I know I need to write on the novel. I do, I do, I do, or at the very least start editing a few other things, having some word fun. The Faithful Light (i.e. the very cleverest, most loyal part of my inner eye that watches all and guides towards higher ground) said today that it is only doing the work that will save you, not the dreaming of doing the work.
So I heard her, but I have applied it in a different arena today and have tracked food, eaten a little that felt like a lot (still have room for some ice cream, caffeinated ice cream which I don’t need), and have done a little in-home cardio for 30 minutes rather than the baseline 10. Also, it appears that I have nearly (.8) lost the first pound of the however many I end up losing and leaving lost. Almost wish it was frameable and could be stuck on the wall to remind me.
But it’s not even a whole dollar’s worth of a pound yet. And who can say what my body will do as I collar it and yank it around the exercise pen. There’s always push-back. There’s always stress headaches and skipping food and long days rather than three day weekends and food cooked for you to fuck it up. It will happen. But today, today was grand for its clarity. Also washed all the pots and pans and watched a bit of The Tribe, so I feel well sated for intentional living.
As shitty as yesterday was, we boomerang around to feeling alright. Thinking about my birthday coming up. Happy about it, actually, because I’m both working on myself so I’m not Queen of the Slugs, and because I’m free to enjoy it. Actually enjoy it and not have to consider how much I have to pinch and cut to make it “justified,” or insisting that I was going to throw caution to the wind and just gorge myself. Now, it’s just going to be a nice day and I’ll read on it and write on it and dance on it and sing on it and possibly cry and mope on it and it won’t be catastrophe.
So long as I get my dutch oven.
+300 story words.