Knowing When You're Whipped: Part 1--by Reb MacRath

--At last, I'd exhausted all my excuses! And I'd had some great ones for not returning to the WIP I'd orphaned after a knee replacement last June. Check these out:

--The post-surgical pain was extreme and I was stoned on meds for most of the first month.

--PT offered worse pain with discouraging results.: my  lack of flexion seemed hopeless. At home, when I wasn't force-flexing or icing the knee, I brooded on the strong chance that I'd end up a cripple after FIVE procedures on the same right knee. since 2021.

--I could neither stand or sit long enough to write.

--Worse, I lost track of the two plot lines meant to fuse in this new book--one rooted in a novel I'd abandoned years ago. And along with losing track I found myself losing my creative  nerve as three months, four months, five months passed.

But wait.

As I wrote in last month's post, I decided the first thing I needed to do was regain my confidence in every way I could. With luck, I could transfer unrelated gains in mettle, pluck, and pride to my cracked creative spirit as I would funds in my banking accounts. Check these out:

--I trained six days a week in the pool and gym at the Y. If I could learn to swim and whip myself back into shape at my age, surely I could tap again into the write stuff, And if I could strengthen my core and my wounded knee enough to make way to the floor above with no elevator, I could climb the slopes of that novel.

--I arranged to move from my cluttered studio into a spacious 1 bedroom apartment with room, at long last, for an office.

--And for two months I packed as strategically as I'd outline the poor WIP,,,when I'd unpacked and returned to it.

And on and on and on. Flash forward now to  Sunday, January 12 when I'd furnished my new place, settled in, arranged my desk, laid out the various flash drives, printed pages and handwritten text that I'd need. Months of physical and spiritual training had paid off: I felt fit, in better shape than I'd been in for years. The stooped posture resulting from years of using a roller walker had straightened. My shoulders were back and my chin was up. You're damned right I felt ready.

But wait. 

In bed that night, I had the shakes. Then I found myself in the grip of a thought so cruel and dreadfully clear that I couldn't believe it had never once crossed my mind before:

Every instrument I knew agreed that all of the odds were against me. The clock alone had beaten me. What could I hope to accomplish in my later seventies in an arena packed with younger gladiators? 

I had a glum night, let's leave it at that. But come morning, without hesitation I made the toughest decision I've made in my entire life.

I'll share my decision next month.

This is my report.