The other day, Mac had to miss track practice for a doctor's appointment, and so I supervised his workout. This is rather an unfortunate admission, but I consider myself something of a Dwight Schrute to the boys' running coach.
The Assistant (to the) Regional Manager, or whatever. Basically, I have assigned myself a made-up title that doesn't mean anything except for an occasional pathetic ego-boost, and a pity back-slap from the coach that she doesn't even know she's delivering. It's a little like dance captain.
And it's sad when you think about it, I guess, but anyway.
I supervised Mac's workout in my quasi-official capacity, and after he understood how the reps would proceed, he said, "Cute workout."
It made me laugh, and it occurred to me that it characterized my feelings about writing these days: "Cute effort." I've got my marching orders on Book 3. The novel needs significant, but not overwhelming, revisions. I'm easing my way back in. The blind commitment to productivity that has defined most of my life to this point has sort of evaporated in the wake of Kevin's death.
But anyway. I'm putting some adorable effort in. Little cute bursts of effort, broken up by pink Starbursts and those weird bite-sized Tootsie Rolls with the candy coating.
Onward? The revisions are due July 5.
1 comment:
You've got this, my friend.
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