Some time ago I discussed the unique difficulties faced by writers with a marvelous cook that I know. I was soon presented with a similar catalogue of considerations and it got me thinking. I began to wonder, is it possible that cooks and writers are more alike than I thought? Are there any aspects about our trades that are similar? If so, what connections can be made? Who comes out on top?

I have the greatest respect and admiration for good cooks of any type since cooking remains, to me, one of the great mysteries of the universe. I've purchased numerous devices with which to simplify and improve my cooking skills but been defeated by nearly all. The same cannot be said about the 'devices' that I've purchased to improve my writing (i.e. courses, books,seminars and workshops).

My only success with cooking gadgets lies with the sandwich maker which, by including cheese to act as a glue, enables me to put virtually anything edible between two slices of bread and create a rather impressive result. I confess I'm on my second sandwich maker after accidentally blowing up the first one the day I bought it. I inadvertently caught the electrical cord in the sandwich and ...well, we were without power for a while but I managed to work out what not to do in future. I've never had such a shocking experience (excuse the pun) with the investments I've made to improve my writing. Books don't explode and desks and chairs don't usually collapse from under you.

Much to my surprise and delight, I learned that I'm not alone when it comes to being a writer who can't cook. It leads me to wonder if there's a genetic link between an ability to write that makes one unable to cook. (Hey, I need an excuse!) We've all heard about how Joanne Rowling, Enid Blyton and ton of other famous authors received boatloads of rejections but did you know that they weren't so hot at domestic duties either?

In fact I have yet to meet a good writer who can or, I should say, who really enjoys cooking. Of course having made this statement, I'll no doubt be flooded with 'I do's' and photocopies of awards and Certificates of Achievement from all manner of writer, but I'll risk it and continue. Oh, and we mustn't forget the truly great exceptions who can write cookbooks but hopefully, if we ignore them, they'll go away.

To be honest, the only thing that wounds my ego more than my inability to cook is receiving a rejection form. Diners may push their plate away but the rejection of a meal isn't formally documented and presented to you by a representative of a federal government organisation, known to us as The Postie. And let's face it every meal eaten in a restaurant is, technically, commissioned and agreed to be paid for straight up - unseen! This is a distinct advantage cooks have over writers.

The cook I mentioned, whom I will call Mrs Baker, makes fabulous prize-winning 'scratch' cakes. My favourite is all covered in chocolate leaves which, by the way, she makes by washing and drying real leaves she gathers then paints one side with melted chocolate. The real leaves are carefully peeled away and the delicious clones cover the cake as if shaken from a chocolate tree. Give this genius a pantry full of any kind of ingredient and she'll create a wonder. I often marvel that she doesn't fall into depression as the guests, for whom the cakes are so painstakingly made, devour the masterpieces. Instead, she delights.

Yet Mrs Baker struggles to address an envelope or write a quick note to a friend because, in the same as as I'm hopeless in the kitchen, she claims to be 'hopeless with words.' In fact, just as I fail to comprehend the dedication Mrs Baker puts into her masterpieces she, in turn, can't understand why writers comb the thesaurus so thoroughly to find just the right word when 'any word will do.' (What a scandalous thing to say!)

It seems that the amount of effort we put into our work is something neither of us will ever be able to fully understand. Consequently, on this point, I don't know which of us has the advantage.

But we both have a pantry. The pantry from which writers select their ingredients is called the dictionary and thesaurus. The ingredients they contain are words. We don't even need a kitchen to develop our creations and can work almost anywhere. (Here we have the advantage.) We find clever ways to mix our words together. Will we create a short story or a sweeping saga? A magical fantasy or a hard, true-life war epic? How will we flavour our creations? With smiles and metaphors or foreshadowing and analogy? And what effect will be produced using the same theme but different techniques.

In the same way as a cook can take a simple egg and poach, fry or scramble it (not forgetting the miraculous soufflé), producing a different result depending on the technique used, writers can take a simple word to produce different results as well. Take the word snow for example. We can make it mean beautiful, cold, white flakes that pirouette silently from the sky. In this case snow can be used to create a magical wonderland or, alternatively, a dangerous, life-threatening situation as in avalanches or being lost in a wilderness. Snow can also be used as a replacement word for the drug cocaine or it can refer to a con-job (at least in North America where a 'snow-job' refers to being fed a pack of lies.) Therefore, cooks and writers possess similar skills when it comes to taking a simple thing and producing a variety of outcomes, we just use different ingredients. On this point, it's fair to say that we're equally matched.

Whether cook or writer, many people do not receive recognition for their works. Yet we both take pleasure in creating them and satisfaction in finishing each project. Like the great cooks, we too delight when people mentally 'devour' our creations and when they don't, rejection stings. In a perfect world our work would be internationally recognised but we don't live in such a world. It's hard not to take rejection personally but we must try.

Cooks calmly accept that some people hate spicy foods while others love it. Some prefer sweets, others savoury. The same can be said for editors and the publishing houses they represent. Just because the manuscript we submit may not be of the particular 'flavour' they are looking for doesn't mean it isn't good. Another editor might love it but have to reject it because a similar work was recently accepted just before yours arrived. And yet, we take it personally. On this point, cooks definitely have the advantage.

So what if our stories never receive the widespread recognition we feel they deserve? Unfortunately for the cooks of the world, our creations have an exceptional advantage when it comes to continual rejection. Indeed, I believe it gives writers the overall lead in points. We may not live to see our work published but we can live in hope. Our masterpieces can sit quietly in an attic for years where, perhaps centuries later, they will be rediscovered. Having been discovered, they may delight an audience as yet unheard of.

Try doing that with a cake.