I'm in a cave
buried beneath a mound of writing. I'm stuck, and I'm procrastinating. So I thought, "hey, why not update my livejournal!"
I've been alone in my white, concrete walled office for 5 hours sucking down coffee and writing a research proposal. It's the 4th of 6 articles I have to finish in these last two weeks of the semester. Every article has been completely diffent in subject, style and length. I did want to become a better writer....
All I can think about is how bad I want to be at home with my son and boyfriend. This weekend we are going to trim the tree and go see the nutcracker in Atlanta at the Fox theatre.
I'm trying to finish at least 5 of these papers before Friday so I can relax some this weekend. Wish me some speed, luck and intelligence!
I miss dancing and music. I miss laughing. Writing can be such a lonely thing. Less than two years of this left until I can work, more or less, on my own terms again.
IN the meantime Ill leave you with the recently written piece of narrative journalism I wrote recently. It was rejected by the first place I submitted it. But if any of you writers on my friends list know of another place that might be interested in it let me know.
peace and love--Christy
Running Shoes
by CFricks
I sat down on a rock near a secluded part of the trail after the race was over. Finally, I sighed with relief as I pulled off my running shoes. My socks were stained red with fresh blood.
The 3-mile was my race: fastest female long distance runner ever in the county, at the age of 13. I trained with the high school guys, not with the junior high girls.
Today was the state race. I was expected to win.
At the starting line the guys on the team were patting me on the back encouragingly.
“Alright, Fricks! You can win this one. It’s all you,” they said. I grinned, embarrassed at the extra attention in the crowd.
If I won the race it would pull the team score up enough to get us all into the regionals.
In a show of solidarity, the other girls on the team and I had put blue streaks in our hair for this race.
Even though I knew I’d pass her in the first quarter mile, I always stood next to my best friend at the starting line. She was taller, prettier and always had a boyfriend
At practice I liked having someone to jog the long miles with and chat. Everything about her life seemed so easy. Her parents had more money than most and she was popular enough to have been a cheerleader. But she joined the cross-country team with me.
I stood awkwardly in my running shoes, trying to focus on the miles ahead of me. Remembering what the coach had said about focusing.
“It’s all mental,” Coach told me repeatedly. “If you just get your head straight Fricks, you’d be a better runner.”
Coach’s nickname was “The Beast.” He was 6’3” and weighed over 200 pounds. A former alternate for the Olympic wrestling team he’d been sidelined by an injury and never actually got to compete in the games. Coaching our little team was all the athletics he had left in him. To his credit he poured his heart into it and it showed. We were a better team than we might have been.
I heard the starting gun go off. Taking a deep breath I lunged forward with my first step. For a few minutes we were a herd of kids trampling through a field together in a dust storm.
It didn’t take long for me to find my stride and break out in front of the crowd. I loved this part: feeling my legs stretching out, the wind in my face. It all felt easy and good.
Then my feet began to hurt. The arches were cramping and stabbing pain shot through my toes each time my feet hit the ground.
My shoes were too small.
I was growing again. Or actually my feet were growing again. The rest of me seemed stalled in some awkward prepubescent girl shape: all skin and bones with no chest.
My big toes scrunched together in the shoes in such a way that the sharp edges of the nails sliced into the sides of my other toes with every step.
The pain was easy to ignore. It was easier to ignore than my mom.
“$65! If I buy you these shoes you’d better not quit,” she’d threatened when she bought these pair of Nikes.
The previous pair she’d purchased, embarrassed, after the Coach had driven me home from practice one day and talked to her. He’d noticed I was running barefoot whenever I could get away with it.
For her the only reason to run was for a scholarship--for money.
She had rarely attended a meet. Recently she’d even started excusing herself before I even invited her. “Somebody has to go to work to buy your running shoes,” she’d say.
I had to keep going. I had to win. But, thinking about my mom, and about my too small running shoes, had slowed me down.
I passed the two-mile marker.
Looking over my shoulder I could see that several other runners were not far behind, including my best friend. Surprisingly, she was running one of her best races. I could hear the familiar pattern of her feet as she gained on me.
The pain had spread up to my knees and developed into a dull throb.
I concentrated on my breathing and thought about how far it was until the finish line. Which hills and corners would I be able to gain ground on?
I thought about the finish line, it wasn’t far now. The coach would have been timing me, staring at the clock anticipating my arrival. He’d know that I had taken longer than I should to run the race. He’d ask me what happened.
I felt a knot forming in my stomach like it always did when I neared the end of a race.
My friend was running close behind me, gaining ever more ground with her shiny new Reeboks that fit her feet comfortably.
I lifted my chin and picked up my pace, imagining how good it would be to take my shoes off and soak my feet in the bathtub. I lengthened my stride again pulling even farther ahead of the rest of the runners.
All I had to do now was finish.
I've been alone in my white, concrete walled office for 5 hours sucking down coffee and writing a research proposal. It's the 4th of 6 articles I have to finish in these last two weeks of the semester. Every article has been completely diffent in subject, style and length. I did want to become a better writer....
All I can think about is how bad I want to be at home with my son and boyfriend. This weekend we are going to trim the tree and go see the nutcracker in Atlanta at the Fox theatre.
I'm trying to finish at least 5 of these papers before Friday so I can relax some this weekend. Wish me some speed, luck and intelligence!
I miss dancing and music. I miss laughing. Writing can be such a lonely thing. Less than two years of this left until I can work, more or less, on my own terms again.
IN the meantime Ill leave you with the recently written piece of narrative journalism I wrote recently. It was rejected by the first place I submitted it. But if any of you writers on my friends list know of another place that might be interested in it let me know.
peace and love--Christy
Running Shoes
by CFricks
I sat down on a rock near a secluded part of the trail after the race was over. Finally, I sighed with relief as I pulled off my running shoes. My socks were stained red with fresh blood.
The 3-mile was my race: fastest female long distance runner ever in the county, at the age of 13. I trained with the high school guys, not with the junior high girls.
Today was the state race. I was expected to win.
At the starting line the guys on the team were patting me on the back encouragingly.
“Alright, Fricks! You can win this one. It’s all you,” they said. I grinned, embarrassed at the extra attention in the crowd.
If I won the race it would pull the team score up enough to get us all into the regionals.
In a show of solidarity, the other girls on the team and I had put blue streaks in our hair for this race.
Even though I knew I’d pass her in the first quarter mile, I always stood next to my best friend at the starting line. She was taller, prettier and always had a boyfriend
At practice I liked having someone to jog the long miles with and chat. Everything about her life seemed so easy. Her parents had more money than most and she was popular enough to have been a cheerleader. But she joined the cross-country team with me.
I stood awkwardly in my running shoes, trying to focus on the miles ahead of me. Remembering what the coach had said about focusing.
“It’s all mental,” Coach told me repeatedly. “If you just get your head straight Fricks, you’d be a better runner.”
Coach’s nickname was “The Beast.” He was 6’3” and weighed over 200 pounds. A former alternate for the Olympic wrestling team he’d been sidelined by an injury and never actually got to compete in the games. Coaching our little team was all the athletics he had left in him. To his credit he poured his heart into it and it showed. We were a better team than we might have been.
I heard the starting gun go off. Taking a deep breath I lunged forward with my first step. For a few minutes we were a herd of kids trampling through a field together in a dust storm.
It didn’t take long for me to find my stride and break out in front of the crowd. I loved this part: feeling my legs stretching out, the wind in my face. It all felt easy and good.
Then my feet began to hurt. The arches were cramping and stabbing pain shot through my toes each time my feet hit the ground.
My shoes were too small.
I was growing again. Or actually my feet were growing again. The rest of me seemed stalled in some awkward prepubescent girl shape: all skin and bones with no chest.
My big toes scrunched together in the shoes in such a way that the sharp edges of the nails sliced into the sides of my other toes with every step.
The pain was easy to ignore. It was easier to ignore than my mom.
“$65! If I buy you these shoes you’d better not quit,” she’d threatened when she bought these pair of Nikes.
The previous pair she’d purchased, embarrassed, after the Coach had driven me home from practice one day and talked to her. He’d noticed I was running barefoot whenever I could get away with it.
For her the only reason to run was for a scholarship--for money.
She had rarely attended a meet. Recently she’d even started excusing herself before I even invited her. “Somebody has to go to work to buy your running shoes,” she’d say.
I had to keep going. I had to win. But, thinking about my mom, and about my too small running shoes, had slowed me down.
I passed the two-mile marker.
Looking over my shoulder I could see that several other runners were not far behind, including my best friend. Surprisingly, she was running one of her best races. I could hear the familiar pattern of her feet as she gained on me.
The pain had spread up to my knees and developed into a dull throb.
I concentrated on my breathing and thought about how far it was until the finish line. Which hills and corners would I be able to gain ground on?
I thought about the finish line, it wasn’t far now. The coach would have been timing me, staring at the clock anticipating my arrival. He’d know that I had taken longer than I should to run the race. He’d ask me what happened.
I felt a knot forming in my stomach like it always did when I neared the end of a race.
My friend was running close behind me, gaining ever more ground with her shiny new Reeboks that fit her feet comfortably.
I lifted my chin and picked up my pace, imagining how good it would be to take my shoes off and soak my feet in the bathtub. I lengthened my stride again pulling even farther ahead of the rest of the runners.
All I had to do now was finish.