Write. Write. Write.

On days like today I question my decision to make a career out of writing. Between work and scholarship essays (of which I have written many), I feel like I have been writing nonstop for more than a week. Nonstop. And I am not enjoying myself. I have two more essays to write tonight. My brain feels like mashed up sweet potatoes.

There is nothing I want to do less right now than right those essays (See? I just spelled "write" like "right." I'm dying here). I even considered going running. And got excited about the idea. Weird.

So ... instead of writing, I am listening to The Cab on repeat. I just discovered them a few days ago. I think I might la-la-la-la-love them.

Dance teacher

My good friends Shawnna and Leo Michalek direct the University of Utah's ballroom dance company. Here's a little look at their concert prep.

Creativity

Talented people

I thought it would be fun to take my camera down to the U.S. National Dancesport Championships this weekend. And it was. The dancing was amazing (as usual) and I was great to revisit my dancing days. Also, I got lots of practice overexposing (and underexposing) things and clicking the shutter right after somebody did something completely mind blowing.

P.S. I can't get over the cuteness that is baby ballroom dancers. OK. They're not babies. But look how small they look out on the floor under the discerning gaze of that massive judge with his gigantic clipboard. Adorable.

Long lost love

My heart did a little tuck and flip when I saw him there, leaning against the counter.

Austin.

I knew he'd seen me; I could tell by the way his shoulders tightened, creeping ever so slightly up toward his ears. He kept his eyes locked on the girl in front of him as if he was afraid where his gaze might wander. He laughed a little too loudly at her canned joke, a little too long.

It had been awhile. The last time I saw him, we were standing on the top of a mountain watching the sun slip down the sky. He pulled me close and asked me to dance to the music of the stars. Was this the real thing? He wanted to know. I wanted it to be. But as soon as he asked, I knew it was over. I tried to let him down gently.

In the years since that night, we hadn't talked much. He sent me an email when he got engaged to another woman. I congratulated him, had a sleepless night, tossing and turning, thinking, "What if," and then moved on.

But now here he was, wearing his characteristic polo and jeans, flashing that half-smile I'd always found so alluring, at a party for singles. Did the engagement fall through? Did he get divorced? I couldn't hear my thoughts over the familiar flitting of butterflies in my stomach.

I sidled on over. I batted my eyelashes and twisted my hair around my finger like some kind of 16-year-old valley girl. He leaned in to listen to me. I touched his elbow. The magic — it was still there. I allowed myself to indulge in a 30 second fantasy: Maybe we were meant to be together after all.

But something wasn't quite right.

"Are you living in Salt Lake now?" I asked him. He lived in Provo when we dated.

"Yeah," he said, raising his eyebrow a little. "I've got that place in Sugarhouse."

He was working as an engineer, he told me, when I asked what he was up to. I was surprised. The last time we'd talked, he was planning to enroll in the police academy.

"Why did you decide to be an engineer?"

He laughed a little uncomfortable laugh. His eyes searched mine, looking for something. I was confused by his confusion. I was a little relieved when the hostess stepped in.

"Thanks for coming," she said. "I'm sorry, I haven't met you. I'm Allison."

"Elizabeth," I said, holding out my hand.

"James," he said.

And then I remembered.

James. The engineer from Sugarhouse who dumped me because my job was too demanding (True story. Dating a journalist isn't for everyone.).

I think it was a sign. I have dated far too long. Or I date men who look too much alike. Or I am an idiot.

I can't decide.

Cooking for one

I like cooking. I like sifting through recipes, imagining how flavors will mix and mingle and party in my mouth (Sometimes I take a cookbook to bed instead of a novel). I like searching the grocery store for exotic vegetables and spices I've never heard of before. I like turning up the music and dancing around my kitchen, trying not to burn anything.

There's just one thing I don't like about cooking (Well, aside from doing the dishes. Who likes doing the dishes?) Recipes feed four, six or sometimes even eight people. I am only one.

I spent some times with my good friend Google, looking for solutions. Though I did find some pretty awesome instructions for making 35 sandwiches in 20 minutes, I've yet to find a life-changing approach to cooking for one. So I soldier on, cooking far, far too much food and, because I hate to waste, I usually eat the same thing every day for a week.

The good news is, I've developed a new way of rating recipes.

For example, Chicken with Lemon-Leek Linguine? First day: yummy. Second day: meh. Third day: Lean Cuisine time. Spinach-and-Mushroom Quesadillas? Three days delicious. Tandoori-Spiced Chicken paired with Bulgar with Dried Cranberries? I will eat this for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a fortnight without complaining.

Today I made Bulgar with Vegetables and Feta (Smith's only had bulgar in bulk). Today it was delectable. Tomorrow ... we shall see. :)

Saturday in Salt Lake City

(Creepily photographing strange children)