Runs with Poop
I’ve been writing every day until ten at night, when my brain cannot possibly fit in any more details about whose eyes are what color and who is married to what and why is that there, that should be over here, OH MY GOD NO ONE WILL READ THIS because I am dead. I will never write about this many characters ever again. I love the idea of writing about a big family and I still have flashes, like yesterday when I finished a big dinner table scene, where it brings me joy but for the most part, I’m tired of complicated, inter-threading plot lines and overlapping intentions and subtext and motivations.
Because my schedule is largely my own these days, a friend encouraged me to keep exercising. I explained that running outside was difficult because I have a lethargic dog in my hands and unless I toss some resistance bands around him, his pulling and dragging will ensure I never break a 15 minute mile. Her suggestion: walk him and then go running- look, I know I have a little more leeway with time here but who can do that? Who? I can’t even bear the thought of buying an apple corer because it only does one thing- am I really going to cover the same distance twice when I can do it in one?
So no. I run with the dog. I drag the dog for half of it. And then he poops and I have to carry it and run, in my fist, for at least half the way. That’s a metaphor for something I’m sure.