Writing became easier when I realized: mine is a morbid muse.
I can’t help it. Sex, death, and disgust are the things people remember best. I have too much gag reflex for the third, and too little suspended disbelief for the first – so you see what I’m left with.
It doesn’t help that a lot of my relaxation reading revolves around culinary topics, so when I try to use “active language” it is liberally sprinkled with verbs like cut, chop, dice, and sauté. (I frequently self-edit injunctions to “add a splash of…”.) Fortunately my distaste for outright gore rescues me from Hannibal Lecter territory; mine is a “dry” kind of death. Deadpan, if you will… and probably with a splash of sherry.
Recipes welcome in the comments!
Marushka
Skeleton At The Feast 