Three days a week I hit the gym and build up my legs. Coach "Mel," in her physical therapist capacity, designed me a workout that incorporates balance, weight lifting, and regular old sweaty exercises. After a few weeks, I want the right leg to equal the left and both to be powerful pistons of muscle and tendon.
Instant gratification. It's why I get injured.
Writing has been much like living in a dryer — there are moments when everything tumbles. My foreign gig decided to redirect the show down a new avenue. In the middle of a production run this is like deciding to repaint your car while speeding down the highway. But onward we go.
The Nick job boils with political intrigue on a level several tiers above me. But the fallout filters down. I've got a rewrite due for them next week.
My agent is sending the outline for my young adult horror novel, "The Whompago," to a publisher. We'll see if they are interested.
For me, the only thing worse than overwork is underwork.
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