I have a secret life.
I feed my kids organic milk, whole wheat linguini, and sloppy joes made from soy.
But I have a secret stash of Twinkies.
I come by it naturally. When I was growing up, my mother force-fed my brother and me carab chip cookies (sort of like chocolate, but more like cardboard), granola, and ground turkey burgers (which do not, despite my mother’s protests, taste exactly the same.)
She had a secret stash of peanut M&Ms.
And my biggest secret is that I can not write without a steady stream of snacks. Sometimes I OD on Beachside Barbecue chips, sometimes chocolate chips (when I’m trying to pace myself), sometimes, half of a gallon-sized ziplock bag of my husband’s special birthday cookies. (Sorry, dear.)
Apparently, my imagination is fueled by crap. Cheetos, in particular. And sweets. I spent four days holed up in a beach hotel to get a start on my novel last year, certain that a writer’s retreat would be the answer to my sluggish progress. (This is the problem with selling a book before you actually write it — once you cash the check they actually expect you to produce a complete work. On time. Can you believe it?)
On the way to the beach, I stopped off at Target for a couple of bags of junk food to get me through the weekend. Four days later, I had seven chapters and a sugar hangover.
That’s my secret. Now, can I have a cookie?
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