I had a great signing at a local store yesterday for Kitty Steals the Show, along with science fiction author Steven Gould and mystery author Rebecca Hale. Came home exhausted like I always do after these events — I love doing them, but I’m a classic introvert, so I end up expending a lot of energy. Back home, I landed on the sofa just in time to watch the Olympic closing ceremonies (which won me over with Madness and the Pet Shop Boys, but I really covet Annie Lennox’s grand entrance).
I love the Olympics. I love all the stories behind the faces, the grand accomplishments that push the human body to the limits of what’s possible, and the magical and beautiful things humanity produces when it isn’t so busy destroying itself from the inside out.
The thing I have trouble wrapping my head around when I try to put myself in the heads of the athletes is how their dreams of winning an Olympic medal come down to just a few seconds, or a single dive, or jump, or a routine, or a race that often lasts just a few seconds or minutes. All that preparation, and success or failure happens in the blink of an eye. I get stressed out just thinking of it, never mind being there myself.
I’m not at all competitive. I tried running track in high school, came in dead last in my first and only race, thought “screw this” and quit. Let the other person win, they obviously want it so badly. So yeah, I’m not exactly Olympic material.
If writing was a race, I’d be screwed.
Fortunately, it isn’t. I’ve got plenty of time, and my writing dreams don’t live or die by a few seconds on the clock, but by the ongoing work I’ve already put in, and that I continue to put in. Thank goodness. (And I don’t have to worry about my knees giving out. Though I do have to make sure I take care of my hands.)