Originally posted October 2006

My mom is a wonderful cook—and she loves doing it. For spans of years at different times in her life, she served as the Wednesday night “chef” at church. She loves having people over to the house for a meal, because it give her an excuse to get out all of her restaurant-size pots and pans. She loves recipe and cooking books, especially books that explore the science of cooking. Her ultimate dream-home is one that allows at least 1,000 square feet for the kitchen. Her idea of an over-the-top romantic gift: a commercial-grade gas stove with six burners and built-in griddle (she’s had one before and unfortunately jobs took my parents to another state, and she had to leave it behind). For Mom, cooking is one of her creative outlets—a stress reliever and something she does to bring happiness to herself and to others.

One of the many projects I’ve got on my desk at work right now is a pile of rough, reader-submitted recipes for a new Dessert Cookbook we’ll be putting out in the spring. A major part of the task is editing them for across-the-board consistency: measurements, terminology, order of ingredients, and step-by-step instructions. Some of the recipes were submitted by dear, sweet ladies who have been making these cakes or candies or pies all their adult lives, and many times, they tend to either leave out or gloss over important steps that someone just learning to cook, or who has never made that kind of recipe, might not be able to figure out on her own. If I did not have a good foundation in what we’ll call cooking theory—learned from years spent helping my mom in the kitchen—I wouldn’t recognize when those steps aren’t there.

Writing is very much like this. We must know our craft well—must become experts in the theory of the genres we’re writing in—so that when our manuscripts leave our desks and land in someone else’s hands, they don’t end up reading a mish-mash of a story because we left out important ingredients—such as story elements, wrap-up of secondary plots, or character development—or step-by-step directions—such as clear and concise plot, conflict, and resolutions.

There are basic fundamentals of cooking theory which cannot be ignored—yeast, baking powder, and baking soda are leavening agents; too much salt makes something inedible, while too little makes it bland; chicken must be thoroughly cooked to reduce the risk of food poisoning; Thanksgiving turkeys have a certain temperature at which they burst into flames; and eggs still in the shell will explode if microwaved. There are also basic fundamentals of writing which cannot be ignored—good grammar; goals, conflict, motivation; a clear beginning and ending; a well-defined plot; interesting characters; realistic dialogue; active rather than passive language; etc.

Then, within the world of cooking, there are certain types of cooking we find more enjoyable: bread baking, cakes and pies, cookies, grilling, casseroles, raw/organic, low fat/carb. These are like the genres in writing: romance, sci-fi, fantasy, suspense, horror, humor, mystery, children’s, inspirational, literary. Once a cook finds a knack for making certain types of food, she can—and usually does—discover that, in addition to the recipes she knows by heart and follows to the letter, she wants to experiment with her own ideas, based upon the principles and fundamentals she has learned by following others’ recipes to the letter. She starts to add a pinch of this, a dash of that. Maybe she has developed to the point where she can eyeball measurements and just throw stuff in a bowl and be confident it’s the right amount.

Because I don’t do a ton of cooking at home (mostly because it’s not so fun to cook for one person, and I hate having to clean up afterward), whenever I make something out of the ordinary, I always follow the recipe—but am comfortable enough with the theory of cooking that I can and do estimate measurements or experiment with different flavors or spices. There are a few things I make where I follow no recipe, just the basic steps I put together by doing it so many times—chili con carne, for example. I must have the basic foundations of the dish: tomato sauce, Rotel, Tennessee Pride HOT ground pork sausage, light red kidney beans. And I add the same amounts of these items every time (which is easy because they come pre-packaged that way). If I stopped there, it wouldn’t taste all that great. So I add spices: basil, oregano, chili powder, red chile flakes, onion (fresh or powdered), garlic (salt, powdered, or minced?), salt, ground black pepper. I’ll add some, stir the mixture, see what it looks like, let it bubble for a few minutes, taste it—knowing that once it cooks for a while the flavors will be intensified—add a little more of this, set that aside. I usually make chili about once a month—and it has never turned out the same any time I’ve made it. Sometimes it’s just okay, sometimes it’s fantastic. Next time I make it (which will probably be this weekend, now that I’m craving it), I’m going to try something that I saw on the Food Network—adding a little bit of cocoa powder to it.

In writing, I know the basic theory of my genre: boy and girl meet; boy and girl fall in love; boy and girl face rising obstacles to their happiness/relationship; conflict ultimately seems to tear boy and girl apart; boy and girl reconcile and live happily ever after. Pretty bland. But then I start adding the spices: a secret identity, a marriage of convenience between two people who think they can’t stand the other, an ex-fiancé returning to the picture, a mysterious illness, a job offer thousands of miles away, miscommunications and misunderstandings, sabotage by outsiders. One of the best things about adding spices in writing as opposed to cooking is if it doesn’t “taste” right, it can be edited right back out!

When we first learn to cook, we’re not doing it for a party of 500+. We’re usually doing it for ourselves and maybe our closest family members. Then, as we gain more experience and confidence, we start offering to bring dishes when invited to a friend’s home for dinner. If that goes over well, we might host a small dinner party for a very few close friends. Once the rave reviews come in (and the suggestions of what dishes to work on or not to serve again), we’ll become more and more confident with our skill and willing to invite larger and larger groups over for dinner parties.

When we first start writing, it’s usually something we do in private, not really letting many, if anyone, see it. But then, once we start learning the craft, we’ll allow a few close friends or family members read it. Eventually, we get to the point where we’re seeking out critique partners to have a taste of it—and then, the ultimate dinner party invitation: sending it out to agents and editors.

So, learn the foundations of the craft of writing. Learn the theory behind your chosen genre. And then, go out and write something tasty!