I hope each and every one of you has a friend who thinks you’re cooler and more interesting than you really are. Mine is called Liz. About a month ago, she gave me this book called Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously, which is adapted from the blog Julie Powell started in order to chronicle her attempt to make each and every recipe in Julia Child’s book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in one year. I suspect Liz thinks I should turn my blog into a book. My suspicions are based on two things: 1) I have a well-documented aversion to cooking (so why would she give me a book about cooking?) and 2) she told me.
Yes, Liz has read my blog. (Actually, we met here.) Perhaps because Liz and I share an unhealthy obsession with the Indigo Girls, she hasn’t realized yet that my blog is boring. I’m not so self-deprecating that I don’t recognize or won’t admit that sometimes I am witty and maybe even clever. I try to be earnest, raw, and off-the-cuff. Sometimes I succeed in creating something entertaining.
But a book? Seriously? What would it be about?
If I were a “name,” if people who didn’t share my last name cared what I thought, then maybe I could make this crap into a collection of essays about the Meaning of Life. For the Write Reason: Katie Explains It Allâ€”what do you think? Melissa Joan Hart could play me in the movie version.
The point I am trying to make is that I am enormously flattered. Julie and Julia is a great story. A blurb on the back compares it to Bridget Jones, and although Julie is neither British nor a “singleton,” the comparison is spot-on. Julie has clumsy charm. She is self-effacing and unapologetic about doing this crazy thing and she basically admits that she did it for no discernible, explainable reason. Welcome to the way I live my life.
Furthermore, the relationship Julie has with Julia Child mirrors the one I have with Joan Didion. I stumbled upon Didion when I was lost. My spirit was floundering and she made me a writer. I like that Julia Child made Julie Powell a writer, too. I wonder how many people who don’t know what they want to be when they grow up are just writers who don’t know it yet.