Pennermag.com

Dear husband is forever advising me of what I should be writing about on my blog.  I’m working on other stuff, I said.  You should write them yourself.  So, he’s been gathering his thoughts, taking notes, and scribbling late into the night.

I suspect you’ll see more of him around here in the near future.

I don’t know which is harder, writing or running.

For the last six weeks or so, I’ve been training to run a 10K race.  When I was in high school, I was lucky if I could complete a mile in 15 minutes.  I specialized then in being skinny/flabby.  I ate what I wanted, never exercised, maintained 125 pounds, but was in terrible shape.  After I put on weight at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I decided, at twenty-nine (we’ll just ignore those intervening years) that maybe I shouldn’t just be thin, but fit too.  So I started exercising.  It was hard.  I was thrilled when I got my mile time to ten minutes.  Of course, I started thinking I could run more than one mile.

I started training for a 5K and did two last year.  The one five mile race I tried kicked my ass.  So when one of my trainers started a 10K clinic, I signed up.  Am I the fastest?  Not by a long shot, but it’s okay being last.  A lot of the other slow (not as slow as me) runners dropped out.  But I’m hanging in there.  Saturday I was able to run six miles in an hour.  Even though I can run a faster mile - less than eight minutes - I can maintain ten minute miles for a longer period of time.

When I finished my run this week, everyone else was done, sipping water, and eating oranges.  I may be last, but I haven’t quit.
This week my romance writer’s group has dedicated this week to writing, writing, and more writing.  So, I move on to a harder task writing a book.  I always start out with the best intentions.  It’s like a pop essay quiz: Imagine if these characters encounter this situation . . . discuss . . . .

Ideas abound, I take notes, then comes the hard part, putting words (that make sense) on paper.  I’m on page 63 of my current novel (about a third of the way through), and I’m trying to get at least a draft done by the first of August to pitch it as part of a series at a writer’s conference.

To say it’s slow going would be an understatement.  But if like running, I keep at it, I’ll get to the finish line, even if I’m not first.

I just need to collect my thoughts . . . soon you will see it here . . .

For the first time in 10 years, I’m not actively looking for a job.  I’m very frustrated with trying to fit a round peg (me), into a square hole (traditional jobs).

Looking back on how I spent my time in Los Angeles, I’m struck with how much time I’ve spent applying for jobs I could do with my eyes closed, interviewing for jobs (many I interviewed for more than four or five times), buying interview clothes (to go with weight gain and loss), and keeping my fingers crossed.  I can’t think of one thing I’ve gained from the experience, except an understanding that I’m not not the right fit.  I’m too black, too educated, too experienced, too driven, somehow just not right.

One of the blogs I read regularly (Romancing the Blog) opened a topic of discussion on what we’d do with our five lives.  All of my alternatives, of course, have me in a job.  In two scenarios I imagine myself living in New York City (Manhattan, even!), working as a journalist or in publishing.  In one scenario I live in Los Angeles working in television programming.  Oddly the scenario I’m living would not be on my list.

I never contemplated a life in LA that involved me living on the fringes of law or entertainment, and working on my yoga practice, or training for a 10K.

Redefining oneself is difficult, but I’m going to try to take the time (and not think about money lost) to figure out how to best live those remaining years.  The first step, though, will be not spending three or four hours looking at job ads, networking with reluctant advisers, and applying for jobs I know I’ll never get.

Well this week was better book wise. From at least two of the books I read, I got exactly what I expected.

The good.

Dear John, by Nicholas Sparks.

This is what I was looking for from a Sparks book when I took a few of them out of the library last week. I was interested in a tale of everlasting love from a man’s perspective. And that’s exactly what I got.

The Sex Quotient, by Jamie Sobrato

Ok, maybe my reading life is like a trip to McDonald’s. I want my Big Mac, and I’m happy when I get it. This was formula romance done well. The writing was great and the characters had depth. I often think the endings and HEAs are resolved too quickly, but I know that page limitations often make this very difficult for authors.

The not so good.

Intern, by Sandeep Jauhar.

I’ve periodically read this author’s essays in the New York Times. A skeptic of the medical profession, I picked up the book looking to see what an doctor had to say about the grueling process of internship and residency. For me the book was a little too self indulgent, masturbatory self-reflection, and egotistical - (yes, I’m aware I write a blog which could be called the same). If I wanted descriptions of the beauty of Manhattan, I’d read something else. If I was looking for acceptance of a flawed system, then I’d talk to the dozens of lawyers I know who celebrate a system that doesn’t help them or their clients, oftentimes. I’ve read a better book on this topic years ago, but can’t quite remember the title.

The Big Heat, by Jennifer Labrecque

How do I know when category romance is going to fail me? When a book by a prolific author has large type and big margins. That always screams book on deadline needed to fill monthly line up. This did not disappoint. The big-bad-bounty-hunter hero was too stoic for me. All that I want to boink your brains out, oh and marry you, but I refuse to declare my love. A bit of a ho hum. At least it was free.