Ready, set, slog

Starting lines are among the most important things in life. You can't see the course and all its possibilities, if you don't drag your sorry butt to the starting line. That's a mashed up quote from Dr. George Sheehan, a great marathoner I never had the privilege to meet. (Though I've met many spectacular marathoners and hope to share more about them at another time.)  

I love the quote. I love the picture it calls up. Me the conqueror, hands on hips, chest puffed out, standing on a windswept mountain top, surveying all that lies below: streams, valleys, bookstores, adoring fans, the Hollywood sign. It's mine. All mine. All I have to do is start.

You see, I'm writing a book. Or rather, stalling when I should be writing a book. I'm stuck up to my pudgy thighs in a muddy third draft and the water is rising fast. (I'm figuring it's rainy season and I'm stuck in the Amazon.) I'm grunting and swearing and every time I try to wade forward I sink in deeper. I suck at this.

Just got back from a writers' conference where I workshopped my novel, At the Starting Line. This is what I came away with. My main character is likeable, but she tends to humiliate herself just a tad too much. The good buddy sidekick needs to be a little less cardboard cutout. The villain is overly nasty and needs one or two redeeming qualities for the story to make sense. I need more subplots and less navel-contemplating. I need a grander ending, and a simpler start. I've got a lot of work ahead of me.

Crap. Now I'm up to my armpits and there's a crocodile staring me down. Great.


Once when things got bad in another part of my life, my mother reminded me I needed to step back and look at the big picture. She was smoking at the time, so imagine a smallish darkish woman with hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail, cigarette clouds all around her. (She loved her cigarettes.) Here's what she said: "Hey, you're not sending your kid to Afghanistan. You're not in prison. You're not battling cancer. It's not that bad. Get over yourself."

She was right. It took a mighty effort, but I managed to pull my sniveling self up and out of that muck. Life got better for awhile, though we have a new crisis now. But I don't want to talk about it just yet or maybe at all. What I want to do now is write.