a Sooner or later, most of us come to the crosshairs of Time: We've fallen short of our deadlines and dreams of fame, success, wealth, acclaim, true love, and six-pack abs. Now, in our fifties or later, the pressure's on to Beat the Clock: write more books, attend more cons, hustle online for more hours each day, grovel still more shameles8sly for that promotion at work/that award... What else are you to do with younger rivals nipping at your heels and older pros passing on the shit they've had dumped on their heads while your timelines grows shorter and shorter? All these glum thoughts plagued me five months after moving to Tucson, where I'd planned to soar, reborn from the ashes I'd left behind me in Seattle. Instead, I found myself in the crosshairs, hobbled by a knee injury, unable to get around the town as well as I'd hoped, trapped in a job that was wrong in most ways, and drifting further by the day from the drudgery of transcribing my drafted Work
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I suppose, in a short story, I could end it: 'This is a true story. Friends - I married her!'