Sneaky B*tches

Today, I overheard a girl in a class today talking about running her first 5k. I congratulated her and got chatting about running, and mentioned that I hope to do a 5k one of these days. And then she was like....oh, yeah, I have asthma and I couldn't breathe but you know, it was easy, I just kept moving, blah blah blah, running just comes easily to me I guess, aren't I awesome, etc. etc. etc.

That's when I realized she was a Sneaky Bitch. You know the type...the ones who make all your hard work and agony seem so STUPID and pointless because they just decide one day to do something, and it works for THEM, and they don't understand that not everyone can do that thing easily. They don't give a crap their words are like a knife in your back.

And today, it's just the final straw for me, because I've spent the better part of the past two years trying to be a runner. I went to a running clinic to learn proper form (ball impact, heel glance...any coach that ever told you to “dig in those heels” while running was a dumbass and likely causing you injury). I'd get so close to completing a full mile and fall short, because my lungs were going to explode. I've fallen off treadmills, nay, FLEW off a treadmill, because I am a horrible spaz. I've sprained the same ankle twice, very badly, again on the spaz bit. I had plantar fasciitis in both feet when I started jogging and only started jogging consistently because I realized running with proper form moved the impact zone off my injured tendons AND that the area was strengthening every time I jogged and felt immensely better, both localized, and as I lost weight, overall. I finally (just recently) reached the place where I can jog a whole mile without stopping to walk or take breathers.

But EVERY time I start getting a good routine going, I get hurt again, like today. Something in my hip flexor has been bothering me for a few weeks and while I've been trying to do stuff to fix it, and strengthen the area, today it “snapped” about 2 minutes into a good brisk run and I had to stop because my leg basically gave out from under me. It hurts like crazy to even walk right now and I am PISSED, because once again, my body is betraying me when all I've done is try to make it better, faster, stronger, healthier, and meanwhile there are SNEAKY BITCHES out there running 5k's without even TRYING.

It's not like I'm a nutter fanatic trying to run marathons (you know who YOU are...nutters!) and doing crazy routines. I'm just trying to jog a couple times a week as part of an overall cardio and resistance training fitness plan AND I CAN'T EFFING DO IT without getting hurt, and suffering, and experiencing delays of every imaginable sort.

Why are there always people who seem to be able to just fall into the thing we are bleeding and sweating our butts off to be able to do? Like that writer who decided one day to pen a totally ridiculous, cheesy, lame-ass knock-off book and it became an overnight sensation, selling a hundred bazillion jillion copies and inciting fan fiction of the fan fiction (complete with merchandising) to pop up faster than maggots on a cow carcass (Yeah, EL James, talking about you here, and a few other individuals who shall not be named, we all know who you are even if you don't acknowlege it) while there are thousands of writers all over the world who have been slaving away over brilliant, original, FABULOUS ideas for decades, hundreds of decades even (little bit exaggatory) and can barely sell a thing, much less get a contract.

As if that weren't bad enough, inevitably these “blessed” people like to oh-so-innocently rub our faces in their success...“Oh, I didn't need painkillers for the dentist or childbirth!” (True story...I call Alien Species on that particular sneaky bitch, but whatever). “I ran a 5k while having an asthma attack, and won first place!” (Ok, exaggeration, but whatever, my hip effing hurts, I'm allowed.) “I'm now going to share the secrets of my success with you all and show how you, too, can be an overnight writing sensation like me via pompous windbaggy douchery webcasts and books I've written on the subject which you should buy so I can make more money, wheee!” (Not really an exaggeration on that last bit, sadly)

Here's the thing. There are always going to be people who seem to be really good at something or fall into a bit of luck. And if YOU are one of those people, don't be an effing jerk about it. Don't pretend you somehow magically have all the secrets of the universe at your disposal. Don't pretend you're an expert just because you were in the right place at the right time. Don't knock other people's efforts, or belittle their hard work and talent, and don't offer to “help” them or give advice with a supercilious smirk or self-righteous attitude. Be genuine, and humble, and grateful, and don't be a sneaky little bitch, ok? The world does NOT need more of those people.

For the rest of us, I guess all we can do is dust ourselves off, take an ibuprofen, and get the eff back to work. Here's a quote to help us with that~

What Kind Of Writer Are You, Anyways?

There are many ways to describe a garden...or, we could call it finding your Voice...some people may disagree, but there are absolutely right ways to write and wrong ways to write. Perhaps "right" and "wrong" are misnomers. Words you'd be terribly bored by and would never want to read, or find extremely tedious- those are the “wrong” ways to write. Words that pull you in, and make you want to know what's going to happen next, that is the "right" way.

Styles also vary by genre. There seems to be a formula between genres, of how to write about something, because HOW you convey the mood is vital to your reader, not just the subject matter. Understanding these subtleties is important.

I read across all genres. Some people only prefer one or two genres (boring little trolls!) and that's fine.

But here is the truth...if you make something really interesting, and I mean REALLY interesting, you can break as many rules as you want to, and readers will still love you. (I'm not claiming to be able to do this, I'm just stating an opinion I like to call a fact)

Just for fun, I've written several different paragraphs about a garden and a tomato. Each is a different mood, or “genre.” Can you spot the terribly boring, bad, DO NOT DO THIS paragraphs? And it hardly matters what genre they might be lumped into, because they are BAD and WRONG and BORING!!! 

I'd like to think it'd be super easy for anyone to pick out the crap paragraphs, but to my dismay, I've seen stuff written quite similarly in recent works. Amazing writing transcends genre, as does horrible writing. I may not be in the category otherwise known as “Amazing” but I sure as heck know boring when I see it.

(Have fun reading these, for they are meant to be taken with a side helping of salt. Wait. I wasn't intentionally trying to make a pun about putting salt on a fresh sliced tomato....oh never mind!)

~The garden was in front of me. There was a tomato growing in it. The tomato was red. I walked over to it and picked it. It was heavy for a tomato. There was a small spot near the stem. The stem was dark green but the spot was brown. The garden was nice. The tomato will go in a salad later.

~I wasn't sure why the sprawling garden beckoned to me so, until I spotted the ripe, luscious glint of red peeping out from behind the vine. Before I could stop myself the plump fullness of the tomato was pressing itself into in my hand. I shuddered, overwhelmed with my longing to taste its succulent flesh and feel the juices dripping down my chin. I bit down, and moaned with pleasure as the explosion of tangy sweetness erupted on my tastebuds.

~The greenery of the garden was dark and forbidding. The metal spikes of the vine trellis leaned toward me in a vaguely threatening manner, as if to say, do not come closer, there is nothing good here for you. I jumped as the sudden screech of the rusty windmill indicated a fierce wind was rising. The sky loomed over me, full of grays and jagged clouds. A storm was coming in fast, and the dilapidated barn ahead was the only shelter for miles. I ran for it as the first raindrops pelted my face, hearing my mother's warning voice echo in my head as I tugged on the door handle. "Never mistake opportunity for destiny..."

~The tableau was strange to her new eyes, a haphazard tumble of greens, yellows, and reds. There. The brightest orangey-red caught her eye and she made her way towards it. A small spherical shape was growing from a vine as thick as her index finger. “Classification: Food. Edible fruit called a 'toe-may-toe, and sometimes a 'toe-mah-toe,'” chimed the electronic identifier in her ear. “Toe-may-toe. Toe-mah-toe.” She repeated out loud. She touched its skin, smooth and poreless, and utterly foreign.

~Once upon a time, there once grew an enchanted tomato. The legend of her beauty and plumpness had spread far and wide across the land, and many had tried to rescue the beautiful fruit, but alas, it was not to be. The surrounding garden protected the fruit with savage ferocity, thick vines that strangled any man that came too close, and vicious thorns that punctured him unto death. The tomato longed for freedom and had begun to despair of her rescue. “I shall wither on my vine and perish,” she thought. “I shall turn brown and my skin will crack.” As the tomato continued to muse, she began to understand. “If no one can rescue me, I MUST find a way to escape. I must rescue myself!”

~The small boy skipped across the lawn and into the garden where he wandered around for several moments before spotting a tomato that his mother had asked him to bring inside because she was preparing lunch for his father who was coming home early from work to to eat lunch and then he had to drive to the airport to pick up his sister who was flying home from college on her summer break. The airport was almost an hour away from their house and he wanted to go with his father to watch the planes because he thought maybe he wanted to be a pilot when he grew up but also maybe a fireman and he didn't really want to spend more time than necessary with his sister because she always picked on him and it was bad enough she was going to be home for almost 4 months straight so adding the extra hour it would take to get home was not such a great idea after all.

Please write your own version of a garden tomato descriptor in the Comments section...you know you want to! And definitely poke fun at the paragraphs I wrote ;)