I was asked to write an 1100 word max (uh-oh already) article for a local publication. Topic? Running.
As luck would have it, I know a little about both of these things – writing and running, namely because I think I used to enjoy them. Even more importantly, I used to do them. Cheers to Amelia Earhart for saying it best with such accuracy and brevity:
“The most effective way to do it, is to do it.”
(Nike, please put the check in the mail to her descendants.)
So, I ran an ugly 10-miles this morning, came home, showered off the paradox of disappointing and encouraging disgust, and just finished reading some of my former writing material. Nothing bypasses questionable self-talk faster than actionable proof. While it may not be up to Pulitzer qualifying standards yet, I was at least successful in finding several pieces which never made it to this blog, as well as the first chapter of a maybe-might-be-published someday memoir.
In an effort to just do it, I am sharing some of those findings below and will continue to write – both here and elsewhere. Oh, and I just signed up for a marathon 6 months from now to see if I can tackle at least one kind of qualifying standard…
Here’s hoping Amelia isn’t the only one who could fly.
I used to author “Beth’s Top Ten Lists” for my former running partner. Letterman-esque in fashion, they covered work, family, and life topics. I stumbled upon this one which I put together in an effort to start running together again and training for a race after a way too long hiatus.
Found this written 3+ years ago, but was afraid to post for fear my Mom would stumble upon it out there in, you know, “that iDevice internet cyber web thing.” Writer’s license taken; no offense to my mother intended. I adore her and have no desire to have her baked goods withheld from my diet – even during training.
It’s Monday morning. Which means if I don’t call my little sister by 7:45am, she will call me. The conversation will commence as it always does, with her stating that my Mother is driving her nuts (and yes – even though for the last 36 years I’ve been telling her she was adopted, we have the same parents). I indulge her with my ensuing inquisition and we laugh together. She lives just under 4 hours away, and I miss her.
There were many, many years when I did not miss her in the least. I suppose for the first 17 years of my life that was because she was right there next to me, growing up with me, annoying me, watching me, sharing life with me. But when I went off to college there was an immediate void. Not so much mind you, that when she came for a visit I stayed with her in my dorm room the entire party-infused night instead of hanging out with Andrew McGinnis down the hall. Whew. Andy.
I was happy to have her again by my side at Ohio State, sharing that new season of life with me. Without question, that night was far more fun than the night, years prior, she and I had found ourselves in a heated argument inside our parent’s bedroom. While we don’t look much alike, we were like Siamese twins when it came to the loud, nasty mouth gene pool. Apparently, or at least how the story goes, I won said heated argument and my prize was a horse-like brush being hurled through the air at me. However, thankfully my award was not bestowed with enough speed that I didn’t have time to hit the deck and watch as it lodged itself into my parent’s bathroom door. As I wished her good luck, part of me actually wanted to help the little squirt. Instead, the prideful big sister part of me walked away, smugly pretending I was going to be handed yet another prize as I walked through the one remaining unscathed door in annoying silence.
Today, the post-it note which she carefully placed over the hole in the bathroom door resides in my closet, right next to the Strawberry Shortcake plaque she gave me for Christmas when she was seven and I was ten. It reads: “Dear Mom and Dad, I am sorry about your door, but number one you should have gone with solid oak and number two, Beth moved out of the way in time. Please don’t be mad since we’re not mad at each other anymore either. Love, Sarah.”
Not mad at each other is an understatement, as love her I do – as we continue to share this beautiful life and all the crazy stories together. Especially the ones about her Mom.
I think they call this “realistic fiction.” Otherwise known as “story of my life, you can’t make it up.”
I miss my girl. And I have missed writing. Time to take another run at it.
…1100 words and a 3:39:59 marathon, here I come.