Am I the tortoise or the hare? Maybe neither.

This has been one of those weeks where every day was as if I was in an unending sprint. Pounding heart, burning muscles, lungs struggling to suck in much air as possible. And just when I’d reached the finish line, just when I thought I was at the end of the race and was about to win, the boom of another starting pistol exploded all around me. Then the cycle begins again.

But writing is not a sprint, hell it’s not even a race to me. It’s a trek, a journey. So after each crazy day at my job, I came home, opened my current WIP, and BREATHED. Because no matter if I’m in a groove or fighting through a rough spot in my manuscript, I’m at peace. I don’t feel rushed, I feel free. And I no longer feel worn down from work.

“I exist only in the soles of my feet and in the tired muscles of my thighs. We have been walking for hours it seems. But where? I cannot remember.” ― Virginia Woolf, The Waves