It’s so hard that a pickle jar lid ain’t got nothin’ on writing.

This morning almost sent me back to bed. It was hard enough that I said some really naughty words in my head and a few tears dribbled out of my eyes. But I decided giving up would hurt more than to keep trying. So I sat at my computer and pressed letters until something like a chapter happened. When I finished, I copied what I had written and pasted it into a blank document. Then I held my breath.

My goal for each day is 1,000 words. Today I wrote 1,188.

I raised both arms into the air, made two fists, and shouted “DONE, Beee-otch!”

Thank you for listening. God is Good. Cara out.

WeWin

A Wingless Bird

We are a people easily inspired.

Should we be in the mood for something to encourage or uplift, it seems we need not exert ourselves beyond the click of a button. Pictures, music, clothing, food — it’s all there for our immediate access. In youth, inspiration is somewhat of a capacious, ethereal thing; it changes and morphs as rapidly as we do. Chance encounters, unfortunate circumstances, a generous accolade, a supportive parent — these experiences mold, shape, and respectively define what we consider to be inspirational.

What I find exceptionally grand is how, such as a match beneath brush, inspiration can ignite us, propel us upward and onward, all toward something that was otherwise not thought possible or attainable. Haven’t we all seen how even the unlikeliest of candidates found his or or her way after being “inspired” by a person, place, moment or thing. Truth be told  — and this shall be expanded upon in the dedication of Awakening Foster Kelly — I am only a writer only because my husband called me one first. I was given the name Cara at birth, the name Olsen in marriage, and the name writer by someone who saw something in me I never would have seen myself. True story.

For the most part, however, as we grow older, our successes and failures begin to outline a future; our goals align, usually, with what we are capable of achieving. Depending on what gifts we do or do not possess, our innate predilections, and the resources available to us, we will pursue our goals with alacrity, so long as there is enough reason and justification to do so.

Now, of course, there are those dauntless sorts who see steep snowy peaks as welcome challenge and benighted fathomless depths as great adventure; I am not one of these amalgams, though I am very much inspired by you. Write a blogpost and bring back pictures, please. Thank you.

I was inspired by something — or rather, I should say someone — this morning. But before I introduce you to a man you might already know of, I thought I would leave you with a few pictures that I imagine many of you, being the impassioned, focused, dedicated people you are, will endorse with pleasure and agreeability. Hopefully.

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An Uncomfortable Character

The problem:

Lately I’ve been somewhat of a sourpuss. Fine! Have it your way, then; I’ve been an utterly petulantly, self-indulgently moody sourpuss.

You will remember my ankle, perhaps? I sprained one of the tendons that run along the top of the foot. Who knew an injury would alter and augment my cheerful disposition to this degree. Pain, I suppose, will do that to you. And not just pain, but inconveniencing pain. Not only does it take me three times as long to get anywhere, but my workouts — my nightly, sanity reviving workouts, freeing this writer of a day copious with discouragement and defeat — are devoid of all the exercises that raise my heart-rate, which in turn make me sweat, which in turn release those delightful little endorphins that so obligingly bring me happiness. Well, I can’t have that, can I? So, I decided to just do them anyway. This is where I tell you I injured my ankle over 2 weeks ago and the swelling has NOT gone down. Hm . . . why ever could that be?

Moron.

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