I'm not so sure.
Sometimes I make pie because I'm in that mood to dig up old memories and let them hold my heart. Sometimes I make pie because I'd like a dessert but have limited ingredients. Pie is probably my preferred dessert (apart from the never fail hot chocolate sauce fudge pudding). But I don't find making pies easy.
There's a type of anxious inadequacy I face with every pie I make. Will I be able to roll out this crust? Will it burn around the edges again? Will the meringue shrink? Will the middle set or will it come out soggy?
And yet, despite various unpredictable results, I find myself continually returning to the kitchen, choosing a pie dish like it's a mood or a colour, and pulling out another recipe to try.
And then there are the very practical considerations of sales and promotions and school visits and publicity and, well, maybe that's why I like to make pie? It's so much easier than all of this 'author business', especially in the 'current season', when the things we had taken for granted are shoved aside - not so much by imposed restrictions, than the rippling undercurrents in our lives we had been trying to ignore.
However unsettling these questions are, I suspect I need to face them full on. Of course; I don't really have to; I could bluster on-wards, shove them down, argue my way out of their gentle observations. But if I do that, will I grow?
My anxiety about making pies is trivial. I face it because I know, regardless of how burnt or wonky or caved in my pie appears, it will be yummy (even if a bit crunchy). In a similar manner, my usual writer's self-doubt ensures I give my best to my work to my writing. But these deeper questions uncovered by current times? What do they do?
Well, they expose where my heart is at. They ask me to look into the mirror - the one on the wall and the one that is God's word - and see those parts of me that need addressing. It can be humiliating to look this way. It can be hard, but it's also real.
And that makes it worth it all.