Last week CP and I made a pact to write at least 100 words a day.
When I began this manuscript, I wrote at least 500 words a day. But with one thing and another, over the months, production slipped. So, although 100 seemed paltry compared to what I used to do, or what I could or should do, I thought it a reasonable minimum, small enough not to feel threatening or to spark the dreaded Writer’s Block.
If I’d known I was going to rejoin Curves today, however, I would have held out for only fifty.
I made one Curves circuit, fifteen minutes of pushing and pulling against hydraulic resistance. Twice would have possible but stupid. In the first place, I have no sense of proportion. No shades of gray. It’s all or nothing. If I’d stayed, I would have ended up putting every scrap of energy I possessed into doing battle with those machines. And at the end of the day, I’d have felt worse than I do now.
In the second place, …I’ve forgotten what’s in the second place.
That’s an indication of how fit I am to add 100 words to Molly’s story before I crater.
But a pact is a pact. Is a pact.
Rats.
