Writer's Tuesday

My writer's group met again last night for our weekly "No talking / Just Writing" hoe-down from 7:15 - 9 p.m.  We all had such an exhilarating writing experience last week that we each bounded in the door of the Green Bean as if to say, "Ta-da! I am here to WRITE."

Alas, the magic did not hold. A couple of us ended up journaling for most of the session. Nothing wrong with that, just a bit disappointing when you show up hoping to capture a few more pages in the next great American novel. Another writer did some research in between pecking out the paragraphs on his laptop. We were all happy to see 9 o'clock arrive. And bad writing session or no, there's still a feeling of satisfaction of knowing you at least sat down and stuck with it.

Besides, we were all laughing about the imagined greatness of our last session. We all left thinking we had really mined some gold pieces in our work. One writer said he was so excited about what he'd written until he re-read it later in the week and found most of it to be crap. I had a similar experience in that I outlined a new idea for a middle-grade novel that I thought held great potential until I went back and read my notes and then I was like, "Yeah, that's boring. No one will read that."

Writing is like haunting flea markets and Saturday morning garage sales. One man's trash is another man's treasure, and you never know which bit of junk you put out there will actually bring you your first sale of the day. So it's best to just stick it all out there on the lawn.

Cheers,

Dena

No Nights Off

Saturday afternoon. Blair and I are flipping through cookbooks, looking for meals for the upcoming week. "So how many nights will you be home this week?" he asks.

I think about it and then gently close the cookbooks. "None."

He closes his cookbook too. "So I guess we're on our own for the week."

I guess so. Here's my nightly schedule for this week:

• Monday (yesterday): Went with a friend to Salem College to hear Elizabeth Gilbert speak. She is the author of EAT, PRAY, LOVE which has catapulted to one of my favorite books of all time. She didn't disappoint as a speaker. Funny, down-to-earth, poignant. During the Q&A period I just wanted to raise my hand and ask, "Will you be my friend?"  Anyway, left the house at 5:30 and home by 9.
• Tuesday: Writer's Group meeting tonight from 7-9, which will put me home about 10.
• Wednesday: Birthday dinner for my friend Kay at 7. A great chance to celebrate Kay's birthday and catch up with some trail running friends. Home by 10.
• Thursday: I'm a speaker at the Women Connecting with Women Business Showcase at the Greensboro Public Library from 5:30 - 8:30 pm.
• Friday: The NC Writers' Network Fall Conference begins. My friend Pam and I are presenting a 2-hour workshop on Saturday, but I'll attend the Friday night talk which STARTS at 9. (Who planned this anyway--a 16 year old???)
• Saturday: Spending the night at the hotel where the conference is being held as the program again runs late into the night
• Sunday: Conference in the morning, running in the afternoon, home for a quick shower and then back to GSO for the end-of-the-season 6 p.m. dinner with my running group.

Blair's schedule is the opposite of mine in that he usually leaves the house by 6:30 a.m. and arrives home about 8, in bed by 9:30, which is usually when I'm walking in the door.  We looked at each other this morning and were like, "Okay, so see you Monday? Yes? Sounds good..."

This should be the last week of big projects. Personally, I'm looking forward to some down time. 

Uh-oh...

So I've spotted a disturbing trend in my running. Namely that I become nauseas after running anything over 18 miles.  I ran 21 miles today and had the pleasure of seeing my post run snacks a second time around once I arrived home.

I was sick to my stomach the first time I ran 18.6 miles but that was in a race and it was also the farthest I'd ever run at that point AND--dedicated readers will recall--that was when I made the questionable decision to drink an Orange soda immediately after the race. So I kind of wrote that sickness off as a combination of excitement and stupidity.

The last couple of times I've run 19 and 21 miles I've felt sick at the end, but held it in. Today, however, was a different story.  Blech.

Not quite sure what to do about this. I've heard Tums may help but the golden rule of running is that you never EVER try anything in a race that you haven't practiced with ahead of time. And I don't know that I'll be able to fit in another superlong run before race weekend. So I'm inclined not to try anything new.

The "good" news is that the nausea doesn't really hit until I stop running. So there you go--added incentive to keep on truckin'.

Salem Lake this summer. Click to enlarge.On a brighter note, it was a beautiful run today. We ran at Salem Lake, which is a 7-mile dirt loop. The trees are red, orange and yellow, the air was brisk, the sun was bright and sent sparkles across the water. People were walking their dogs, some were jogging with their larger dogs, there was a Team In Training marathon group training along with runners in pairs and by themselves.  Everyone smiled and said "Good morning" and it was just a good morning to be alive. As Royce, my running partner, said at the end of our laps, "Thank you Jesus for letting me do this yet one more time."

Cheers,

Dena

I'm Not Getting Off The Couch

It is 7 p.m. at night and I am freezing. Our thermostat is registering 70 degrees, but it lies.  It's dropping into the lower 30's tonight and that's about what my internal body temperature is at.  Once my body gets the first whiff of winter air, it's all over. My fingers, feet, and butt go numb--and stay numb--until the spring thaw.

Which is why I refuse to move from the coach. I've finally figured it out. For years I've blamed the early darkness on my winter lethargy, offering the darkness outside as the reason I never left the house or had a productive moment after 5:30 p.m. But I've come to realize that darkness isn't the issue. I can deal with dark. It's the freaking cold that's rendered me immobile.

I was on the couch this evening, watching bad TV.  I don't want to be watching this, I thought to myself. I want to be upstairs, working.

And I did. I really wanted to work. But that would have required me leaving the nest of warmth I'd created under the couch blanket, setting my feet on ice-cold hardwood floors that would numb them on contact, and feeling the rush of cold fill the space around me.  So forget it. I found a Bobby Flay cooking show and settled in.

I truly, truly love our 100 year old house but mother-of-God, it's cold. We have cracks under doors and windows and air seeps in and seeps out at about an even rate of exchange. And even if we said "gas bill and conservation efforts be damned," and cranked the heat up to 90, it wouldn't make that much of a difference. My body has tasted winter. My nose will be cold from now until June. I will randomly turn on hot water faucets and stick my hands under them until they're red and chapped in an effort to warm them up. And Blair--poor, poor Blair. Give the man your pity.

He's the one who has to deal with my ice-cold feet in bed at night.

With my best greetings from the land of the couch, I remain yours truly,

Dena