My husband is riding a 3-day, 235k mountain bike race this weekend. To prepare for it, he’s ridden several 6-hour days and one 24-hour relay race in addition to his regular riding and workout program. He and the other racers have a team to transport their belongings, cook their breakfasts and dinners, and give them massages at the end of the day. His nutrition consists of a staggering array of bars, protein mixes and electrolyte tabs.
I’m trying to finish Draft 2 of the Not-a-werewolf book, which is now back to being untitled. To prepare for it… well, I suppose I wrote Draft 1, and my million words of suck, and a bunch of other stuff that didn’t suck as much. My support team this weekend consists of two cats, the guy who brought my organic food box, and the internets. My nutrition consists of leftover lasagna, arugula salad, coffee, and salted chocolate (ie, much better than the final round of Draft 1, during which I mainly forgot to eat and ended up with a really awful gutshot kind of feeling.)
I am ready for this. I am. I am ready to have it out of my brain, because it feels like the time I accidentally ate a glass shard and it got stuck in my mouth, and it took me hours to work it back out, and I kept pricking my tongue on it. Only nastier.
Sometimes I truly wonder why I think the world needs this book. And then I think no one but me will ever really get the payload of black awfulness that it carries. And that is for the best.
