I’ve just written, with an irritating chirp in my typing, that I am nothing if not delusionally optimistic.I think you have to be if you have as bad a track record as I do in NanoWriMo and yet still find yourself cheerily signing up for another failure. And there isn’t even a tiny piece of me that is thinking of not checking in to that cabin.
I sometimes feel lately (lately covers the last six years right?) that I am living my own groundhog day. I wish it only took a day. I wish I could reset it. But while time marches on I don’t. It doesn’t seem to matter what I do I always end up back at the same place.
Thankfully it doesn’t come with a soundtrack. But like Bill/Phill I know that the only person keeping me on loop is me. There might actually be a song for that, but I’m happy to say I can’t think of it….
How many stories am I gonna discard before I figure out there’s no such thing as a perfect book? How many more books will I write before I figure out that the only thing I need to write is a query letter? How many query letters will I perfect before I figure out that the only thing I need to do is stick a stamp on it? Virtually speaking.
Bill/Phil learnt to play the piano, accept the inexorable truth of humanity’s mortality and give the perfect toast. Maybe I’m a slow learner. Or maybe I am just a slow climber. Doesn’t mean I won’t get there in the end.
I’m the chubby girl from high school who – ‘could’ with emphasis – turn up to the school reunion in a bikini. I’m not saying you could grate cheese on my abs, I might have to hold my breath a lot – breathing isn’t required to smile and nod – but it would be a respectable size eight. I didn’t do that overnight either. There were blimps in the road (if I’d scattered pics of myself about the streets anyway), ups, downs, a deep and meaningful relationship with the guy on the midnight to two am shift at the local garage. I spent a long, long time spinning my extra tyres about ten pounds from my final goal.
But I did it. I did it and maintained it. And without turning into a religious, health food nut. One fellow former fatty friend, who admittedly does have abs you can use to shave your parmesan on, ended up finding God. Another found the Gluten free aisle.
So I am climbing a mountain. I’m so far from the top I don’t know what it looks like. I can’t quite see my path, but I know where I am going and somehow – for whatever reason – abs, bikinis, a prayer of gratitude in the crisp aisle to the gods of Golden and Wonder – I have faith that I will figure out how to get there.