It's been an interesting few days. I should really be doing the twenty items on my to-do list (of which, none is blogging -- tsk, tsk Valt) but I'm over here because I'm avoiding the Serious Stuff. I'll do it all sometime after midnight when the brain is active and I have peace and quiet, both of which are in short supply prior to the witching hour.
It's nice to take a breather and just go... ahhh, a blog, where the words don't have to be good words! Yes, I write compulsively. I always say that if I didn't write, I'd currently be treated for hallucinating. But I have my paws in a lot of other puddings at the moment, things other than NaNoWriMo (which has currently taken a back seat to Serious Stuff) and having a bit of an issue with submission materials because they have to be PERFECT (*17-May-12 note: Yep, perfect, hence why they're still not the least bit suitable for me yet). I'm working on applications for graduate schools (for programs with no connection to Writing) (*17-May-12 note: Was accepted to grad school, actually), documenting cemeteries for a cemetery preservation group I run, and trying to get my own clothing line off the ground. There just aren't enough hours in the day.
I'd really like to start a petition for a 30 hour day. 24hrs just like usual, and then a bonus six for sleeping because, really, sleeping cuts into all the time I could be doing something else.
I'm also a gym rat now. I go every day, faithfully, whether it's cardio, weights, or classes like Zumba or Pilates. I went yesterday evening and this morning to run on the treadmill for a little while and then hit up the Zumba classes, and while I do this almost every day (replace Zumba with Bar Work or Weight Sculpting, whatever class is going on when I throw in the towel and decide I can't make anymore words until I've made the rest of my body scream "uncle" ), yesterday and today was hard to do. My entire body ached in the not-so-awesome way. This is not because I've made it worker harder than it is accustomed to but because Thursday night, I did something very painful.
I fell down a flight of stairs.
I had socks on (which I never do in the house since I'm a little savage, but I was getting ready to go out) and I slipped on the carpeted top step and hit every step on the way down. To make the situation worse, I was carrying my cat so that I could put her downstairs in her little back room until I returned home. Subsequently, my shoulder feels like it was stabbed several times where my cat decided to embed her rather pointy claws into my flesh and my entire backside feels like I've spent a week-long vacation at the Spanish Inquisition Resort, five-star dungeon accommodations complete with a complimentary Iron Maiden Massage.
...And yet, I still forced myself to go and work out these following two days because I thought it was important and I knew that I would milk my injured-status if I didn't tell myself to push through the pain.
And this puts me in mind of writing! (Great link-in, right?)
Pushing myself to do something I don't feel like, say finishing a story/novel/what-have-you, is one thing, yes, but that's not been my issue since I'm usually as eager to get to the end and find out what happens as much as anyone who might read it unless it's a story for sh*ts-and-giggles that's a tinker-toy that I pull out on particularly self-indulgent weekends.
Mostly, I'm thinking about this whole agent-finding/ query process because it is what has been squatting in my mind for a very long time -- so long that I might start asking it to help pay the utilities at least. If/when the time comes, I'm okay with rejection -- no, it's never fun, but I sing opera, I dance, and I have been part of the theatrical world for an age, so I've had more rejections for roles than Ben & Jerry's pints have calories. I'm prepared for this. Still, I have this fear that I'm wearing socks on The Carpeted Staircase of Literary Agents and I'm just going to wipe out and hit every possible bump I can. And then The Cat of Self-Doubt is going to stab me with claws for good measure. Er, just go with me on this.
I will pick myself up. I will ache. I will want to go crawl away somewhere and lick my wounds and forsake ever going to the gym again or submit anything again, but I won't. It would be so easy to do, to say "oh, I don't really need to go to the gym to be healthy and happy" just like I'd tell myself "oh, I don't really need to write to be healthy and happy," because I do, even when I do fall down the stairs and get hurt. And I keep telling myself this so that I don't lose my resolve or my drive or my hope.
Apparently, there's no bruising (yet), but it hurts like the devil. Fingers crossed that I don't fall down the stairs again even metaphorically. All I can do though is give my all, do my best, and not wear socks.
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