I’m fortunate enough to have R’s raspy voice as my secret weapon for keeping the nasty voices at bay. But if anyone out there still needs help getting the cranial naysayers to shut the beep up, you might want to try this approach:
AGNES by Tony Cochran (8/20/08)
Huge (and I do mean HUGE) apologies for the size of this pic. Having technical difficulties posting photos on LJ lately but wanted to share what came in the mail: my BolderBoulder 2008 finish arranged artistically with my bling for placing.
No, the subject line doesn’t refer to Wildebeest and Zebu. That’s a blog topic for another day. Ha…..
Last night I finally finished reading D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers but I think a more appropriate title is Sons and Haters.
(Before I continue I have to say that I really, really wanted to like this book because last week when I had the good fortune of visiting in person with the funny and wise
, she said she’d loved this book when she read it in high school. Sorry, Linda, but I didn’t feel the love).
I don’t understand the fuss over this book and why it’s on all those 100 Best Books In the Universe lists. It was so much telling and very little showing (not to mention the POV shifts happening so frequently I got jumpy). Lawrence point-blank told the reader what the characters were feeling, and much of the time the characters were hating on each other. He hated her; she hated him; he hated him; they hated her. (Don’t take my word for it. Go here to read chapters online and do a search for “hate.” I highly recommend Chapter XIV, The Release, for some fun examples).
This book made me so crabby that Zippy laughed whenever he saw me still reading it. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t just quit, and neither could I. I guess I kept hoping for some type of aha moment in which I’d understand the book’s classic status. I’m sorry to say it never happened.
We went to Westcliffe for my family’s reunion and this time I remembered to bring my beginner’s hoop, the oversized, extra-heavy, foam-covered hoop I learned with last summer. Last month when visiting her, I’d only brought the lighter hoops and Mom was intimidated when the hoop kept dropping.
Not so this time around. The (78-year-old) woman is a natural.
Here we are during one of our 45-minute sessions:
(I’m having major difficulties with uploading photos onto my LJ. I can’t even get into Photobucket anymore and finally got this to work via TinyPic but it didn’t accept my custom cropping so you’re getting a much larger view of the car hood and much smaller view of Mom and me than I’d intended. Not to mention how my LJ keeps giving me an “undefined” error message when I click on Insert/Edit Image. Aargh!!!)
I stayed true to my writing plan today and did not turn on my desk top computer (aka internet connection) until I’d written 1000 words. And what was my reward?
Oh, happy day!
Ted and I go way back.
When I lived in Anchorage I worked hard to protect the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from drilling. One cold, winter day I stood in front of the library with another volunteer and gathered signatures on a petition calling for protection of the Arctic Refuge. For those of you who have petitioned, you know how it is: you launch into your spiel as soon as someone comes close and if that person isn’t interested, you turn to the next and start over. You don’t pause to think because you’re on automatic pilot. Zippy could’ve walked up and I would have been halfway through my pitch before realizing who I was talking to.
You can guess where this is headed.
I was just turning away from another person when an angry little white man in a suit came walking up. I said, “Hello, would you like to sign a petition to protect the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from oil drilling?”
Angry Little White Man In a Suit replied, “I’m Senator Ted Stevens. Stop wasting my time.”
As he stalked away, I contemplated shouting “You look taller on television!”
I’ve always regretted that temporary lapse into maturity. But that wasn’t my only regret. The Anchorage Daily News refused to print my letter to the editor about the encounter with “my” representative. The editor said I would hurt my “cause” by admitting I hadn’t recognized the legendary Senator Stevens. (I didn’t even try the other paper – the Anchorage Times because it was owned by oil patch executive Bill Allen. If you read today’s indictment article, you’ll see Bill’s name mentioned a few times. Ahem.)
Anyway, I know it’s bad form to gloat, but that’s what I’m doing. In this era, it’s especially gratifying when the arrogant greed-heads get what’s coming to them.
I’ve written every single day for the past 36 days. And with just a couple exceptions (several days when I tinkered – over and over – with the final pages of my draft), each day I wrote 1000 words.
This new disciplined approach to my writing process has been a pleasant surprise.
It’s easier slipping into the flow.
The words come more easily.
The nasty inner critic’s voice is fading.
I’m not feeling nearly the angst and envy that dogged me this spring and early summer.
My writing muscles are stronger. Leaner.
I really and truly feel like a writer.
It finally hit me that it’s now or never time. I’m forty-five, and if I want a career as a writer I need to work at it. Every day. I can’t afford to take days off and allow my muscles to atrophy. I have to keep writing so the stories are fresh in my mind, the characters living and breathing alongside me. I have to be there for them. Every day.
As of this morning I have 5000 words of my new project which, when completed, will be my fifth novel. I like the sound of that: My fifth novel.
I’m a writer and I write novels.
I’m working on my fifth.
Yes!
Yesterday I finished the draft of my WIP and set it aside for at least one week but probably two!
Met online friends in person this week and enjoyed myself very much both times! Hooray for Jennifer, Robin, Stephanie, Ingrid, Jean, and Sarah!
Cannibalized (with her permission) one of Robin’s throwaway comments and this morning used it as a jumping-off point for 1k words! Have no idea if it’ll go anywhere but it was nice trying to get another voice/story going while the WIP simmers in the background!
Visited R in nursing home this afternoon and for the first time in weeks ( ! ) I witnessed him up and walking (with a walker). He’s gained 4 pounds and the PT says this week has marked a real improvement in R’s strength!
Tomorrow I’m taking Zebu and friend plus Wildebeest and friend to Elitch’s amusement park. (I can’t bring myself to use an exclamation point for that news item). Wish me well.
This one’s pretty much self-explanatory. There’s a reason Bush calls him Turd Blossom.
(Go to sendkarlrovetojail.com to sign petition calling on the House Judiciary Committee to cite Rove with contempt for failing to comply with a Congressional subpoena.)
How do you decide a draft is done?
I’ve been working on the fourth draft of my novel (at least, I think it’s the fourth draft but it’s probably only like a 3 1/6 draft . Keep reading and you’ll understand why I’m not even sure what qualifies as a draft). For the last couple days I’ve focused on the final twelve pages or so, trying to get them whipped into decent shape before calling this draft complete. Well, today I’ve realized all sorts of stuff I need to change (lots of minor details but also rewriting several scenes). And now I’m not sure how to proceed.
I can’t decide whether to
A) finish messing with the final pages and then start a whole new document for my next draft or
B) finish messing with the final pages AND go back to make minor changes throughout entire ms before starting a whole new document for the next draft
Is there a compelling reason to choose one approach over another? How do you handle this? I’m wondering whether I’ll lose stuff I might end up wanting if I make all those changes yet I also think if I call this draft complete, then I’ll, what? I’m not really sure what I’m worried about. All I know is neither approach is screaming out to me. Man, I’m some kind of confused right now.
And here I am asking for advice on a Friday afternoon in July.
Help! Anyone out there?
Today I continued with my final pages.
I worked and worked.
Took a break to eat and then worked some more.
I’m getting my writing muscles back.
I don’t get out of breath so easily.
My thinking remains lucid for longer periods.
Today I didn’t feel quite like a marathoner
but a half-marathoner
maybe.
Last night I printed out the final twelve pages of my ms and read them again. I felt cold dread. Something was off. So I went outside and hooped without music as I talked aloud (to myself and the occasional finch or robin) about my story. And I realized I needed to use highlighters to, well, highlight the different plot and character interactions in those pages to get a handle on the situation.
Today I highlighted and wrote on sticky notes and scribbled in margins and crossed out paragraphs and basically had a good ol’ time ripping those pages apart. The cold dread has now warmed to a tentative optimism.
I wanted to post a photo of my efforts because it felt good to make that kind of progress but also because the results were rather colorful and festive.
Alas, I cannot locate my camera. Perhaps Zippy took it to British Columbia.
If you’d like to humor me, close your eyes and visualize yellow, pink, orange, green, and blue lines scattered with pale yellow sticky notes and illegible blue ballpoint scribbles.
Oohs and aahs optional.
I appreciate the congrats on the progress I’m making but feel I must clarify my word count goal. Not because I’m neurotic (well, I am, but not in this instance) but because if I read about another writer churning out 1k words/day, every day, I might feel a bit intimidated if I was already in a shaky place.
Now, I know plenty of you out there produce many words every single day, but I’m not one of those writers. I’ve learned that if I write too many words in a session, I’ll often get off track and then have to spend lots of time just getting back to where the story is solid again. I prefer the slow, steady route. When I had the great fortune to study with Marilynne Robinson for three weeks, she advised me to write two pages a day. Two good pages.
For me, two good pages are often much more difficult than ten or fifteen marginal pages.
But back to my clarification: I’m working on about the fourth draft of this book and while I had to trash a bunch of stuff that ended up serving as placeholder words (hat tip to the wise![[info]](https://i0.wp.com/p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
idaho_laurie for the perfect term/concept) and write all new stuff, the closer I got to the ending the more I was able to utilize from the previous draft. So in that context you can see I haven’t cranked out anywhere near 22k words. However, I’ve moved 22k words closer to the end of this much more solid version of my story. And that makes me very happy.
I’m in the home stretch on this draft of my WIP. I’ve written at least 1000 words every day for the past 22 days which makes my heart go pitty-pat. Or something like that. Oh drat. An unintentional rhyme.
Ahem.
Not only do I feel better about myself as Writer but I think Zippy, Wildebeest, and Zebu have a different perspective now, too. They ask if I’ve done my words for the day and are very respectful of my Writing – Please Do Not Disturb sign on my door. It’s so much easier for me to write when I do it on a daily basis; the continuity definitely lubricates my brain. Plus, I make sure to start each session with my figure eights so as to kick-start my left and right brains.
Apologies if I sound a bit evangelical it’s just that it feels good. And for far too long, it wasn’t feeling good.
Note: This morning the critic started up in my brain so I rephrased the criticism in R’s raspy voice and LAUGHED. I swear, R’s given me the best damned gift!
If you haven’t done your writing today, please make the time to get it done. Set a realistic goal and do it! You’ll feel good, I promise.
I’m feeling weird and disconnected from LJ these days but in some ways that feels good because I’ve been much more productive without my internet habit. I don’t turn on my desktop until I’ve done my writing and as a result, I’ve hit my daily word count goal for 16 days in a row! Methinks I’m forming a habit! Finally, a good one!
R was moved from the hospital into a nursing home last Friday so that he can receive daily physical therapy. The transition was extremely difficult and I’m still amazed he agreed to go through with it but I guess even he realized how weak he is right now. He’s frighteningly thin and not eating much at all but when I was there today, the director spoke with him about strategies to get him eating again. She was patient and understanding with his anxieties and negativity, and her kindness brought me to tears. For the first time in weeks I feel hopeful about R’s chances for recovery.
And just so you don’t get the idea this is your one-stop shop for maudlin posts:
R and his friend, S, have an ongoing “discussion” about bringing the horse and buggy back into practice. S, who is probably 55 or so and a little off in the head, thinks it’s a great idea because it would help “green” our city and give jobs to kids whom he apparently thinks are dying for the chance to scoop poop from the streets. R finds the idea absolutely ludicrous and lobs his counter-arguments across the room so that pretty soon they’re talking over each other while I try hard not to fall down laughing. The other day I really, really wanted to whip out my notebook and jot down bits of dialogue but didn’t because I thought it would upset the balance. But then I inadvertently pressed a button on my cell phone and found out I’d recorded a portion of the conversation which has planted a seed in my brain. Now I’m dying to record one of those talks from start to finish. In fact, today they started in on the horses again and I actually fondled my little voice activated recorder in my backpack. I didn’t turn it on, though. That feels a little too Bush/Cheney-ish.
Tomorrow I head to Westcliffe with Zebu and Wildebeest to see my parents. We shall return Saturday. I’ve vowed not to nag my boys about the excess of junk food my mom will provide. Maybe I can form another good habit while I’m there.
Last night Zippy and I, the temporarily childless couple, went to the Denver Botanic Gardens to hear Loudon Wainwright III and Richard Thompson play. The evening was perfect. Dinner and a bottle of wine on the lawn as we listened to two extremely gifted songwriters pour out their hearts. I laughed and I cried. Loudon was coerced into performing The Acid Song (oh happy day!) and Richard sang Walking On a Wire (a song he wrote when he and his former wife/singing partner, Linda Thompson, were splitting up; Linda sang it on their album so I’ve never heard him sing it). Wow.
Earlier in the week, R’s nurse and I were discussing the frustrations of trying to get R to drink some stuff he needed to drink before having a procedure he’d agreed to have done. R was in rare form and had dug in his heels. Big time. He complained about what he couldn’t do and complained about what he wanted to do but refused to take any action that would alleviate his complaints. It was infuriating. The nurse told me she’d worked with him on a previous hospital stay and that R kind of cracked her up. I told her she had a great attitude but that his contrariness was making me want to bang my head against a wall. She said, “Don’t do that. Then you’ll have a headache AND a pain in the ass.” That really made me laugh (I was tired!) and I felt so much better. Nurses are the best.
I’ve been disciplined about my writing goals this week and hit my word count five days in a row! I’m realizing how important it is for me to establish a routine and stick to it. And yes, I’ve had this realization before and then lost sight of it along the way so I’ll probably be back here in another few months saying, “You know? It’s really helpful when I set a word count goal and then hold myself accountable to it each and every day!” Feel free to laugh when that happens.
My other cool writing-related development is that I have a new technique for handling my inner critic. Lately I’ve really been plagued with negative thinking whispered in my ear by that horrid inner creature. I guess William Faulkner’s off drinking or having sex or something because he’s not doing a very good job watching my back right now. But that’s okay because I now have an actual voice to put to that inner critic. And that voice is………………R’s voice! That’s right, folks. Whatever nastiness starts echoing in my head (You know, Tracy, this isn’t very good. No one’s going to want to read this.), I repeat aloud in R’s rasping whisper. And then I laugh! And keep writing! I totally recommend this method for thwarting your critic. Not everyone is as fortunate as me in having a near-constant negative person in my life who complains about everything in a very unique voice (his vocal chords were damaged years ago) but I’m sure you could use your father-in-law’s voice or that nosy neighbor’s or the twit at the bank the other day. Try it, you’ll like it!
Wishing everyone a glorious weekend.
I’m making progress on a couple fronts:
Number one, thanks to the revolutionaries who responded to yesterday’s post regarding LJ Overwhelm, I’m determined to wash that angst right out of my hair. Thank you, friends!
Number Two, thanks to Wildebeest and Zebu being at camp for ten days I’m getting serious about my revisions. So serious, in fact, that for the last two days (um, that’s counting today) I haven’t turned on my desktop until late afternoon when my writing work was done. What a concept! No internet play until the work is done! Revolutionary!
I can’t read any journals now, though, because I’m off to visit R, but you know what? Even though I’m doing a drive-by post, I don’t feel any guilt at all! Now that’s progress!
And here’s hoping you’re all making headway in your lives and work, too!
When I spend time away from LJ, sometimes it’s hard getting back in the swing of things. There are days when I skim my Friends page but don’t write any comments because I don’t have time to comment on every journal and want to be “fair,” but then if a couple days go by without me commenting I get overwhelmed by the sheer volume of uncommented posts and I can’t figure out when/where to start commenting again in a way that won’t hurt feelings until more days go by without comments from me. (And yes, I realize it’s my unique brand of neurosis to worry that anyone on LJ sits around keeping score on which person comments when/where).
Anyone else willing to admit to this kind of LJ Overwhelm? If so, how do you handle it?
(And if not, please keep the ridicule to a low roar….)
I’m a little embarrassed by the responses to yesterday’s post about R and me. I really and truly didn’t write that so people would think, “Wow, she’s so nice to be there for him.” I absolutely appreciate those sentiments but I guess what I wish I’d conveyed was ………
I rely on humor to get me through the tough times because even though I couldn’t laugh out loud, my epiphany helped me feel an expansion and lightness within that carried me though the rest of the visit and
it’s relatively (pun intended) easy to stand by someone you’re not related to because there isn’t all that emotional baggage from years and years of miscommunication and hurt feelings, and
if you’re looking for a hero in all this I’d nominate R’s new neighbors who were there when I arrived yesterday; a young woman with her two bright and funny toddlers playing on the other hospital bed (because while Zebu and Wildebeest are happy to deliver groceries or shovel R’s sidewalk, there’s no way they’d agree to visiting him in the hospital and no way I’d ask them to do that), and
even though R had a really bad day yesterday he was calm and relaxed on Tuesday, and I coaxed the ghost of a smile from him.
So the bottom line is that right now he’s clean and safe, and people are keeping an eye on him. Thank you for all the good wishes you’re sending R’s way.
Here’s wishing everyone a wonderful weekend.
I’ve been scarce in these parts and am just popping in to to say a quick hello. My elderly friend, R, is in the hospital. He’s not doing well and is facing some tough decisions. I’m right there with him, facing tough lessons of my own, namely those same old questions about inserting myself in his life – how much and how far? I’m starting to think this must’ve been a difficult lesson for me in previous lives since I’m getting so many opportunities to master it this time around! Yeehaw.
Anyway, didn’t stop by to be a downer but to share the little epiphany I experienced today while visiting R in the hospital:
As I sat at the foot of R’s bed, I realized if I closed my eyes I could easily imagine it was Wildebeest going on and on and on…..
There’s a reason people say that the more things change, the more they stay the same; they say it because it’s true.
Last night as I listened to this, one of my favorite Billy Bragg songs, it occurred to me the song’s like a mini-YA. Everything you need for a satisfying story, right here. In just 267 words.
THE SATURDAY BOY By Billy Bragg
I’ll never forget the first day I met her
That September morning was clear and fresh
The way she spoke and laughed at my jokes
And the way she rubbed herself against the edge of my desk
She became a magic mystery to me
And we’d sit together in double History twice a week
And some days we’d walk the same way home
And it’s surprising how quick a little rain can clear the streets
We dreamed of her and compared our dreams
But that was all that I ever tasted
She lied to me with her body you see
And I lied to myself ’bout the chances I’d wasted
The times we were close were far and few between
In the darkness at the dances in the school canteen
Did she close her eyes like I did as we held each other tight
And la la la la la means I love you
She danced with me and I still hold that memory soft and sweet
And I stare up at her window as I walk down her street
But I never made the first team, I just made the first team laugh
And she never came to the phone, she was always in the bath
In the end it took me a dictionary
To find out the meaning of unrequited
While she was giving herself for free
At a party to which I was never invited
I never understood my failings then
And I hide my humble hopes now
Thinking back she made us want her
A girl not old enough to shave her legs
** This video ends before the song’s finished but it’s the best quality version I could find on YouTube. Just a taste….
I’ve mentioned the Monday spaghetti dinner. We’re a 100%-volunteer organization that’s fed the homeless and working poor for the past sixteen years. We rely on donations to keep going. Every December our local newspapers highlight different non-profits and collect donations on their behalf. Last year I requested an application but there was a mix-up on my end and we missed the deadline. When I bought my 2008 planner, I put sticky notes and reminders in it to keep me on track with this year’s application process. I was determined to get Grant Avenue Street Reach into that program so we’d receive funding.
Street Reach is registered as a non-profit but because our gross receipts are so low, we don’t have to file with the IRS which means we don’t have formal financial records. We use whatever money we have to buy what we can (and rely on food donations for the rest). Yesterday morning I made last-ditch attempts to pull together enough financial information (990-N filing status, accounts receivable statements from our food service sources) to satisfy the Application Gods. Well, the Application Gods told me it wasn’t enough, that we wouldn’t even get an application because we didn’t pass the screening process.
I was very upset.
But I pulled myself together and went downtown to help out. We’d finished serving the meal and were cleaning up the kitchen when a soft-spoken man arrived. He told me he was with a local group that worked to help non-profits get funding. (huh?) He said they’d helped us last year and had intended to contact us again but hadn’t because of an oversight.
Then he said, “Our group is the Denver Cycle Sluts and we’d like to give you all the money we make at Bingo this Friday night.”
That’s right, friends. The corporate machine couldn’t help our tiny non-profit feed hungry people but a bunch of drag queens designated Grant Avenue Street Reach their charity of the month (and did so last year, too) and will raise money to help us out.
BINGO!
I’m working on the intimidating middle section of my book.
Feeling overwhelmed. Full of despair.
Gave myself a pep talk and told myself I could do it.
Gave myself permission to write crap.
Wrote.
Quite possibly crap.
Nonetheless, relieved to write for two days in a row.
Celebrating the baby steps.
Gotta keep digging deep and gutting it out.
Ugh.
On Saturday I hooped for the first time in about a month, and then again today. Ouch. Apparently regular hooping toughens up the hip bone region but when you lay off for a while, well, it goes all soft and tender again. Tiny green bruises may ensue.
In hooping, as in flossing, consistency is key.
I wanted to update you on the race since your good thoughts were with me as I ran but I was absolutely exhausted all day yesterday. I could’ve dropped in to give you a short version of the events but so many thoughts/epiphanies kept bouncing around my head and I really wanted to do them justice which is what I hope to accomplish today. But in case you have a life to live and don’t want to invest the time in me deconstructing the race, here’s the short version:
I shut off the light at 9:00 pm on Sunday night, alarm set for 4:30 am so Zippy and I could make the 5:30 shuttle bus to Boulder. Zippy, in his annoying fashion, fell asleep immediately. I drifted off about 9:30 only to wake at 11:30 to the sound of his snores. The rest of the night was one of those nightmarish experiences in which you desperately try to fall asleep but cannot and as you become more tired, your mind becomes more panicked. I ended up sleeping another 30 minutes before the alarm went off, for a grand total of two and a half hours of sleep. I seriously considered staying home.
But I went. And I’m so glad I did.
The Bolder Boulder is a massive road race (I think it’s the second largest in the nation). This year just under 49,000 people completed the race (wheelchairs, runners and walkers). You can’t help but get caught up in the excitement when you’re around that many people sharing the same goal. As I warmed up with Zippy I saw one of my coaches and she wished me well, and then another runner from my training group whom I hadn’t seen in a couple months since I’d started training alone called out to me with such enthusiasm that my chest swelled with pure happiness.
Every other year Zippy runs in an earlier wave since he’s a faster runner but this year he was two waves behind me (I got an automatic slot in the CC wave because I was in the Sub 50 training group but he used last year’s BB time in which he ran slow with me for his placement in this year’s DA wave. Follow that?) My wave started two minutes and 20 seconds earlier than Zippy’s. I love him dearly but knew I didn’t want to see him during that race; if he caught up with me it would mean I wasn’t running my pace. But if he met his goal and I met mine, we’d be together somewhere near the very end of the race.
I was at the back of my wave when the starting gun went off. I started my watch with the gun just as some guy next to me told his friend he wasn’t starting his watch until we actually crossed over the start line (tags on our shoes keep track of our official race times). I glanced at my watch as we crossed the start line and it said 33 seconds.
At the 1K mark I checked my watch and subtracted 30 seconds. Right on pace for the first mile that I wanted to run in 7:30. At the 1 mile mark, I checked my watch and subtracted 30 seconds from the total time. Right on pace. Why wasn’t I reading my mile splits? Because even though I’d thoroughly prepared for that race – handkerchief with peppermint oil in my pocket, DIG DEEP and 1-2-3-4 (tempo reminder) written on the back of my hand, all nineteen course turns and each downhill and uphill memorized, etc. – I’d forgotten to set my watch so that the mile splits would be in bold display while the total time would show in tiny, faint numbers at the top of the display. My splits were in tiny, faint numbers that were hard to see when I glanced. So instead of making an effort to read them, I got into the habit of looking at my total time and then subtracting 30 seconds.
I was running a great race. I felt good. I smiled and shouted thanks to the older man who shook a cowbell and cheered us on. I slapped the outstretched hand of Jake Blues singing “Soul Man” alongside the course. I grinned at the belly dancers and clapped along with the big-wigged band members performing The Cars’ “Best Friend’s Girl.” I felt a bond with all the men, women, and children running alongside me. I got tears in my eyes thinking how grateful I was to be out there running the best race I’d ever run after training so hard. I repeated 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4 in my mind to keep on pace. At each mile mark, I checked my watch and subtracted 30 seconds. When one of the running group coaches came up beside me on the downhill headed into the fifth mile, he said I was looking good. I told him I felt great and was having so much fun. We chatted a bit more and then he pulled away. I realized then I shouldn’t have talked since it took away my lung capacity but he called back to me and said to keep my eye on him, that he’d pull me through. Instead, he kept getting farther ahead but still I kept on running. Digging deep.
The final mile is uphill with a steep incline into the stadium. I was pretty tired but not demoralized. I knew I was almost there and even though I was a bit off pace, I was still running a strong race. Just as I headed into the stadium, Zippy was next to me. He said, “Dig deep!” then ran ahead. For a moment I felt deflated because I’d wanted to run so fast he wouldn’t catch me at all but I kept going and as I ran into the stadium, I grinned up at the cameras mounted on the bridge over the track. I ran hard for the finish line and stopped my watch. I stared at my time.
Somehow, the great race I’d run suddenly revealed itself as a fantasy. Even subtracting 30 seconds, it was not a good time. Not only hadn’t I broke 50 minutes (by my calculations, I ran it in about 50:06 and eventually discovered the official time was 50:31), I hadn’t come close to running the race in 49:00. Then I looked at my mile splits which I’d recorded on my watch but hadn’t bothered to read during the race, and felt like an idiot. I was clearly off pace on most every mile but hadn’t realized it. Math has never been my strong suit and it’s even harder for me when I’m sleep-deprived and trying to do calculations while running a race.
As we waited in line for our free post-race massages, I started to cry. Not only was my time slow, but the cool weather would make for fast times for all those other 45-year-old women who capitalized on that fact. There was no way I’d get a medal.
Why was I so hung up on medals? In 2004 I ran a strong Bolder Boulder (49:52) and placed 15th in my age group. However, only the top ten finishers in each age group got a medal. The very next year they started giving medals to the top 15 finishers. I wanted my medal.
Were there other reasons I wanted so desperately to run a good race? For one, I’m not really a competitor in the sense that I get very nervous about races; I don’t enjoy the flutters and anxiety so wanted to make this the last time I had to really care about my time. Also, my knees have let me know they don’t enjoy lots of intensive training. But also caught up in all this is my writing life. I’ve mentioned the deterioration of my confidence and how my race goals were so important for me in that my own hard work and training would allow me to finally create my destiny; even though no editors had jumped on my books I could make myself stronger and kick some butt in a 10k. I wanted to shine in at least one aspect of my life. That felt especially important because just over a month ago, I broke up with my agent. It was the right thing to do but on some levels it felt like my writing journey was moving backward.
So I cried there in line. I silently berated myself for bad math skills and poor planning and all-around obliviousness. But I kept coming back to the fact that I’d had so much fun during the race. That I’d never had an urge to drop out and collapse on someone’s lawn. And after a while, I laughed. “No wonder I felt so good,” I told Zippy. “I wasn’t running very fast.”
Earlier I’d dreaded going home and telling Zebu and Wildebeest about the race. I’d wanted so much to prove my strength and make them proud after they’d suffered through those scary years filled with me in pajamas, heading off for yet another nap. But by the time we got home, I didn’t feel I’d let them or me down. At first they felt bad for me but I honestly told them it was okay. I was okay. And when I explained my lack of sleep, Wildebeest sat up straight and said “Well, then you really kicked that race’s ass.”
Indeed.
So I was already in a peaceful frame of mind when several hours later Zippy came into the bedroom with his laptop. Earlier I’d soaked in epsom salts while consuming a quart of electrolytes and a bottle of beer, and then took a nap. I was barely awake when he showed me the screen display of my race results. Out of 452 45-year-old females, I’d come in 12th place. “Twelfth place!” he shouted. “You got twelfth!”
Just a few more thoughts (you’re kidding, she’s not done yet?!):
This race reminded me again how important it is to have a support system. I thank you again for the good wishes that carried me along that course. Some of you I’ve met in person and others I know only online but I’m grateful for all our friendships. Thanks for hanging in there with me.
It’s that time of year again when I ask for your good thoughts. Monday (Memorial Day) is the Bolder Boulder 10k, the race I’ve been training for the past five months. I’ve set a time goal that I believe will place me in the top fifteen of my age group. I’ve trained hard and have high hopes.
However………….
This past Monday I was running out on the trails when I tripped on a rock and fell down hard. I slid on my stomach, arms stretched out before me (like Superman, except not in the air and without a cape). Torn skin, embedded rocks, and dirt in my mouth. Jammed muscles.
The good news:
The not-so-good news:
My plan is to lay low and keep quiet. Read and nap. Think healthy thoughts.
My wave starts at 7:09 a.m. (Rocky Mountain Time) on Monday and I hope to cross the finish line a few minutes before 8:00. If you can, I’d very much appreciate good thoughts. Last year as I ran the race I felt the encouragement and support from my friends here in LJ-Land, and I didn’t give up. It meant so much during that nasty third mile to know I had good vibrations aimed my way; those vibes buoyed me.
It feels a bit tacky being absent the past week and then coming to you for a favor. But here I am. Call me Tackyworld.
I wish all a wonderful holiday weekend filled with sunshine, laughter, and rock-free trails!
Tracy Abell 