In the Spring, A Young Girl’s Fancies Turn a…

By Jove, I think I’ve got it.

SHOES.
What, of late I have been asking myself, motivates me?

What is it that gives my ego that vicious little pinch which makes me perform? What causes me to set my jaw, grit my teeth, dig in my heels and try?

I have to say that nowadays it’s shoes. Or books. Or books and shoes. In college, I used to promise myself a bookstore trip if I wanted to trick myself into finishing something hard and ugly. No new book until you tell Dr. Anderson that no, you can’t take on another three hours of grading. No new story magazines until you tell Giselle you actually hate her, and this whole roommate thing needs to end. Now. No scoping out the $5 bins at Payless Shoes until at least half your Victorian Lit paper on Mary Wollstonecraft is done… It’s a bit psycho, actually, how the voice that was our nagging mother’s voice has morphed into the nagging voice of …us, but psycho as it may be, it’s what’s going to have to do the trick now.

Shoes.

I hereby declare in the sight of these (virtually) unseen witnesses: there will be NO shoes until a.) the manuscript is finished (oh, agony), and ten pounds minimum is lost. (Please note: the weight sounds easier, which should give some indication on how the @(*$%#*%! novel is going thus far.)

No cute new skimmers. No flashy patent t-straps. No strappy summer sandals. No bargain basement velvet flats that are on clearance this minute, nor sueded knee-high stretch fit boots for next fall. Not. A. Thing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.

Sucks to be me right now.

Sooo. How’s your writing going?