I’ve never thought of writing as a lonely profession, but I do consider it a profession filled with challenges and distractions.

I love reading all types of books, both fiction and nonfiction—thrillers, murder mysteries, romances with a good story line, histories, adventures, travel and biographies.  Thanks to other online writing buddies, I now include some sci-fi and paranormal romances.  I’ve never thought about what writing genres I favour because if the story-line grabs you by the eyeballs and holds your attention to the last satisfying page, who cares what genre it was.  The only thing that matters was a darn good story that kept you glued to the pages.

I keep trying to write some kick-ass thriller but somehow my hero/heroine is a “foodie” with an attitude.  Martial art moves may connect purely by  accident.  And my vision of Uzis, Berettas, sniper-scopes, missiles and fast cars are replaced by a paring knife and  fork as the weapons of mass destruction.  What is it with my keyboard?  I want to create mayhem, violence, lots of blood and gore, but what ends up on my screen is warm and fuzzy.  Sigh, that’s one of my challenges or maybe, that’s my calling. . .

Distractions are plentiful.  After immersing myself in my character’s dilemma and plunging him/her into more trouble, it seems Nature calls. I’m not referring to bathroom breaks, but the need for food and the great outdoors beckons—especially if it’s great walking weather.  To further distract me from my keyboard, there’s family demands, house and garden stuff as well as email and checking out my other bloggers.

There’s people to see, places to go and there’s research—there’s always research.  I love research, the delving into all sorts of information treasures.  It’s pure gold when the info path leads you down numerous roads, plunging you into fascinating areas of new information that should probably be in another book or future story. Historical research material with carefully bundled correspondence are especially distracting.  Most times these beautifully hand-written letters to family and friends often gives a glimpse of daily lives recorded from a past era.  Other times, it requires a great deal of squinting and guessing to decipher someone’s penmanship—was it a personal message or a business one?

See, distractions, the bane of a writer’s existence as well as another challenge—the challenge of finding more time to do some serious writing. . . .

This was first posted in November 2012 and since that time, Twinkies once again resumed production on July 2013 in the United States under the Hostess Brand. In Canada, Twinkies never stopped producing as it was made by a Montreal bakery.

I can’t believe I’m actually writing about “Twinkies,”–that rounded, rectangular sponge cake with the cream centre. None of my coffee group have eaten it in decades, but some of us actually mourned this sweet confection’s demise as we sipped our lattes and savoured our buttery, apple/pecan Danishes.

It did bring back a flood of memories for all of us. I remember studying for exams with my best friend. She firmly believed food–specifically a dozen Twinkies–would help us retain the information crammed in 4-hours that we had supposedly learned over the school year. It must have helped as we both passed.

Marlena loves to collect bits of fascinating trivia, then  tossing it out to catch our reactions. One tidbit, appropriately named “Twinkiegate” happened in 1986 when George Belair, a Minneapolis candidate for city council was accused of trying to bribe seniors for their votes with coffee, cool-aid and $34 worth of Twinkies. This actually resulted in a fair campaign act known as the “Twinkie Law” which was later repealed in Minnesota.  And who could forget the “Twinkie Defense?” In May 1979, San Francisco supervisor, Dan White was convicted of voluntary manslaughter in the shooting deaths of Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor, Harvey Milk. White’s lawyers claimed that their client had indulged in a poor diet of Twinkies, became depressed and it drove him to commit murder.

Barb remembered her mother telling her that the original Twinkies had a banana cream filling, but there was a banana shortage during the second world war, so in 1945 Twinkies got a make-over using a vanilla cream filling. Apparently the original Twinkies were made of butter, milk and eggs with a shelf life of 2-days. Today, the sponge cake has 8 of its 39 ingredients derived from corn, is non-dairy and has a shelf-life of 25 days.

How did Twinkies come about? I thought you’d never ask. I did my Google bit and found out that in 1930, Continental Bakery Company’s vice-prez, James Dewar was inspired when he saw a pair of “Twinkle Toe Shoes.”  At that time, his bakery was selling shortbread fingers filled with strawberries under the Hostess Brand name. “Little Shortbread Fingers” was reborn with the new name of “Twinkies.”

I am sorry to see the passing of another food icon, but in this 21st century, I wouldn’t be surprised to see another country buying the Twinkie name and bringing it back. China is building European cars so why not a restructured Twinkie?  I can see it now–a delicate sponge cake with a choice of fillings:  coconut cream, sweet red bean filling or a light green tea butter cream.  Owner/chef, Christopher Sell of a fish n’ chips eatery, was the first to deep-fry Twinkies–the result being similar to the Mexican doughnut, “churros.”

Hey, the possibilities goes on. Twinkies will never die–it’ll just be reborn with a new face and flavour to catch a new generation. Life goes on and so does Twinkies.

Today I have the privilege of being a guest-blogger on Canadian writer friend, Leanne Dyck’s blogsite. Do pop in to visit—enjoy Leanne’s thoughts, little stories,  great photos, fascinating  and fun guests.

The site is found at  http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.ca

(With a few minor changes, I am re-posting this story for new readers to enjoy.)

Fortune cookies are one of my secret weaknesses. I know it’s very non-Chinese of me because honestly, fortune cookies were never a genuine Chinese tradition–only in Chinese restaurants as a gracious way to present the bill. I hate it when these restaurants offer the obligatory fortune cookie to each person at the table. This means you only get one grab at a fortune. But when you get a bunch of tasty fortune cookies in your own bag, then your chances of getting a decent fortune increases tenfold.

You know, when you have one of those moments when you crave something less potent than dark Belgian chocolate and a lot more than healthy snacks? This is one of those snack attacks when chips and Cheetos just won’t do, but you definitely don’t want a rice cracker either. Well, when all else fails to entice, then it’s a bag of fortune cookies for me.

I had the fortune cookie craving the other day. I felt I needed some fuel for walking the hilly 4-mile route around my neighbourhood. Reading the fortunes always spurred me on as I snacked while tackling the hills. Besides, I could burn off 2000 calories, maybe even 3000, by the time I completed my route.

The first hill is a killer because my knees practically hits my chin as I make my way up the top, munching three fortune cookies during the climb. Before descending the other side, I read my fortunes. Number 1 said: Beware any obstacles. As far as I could see, I had two more hills before the route leveled out and got me home. Fortune number 2 said: Smile and the World smiles with you. Just knowing I had two more obstacles made me groan. Who could possibly smile? Fortune number 3 said: Your efforts will pay off.  Now, that one was a keeper. I wanted to look great in my new dress and by gosh, by golly, I will! Tucked this fortune in my pocket and chucked the others in the trash bin.

Downhill was a breeze—a fast pace downwards, a block of level ground and then the start of hill number 2. This one is a sneakier hill because it’s a gradual upgrade, then steep near the top and a slow drop down the other side. Because the route is longer here, I ate five more fortune cookies. Finally reaching the peak, I sorted through my fortunes and noted two were the same: Stop and smell the roses.  Not yet, not until I complete the last hill. The next fortune predicted:  Today, indulge your craving. Tomorrow arrives soon enough.  Whoa, was that some kind of dire warning? My last fortune said: The sky’s the limit ; reach high!  I liked that and tucked it in my pocket.  But wait—five cookies should have five fortunes. One of my cookies arrived empty, or did it? I didn’t think I had dropped a fortune and I sure as heck wasn’t going back to look.

Trudging down the gradual decline, I waited until I got to the final hill before I ate my way through the last four cookies. This was actually a medium hill with a medium incline and then a running decline. Finally, a block from home, I checked my slips of paper.  Laughter is the music of one’s soul.  Hmm-mm, that sounded nice. The next slip of paper said:  Fortune has a fickle heart and a short memory. Guess that meant my lottery ticket didn’t win—again. The final two fortunes were identical and whoever wrote these had a terrific sense of humour:  Fortune smiles at those who help themselves; but sometimes Fortune needs a good kick in the pants to recognize you.  Never mind that I had devoured a bag of fortune cookies. Of course Fortune was seeing the future thinner Me. That 4-mile walk had to have burnt off 3000 calories. Whoever said, “Never trust a fortune cookie” just didn’t know what they were eating–I mean, reading!

This was a former Red Room comment posted January 2013  and reposted with a few minor changes. Thank goodness for Mars and Venus–their differences definitely makes for a more lively existence. . .

Men and women think differently. I didn’t just figure this out. I knew this fact when Hubby and I were dating. We went through a lot of stuff before we were married. I like to think of it as a test–sort of a compatibility test. Come to think of it, we’re still testing ourselves, even though we’ve now been married over 18 years. You know that book, “Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus?  Well, that’s how Hubby and I approach problems and solve them. Amazingly, we usually arrive at the same conclusion, but one path is slightly more convoluted and I won’t say whose.

Hubby is a detail person. This translates as a man who looks the whole problem or project over and plans it to the last finishing touch: the materials needed, the tools to be used, and the space required . I’m a do-it-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of woman. I know what the job is and I know what the finished project should look like. It’s the getting from A to B that’s interesting. When a detailed person does a project with an interesting person, well, the working atmosphere becomes “emotionally charged.” That’s why Hubby and I–depending what the project is–wisely defers to either the detail person or the interesting person. So far, we have survived this solution.

The family car is another area that shows the gender difference. I love the Volvo station wagon because it gets me to wherever I need to be. It has sufficient room in the cargo bay to hold groceries, books and other paraphernalia. When we moved, it held a lot of our small furniture and household goods. Hubby loves the Volvo too, as he carefully vacuums the carpets, cleans the dust off the dash, washes and polishes, checks under the hood to make sure all the proper fluids are topped up, tire pressures are regularly checked. I think I’ve heard a pitiful whimper whenever the “Silver Bullet” returns from its errands with new battle scars:  a ding from some careless stranger’s car door; a scratch from someone’s runaway grocery cart; some high-flying bird deciding to drop his “big boomers” on the shiny roof of a moving target and the list goes on.

Years of experience has taught me a few things. The thin edge of the metal workshop ruler works as a great screwdriver when the butter knife doesn’t do the job. The small screwdriver with the flat thin tip can’t always pry open a tight lid. The handy-dandy hammer works on loose nails, but  doesn’t work on loose screws. I also learned that some men are very protective of their tools.

Shortly after I got married, I needed something to open a pickle jar. This jar’s lid refused the hot water treatment, the “knock” on the countertop; the rubber “grip” that never failed before and several other techniques that usually worked. This was a stubbornly stuck lid and required Step B, the drastic step. I needed to raid my Hubby’s toolbox and find the vise-like tool that would solve the problem. I was convinced of this. If this failed too, I could always bash the lid with the vise. Hubby arrived home just as I was trying to wrap the vise’s teeth around the lid. He grabbed his beloved tool, seized the rubber gloves by the sink, stuck his hands in the gloves, gripped the jar and twisted the lid. The lid popped, the jar was opened. That day, I learned Mars does not share everything with Venus and that included the workshop and the contents of the toolbox.

And let’s not forget the stereo system. I like listening to music on the car radio, the kitchen radio, on my computer and on the stereo. It’s magical how the music flows out of the speakers and sounds wonderful. I like to switch it on, adjust the volume and dance. Simple. To a stereophile male, yes the stereo does all these things, but to get there, the speakers should not have knick-knacks sitting on top of it. The amplifiers are delicately adjusted so the various instruments are clearly distinguished. The speakers are carefully positioned so the sound is evenly distributed and aimed to the proper corners of the room. So far, our negotiable truce is holding. Hubby gets to fiddle and twiddle all the knobs and switches so he can sit back and enjoy the music. I get to turn the stereo on, let the music fill my heart and soul–then, dance.

Yes, some Men can be from Mars and some Women may come from Venus, but Life can be so dull if we all thought the same and behaved the same. Excuse me, I just noticed a loose nail poking out of the floorboard and my shoe didn’t work. I’ll have to resort to Plan B. . .