I rowed crew in college. I loved my girls, didn't give a shit about the boys. I loved the sound of oars cutting through glass, the shouting commands of ten more strokes on top of the twenty we just finished. I loved how the coaches yelled at you from their power boat and then when you shot them an incredulous look they punished the whole team with twenty-five push-ups. I loved seeing who could spit the farthest. I was so bad at that. We once rowed on a river against the current. I hated that day on the water. We fought for our seats. I was happy where I was, but I raced and won. At the following regatta and the only race that counted, we lost by a fraction of a second. The "A" boat had the killer spirit, a "destroy them!" kind of racing mentality. I was more like, "What a pretty sunrise."
I wonder about that day and my thinking. The killer drive, the take no prisoners mentality. As an author, I feel like I'm still looking at sunrises and smiling. I love my books, creating the characters, laughing with them, even crying. I love my blog. But I feel like I'm supposed to be hardcore, gung-ho, industrious. . . different than I am.
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