Will I ever go home for blackberry pie?

Dear Reader,

A story should be like a blackberry pie, I think. It should look good. The crust should be seductively golden and bulging with goodness. It should look so inviting that you want to caress it. And it should smell so good that you can’t resist. But how do you make a story smell sweet and gentle and seductive, like a smiling little girl? It should be warm like a mother’s hug but how can a story be warm and safe? And it must taste good too. Mostly sweet but a little tart. Not bitter like an angry father’s glare, of course. But there’s nothing very wrong with some little flecks of fear or even the subtle scent of loathing. A slightly piquant hint of intrigue like nutmeg perhaps or a secretive wink from an angry man. Or perhaps the more subtle, gentler charm of cinnamon. Like a hint of an almost-smile from that same angry man. And the berries, the pie’s very essence. It’s a blackberry pie remember. They have to be full and plump and juicy. These are the story’s characters. They must tease and manipulate and seduce and finally, eventually, at long last, they explode inside you. The blackberries, the characters, satisfy our deepest desire. Perhaps there can be the allure of some baked figs or even some caramelised walnuts for some sensual excitement; to titivate. Might these be the intrigue and the surprise and the mystery and the unexpected twists that we crave within a good story? And what about anticipation and hope and desire and, dare I say it, lust? How do you get all of that into a pie? And into a story? That, my dear friend, has to remain secret. My secret, concealed in the dark.

Salo Maa Neco