The tortoise
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.

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