Friday, February 18, 2011

Me, Graceful

Yesterday, I found myself running, in heels, from the Town of Drexel utility truck. It was a gravel driveway, my driveway. I had been taking out the trash and the guys in the truck surprised me, so I ran from them.

Not one of my proudest--or most graceful--moments. Sometimes I forget that I'm thirty-five, not nineteen, and that a pick-up truck with maybe three or four youngish, oldish guys with messy beards and ball-caps crawling up my driveway to check my power meter may not find the sight of me running away from them especially cute.

But, the entire situation seems emblematic of my life these last few weeks. Must get my life together. Get back into the writing seat, the blogging seat, the normal chaotic but managed life of my busy little family. Get out of the driveway before the utility truck is bearing down on my behind. I'm too old for this sort of disorganization.

Confession: I've already failed my new year's resolutions. Haven't worked on my new novel in a month or more.

Confession: I'm thirty-six. Almost thirty-seven.

But, I'm not dismayed. Guilt is useless; action is what counts.

Coming soon: Tuesday morning story-writing sessions, building fiction from the ground up. I'm back in task-master mode. Join me.

8 comments:

katrina said...

Oh, dear, I know how you feel, Susan. But this is passing, it is. Says me, thirty-six plus a whole 'nother decade. ;)

cathykidman.com said...

Hmm... maybe a name for a blog (probably already done): The Human Writer

You are an inspiration, even as you run in heels away from the scruffy utility guys. No, scratch that. ESPECIALLY as you run in heels away from the scruffy utility guys.

Anonymous said...

Susan- I have to tell you about by first Burke Co redneck moment: The weekend after Chip & I moved to Valdese, he was busily remodeling our house. I was chasing an 18-month-old Lyvia and 9 months preggers with Peri, cooking and, yes, barefoot. Chip had built an enormous bonfire to burn building scraps he was removing from the house, and I was tryin to tell him dinner was ready, but he couldn't hear me. Waddling, I exit my house, barefoot onto our red dirt yard, looking at my husband in his overalls with a pitchfork in his hand, poking and spitting at the blaze. I'm screaming at him over the roar of the fire "Dinner!" with Lyvia on my hip. At that moment, a Burke Co. Sheriff car pulls in to check on the raging blaze he saw from the main road. It was truly our most redneck moment (to date.) The only thing missing were howling blue tick hounds. You are not alone! :) Heather Turpin

Susan Woodring said...

Katrina, taking heart in what you said. Thank you. :)

Susan Woodring said...

Cathy, the Human Writer, I love it!!

Susan Woodring said...

Heather, this story made my day. I am so going to steal it and put it in a story...too funny...wish I'd been there myself...makes me wonder: could it be the supposed redneck population is grossly inflated by those of us who are simply caught in bizarre situations???

towriteistowrite said...

Gee, you're young.

The only time I run from guys in trucks is when I'm sneaking around outside in my pajamas. Running away when you're wearing heels--that seems a waste of energy.

I'm glad you're doing Tuesdays. I'm behind, but I'll catch up. I need a task-master.

Susan Woodring said...

Kathy, gee, you're young. That might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite a while. :)

And, I've decided to blog every week day for a while here, at least as long as my class lasts, five weeks. Well, I'm going to try to hit it everyday...we'll see...