When I do, my manuscript turns into the literary equivalent of an overwhipped meringue—dry, deflated, and wondering where all its joy went.
At the end of the day, whether in the kitchen or at the keyboard, the goal is the same—make something that brings people joy. And if it flops?
Well, as we all know, frosting fixes everything. Until next month!
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