In which I am in metaphorical boot camp

It’s not as sweaty as Real Boot Camp. Also, no tear gas, which makes it a hell of a lot less boot-campy. (Yes, that is the voice of experience speaking.) However, it is a relatively short time period to get myself into fighting form, and therefore it merits the comparison.

I’m always telling myself that I think with my feet (or with my fists, depending on how angry I am…) and so at some point in winter, I decided I’d kick off the summer season with two charity races: a 5k running relay and a 25k mountainbike race. Because of the wet, snowy spring, training commenced a bit late, and then I had to throw a few business trips into the mix, and so I’m here in mid May, feeling like a bear just rolled out of the cave, lumbering around trying to get my blood flowing.

Also, all of my short stories are turning into novels. I just had two really nice rejections in which editors encouraged me to send more stuff, and I have no stuff to send.

Fortunately, there’s a cure… it’s not an accident that I’m in two writing groups.

The common thread of all of the above is that I hate embarrassing myself by failing to live up to my own word. I give myself a goal? Whatever. I give you my goal? I’m going to cross the finish line if I have to do it on bare rims and bleeding stumps.

(1) Cross those finish lines.
(2) New story for June.
(3) New chapter for June.
(4) The kicker: final draft of Hour of the Hag by my birthday. I am not going to start another year without a novel to market. This is my Jesus year, my Byron year, the year by which all kinds of the world’s heroes have already made their mark and then died, and since apparently I won’t be growing out of my ego any time soon, I’m at least going to get that Goddamned book in the mail.

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