The Heavyweight

When I think about the act of writing, I tend to picture a montage. There I am, typing away at the keyboard, marking a timeline on a whiteboard, pinning pictures and pieces of paper to a wall connected together with yarn strings to map out a complex web of ideas, Eye of the Tiger is playing loudly and a quirky personal coach is egging me on.

Reality is a little closer to fifteen rounds in the ring with Apollo.

It’s ugly. It’s brutal. I am fighting to keep this story going but I can’t see where I’m going any more. I’m just taking swings at the keyboard, hoping something lands. I’m asking friends, relatives, and random strangers bizarre questions just so that I can bleed out some new ideas. Cut me, Mick!

Maybe I’ll lose this one. Maybe I’ll look at it once it’s finished and chuck it in the garbage. Maybe there’s nothing worth salvaging in the whole lot.

But it’ll be finished.

I’ll have stood up to the challenge. Seen it through to the end.

I ain’t no bum, Mick. I ain’t no bum.

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