Lately, I'm sort of sick of myself.
No, really. I'm not kidding.
I even ran extra fast on my run today just to see if I could get away from thinking so much. My dog was dying. Huffing, puffing, panting, tongue to the ground, eyes begging me to slow down, and tail wagging thankful when we stopped at the crosswalk for traffic.
My husband would say I'm running away from something; I would say I'm running toward something. We'd both be a little bit right.
See...I'm working on a story I've been working on for a VERY LONG time. Years, in fact. Six years, in fact. It's a story that is likely to sell if I ever finish it. I've had my dream agent express possible interest.
But as much as I want to see it published, and as much as I really want this dream agent...I'm sick of this story. SICK of it. Enough that I could happily close the file and never look at it again.
So I'm giving myself a break.
I will be away from blogging, writing, email and the telephone until the beginning of June. We're going on a family cruise through the Greek Isles, and the only running I will do is chase my husband around the room after the kids go to bed.
My husband says, "Yeah. Right."
But I still throw the band-aid lingerie in the suitcase and leave my writing notebooks on my desk.
Because really, I'm not kidding.