I never feel my age until I overdo it. So I should just avoid overdoing it, right? The problem is it seems to take less and less for me to overdo it. Of all of life’s jokes I think this is the cruelest. Well, at least the pain lets me know I’m alive.
I’m not ready to slow down. Yes, I’ve lived a few decades, four to be exact, but my brain is still as fun-loving, happy-go-lucky as my teenage years. There are days I almost get a shock when I look in a mirror. “Who in the heck let the old lady in here?”
I swear it’s my kids. They’ve gone and hit the fast forward button on me. This slipping away of time does help me to stay focused though. On days when the busy world tries to crowd in on my writing time, my slightly morbid thoughts of not knowing how many days I have left on this earth steers my butt back toward the computer. My mind is full of so many ideas for novels. I would hate to leave here without getting them all down.
I think you inherited the drive to work your guts out. At my age, every time I do, it takes me 4 or 5 days to recover. Then I go out and do it again. I am so stupid, but can’t help it.
Born this way I guess!