Confessions of an Inquisitive Child...

Each author has an ish...mine is description. I delight in finding the perfect words to describe a situation, taste, smell, sight, or feel...but sometimes such descriptions require confessions of a rather embarrassing nature, that elicit less than favourable responses in others.
For instance, my first host father in Germany was an epicurean sort, who love good cheese and wine and lavished his rotund figure with it on a regular basis. He often travelled around Europe collecting delights, such as mounds (and I do mean mounds) of Swiss chocolate for me to try (one of every bar, some enormous...which I proceeded to polish off within a week) and Petit Ecolier cookies from France. Most memorable of course, was his trip to Paris, from which he brought back the best of aged brie and camembert. I thought this wonderful...until I tasted it. All I could say, is that it tasted like dirty gym socks. Most took this to mean I had, at some point, sample dirty gym socks and found the flavour comparable to that of camembert. What I meant to say is, it takes like what I IMAGINE dirty gym socks to taste like...you get my point. Word choice is everything!
Tonight, I attempted to describe the unexpected, bitter flavour of Seville marmalade to a 6-year-old during the 18th century, who is from a place where even just a plain orange would be hard to come by. And, for some reason, ear wax came to mind. I have had this thought before...when I was 11 I had open heart surgery, but was terrified of being put under with a needle, and didn't want gas either. I had (and still do) a particular hatred for black licorice because it tasted like the flavour left in my mouth from sleeping gas, when I'd had tubes put in my ears several years before. So, I opted for a liquid anaesthetic. All I can say is, it tasted like earwax.
Now, don't give me that look! Everyone always cringes when I say this, and I know what you're thinking. Do you eat earwax often? But I know you know what I mean. Surely, most of us have, at some point, had a little tickle in our ears, and dared to plunge a digit inside to expunge the itch. Then, without thinking, you later put your finger in your mouth, to floss your teeth, or pick out a popcorn kernel, or likc your fingers because you (very naughtily) ate some crap-packed orange cheesies and they're just finger licking good. And you get this horrible taste in your mouth, bitter, and realize it's ear wax.
Surely, I'm not the only one who has done this? Goodness, someone's even written a book about it!
Well, there you go. I confess: I have tasted earwax. But I know I'm not the only one.
What other strange confessions will my attempts at description elicit?

Novel Word Count To Date: 7,662

Location, Location, Location!

I just spent a wackload of time preparing my office as a comfortable writing space, hung pictures on the wall, tidied up the shelves... I finally emptied the plethora of boxes in my closet full of junk I'll never use but somehow accumulated: quarter-full jars of dried up acrylic paint inherited from my crafty grandmother, bits of paper I'll never scrap with but can't get rid of because they "remind me of when"...I put all this work into creating a comfortable, organized, calming and inspiring work space, and here I am sitting on the couch in my living room, in the middle of everything, and happy as a clam. I read once that Stephenie Meyer, author of the Twilight Series, sets herself right up in the middle of the action, and is perfectly content despite having her three boys running around her. Others, like John Wilson, a young adult fiction writer from Lantzville (whom I met with for advice at the beginning of my journey to becoming a writer), locks himself away in the upper floor of his guest cottage/garage, blinds shut, noise-free, and barely emerges till it's done. "Welcome back" is his wife's customary greeting after these month-long withdrawals from all but the written word. John's author friend in Ontario has no troubles waking at 5am and driving to some Torontonian suburb for a school visit. As his early departure saves him from the worst of the morning rush-hour traffic, he arrives early and plunks himself at the local Tim Horton's until it's time to migrate towards his eager young readers at the nearby school. I've tried Starbucks, personally, but unplugged always seem to take the seats with the outlets, which doesn't seem fair to those of us attached at the hip to a device requiring an electrical current.

So, location. There really is no perfect location for every person. It's as personal a choice as your preference for certain brand of chocolate bar or cut of underwear. The best place to write? Where you feel comfortable, where you can sit and go "ah" and just focus on the task at hand. For me? It's anywhere my loved ones are. Right now, my goofy lap-dog Doberman is sitting next to me on our extra-deep love seat, sharing my knit blanket, sawing logs as I click away on my keyboard. It's even better when my husband joins us, as he is now, reading his book or playing video games (as long as he remembers to wear his headphones). The best location for me is where I'm at ease.

Oh, by the way:

Today's word count: 6,615

(a dismal day...NaNoWriMo deficit now 9,000 words! But, progress nevertheless...)