I wrote the post below about a year ago on the day I decided to start training for a half marathon. My friends know that this short-lived wave of determination and productivity came to a crashing halt upon the unfortunate breaking of my eff-ing leg. I managed to fracture my tibia while running around Lake Normandale, and spent the next four weeks lumbering around on crutches (which I now refer to as “death sticks”). In fact, this year has been filled with a parade of tried and failed attempts at “doing something new” which resulted in moderate to severe injury to my physical person. I find this both hilarious and depressing.  There was the “I’m going to be a cute snow bunny and conquer learning to snowboard” phase, which resulted in a cracked sacrum (just above the tailbone, for those who are not anatomy majors) and my not being able to bend at the waist without tearing up for several weeks.  There was the “death by kayak” incident in which I fancied myself an expert rower moving gracefully through the Gulf of Mexico.  One near concussion and subdural hematoma later, I humbly dragged myself out of the ocean.  Said hematoma is still not officially healed nearly six months later – weird? You be the judge. Notwithstanding the aforementioned broken leg, my personal favorite was the loss of my right eardrum due to an unfortunate incident with a Q-Tip. This by far wins the prize as the most painful injury of the year. Just a split second after the boyfriend innocently opened the bathroom door to ask me if I would like to eat a cheddar brat for lunch (yes, please), I fell to my knees and nearly blacked out. “Pain beyond the world,” this moment where blinding pain and immediate deafness collide, has been described best by Stephen King when he endured a similar fate. Indeed. I’m sure there are more painful things in the world, and I am very grateful to not have met them yet. Although I’m sure they are lurking hot on my trail given my track record. Yet, despite the mounting evidence that karma may have a beef with me, I really have never been happier in my life. Go figure.

One of my girlfriends once received a fantastic e-mail from a potential suitor in which he was explaining his forwardness in asking her out after just seeing her photo - “Life is too short to lack balls..” Awesome. That hilarious phrase has stuck with me and could possibly be part of the reason I seem to keep getting in over my head. Perhaps the universe is telling me to tone down the ballsiness, just a bit - just for a while.

So I have decided to go back to a different type of endeavor that, please God, cannot result in any foreseeable injury. Climb Mt. Everest? Run a marathon? Me thinks not, sweet girl. Endurance is not your game. Let’s settle for a few short bursts of brilliance, and see if we can turn a dazzling phrase or two, shall we? Now the trick will be to figure out what to write about. I have always been a bookworm and had a lot of time to read during my days of being laid up. The more books I consume, the more inspired and discouraged I get. Is there anything left that hasn’t been written about? All of my trials and tribulations – all of my best shit - seems to already be on paper in some form or another.  To highlight a few: 1) Hideous divorce followed by quest to reclaim and rejuvenate life – Elizabeth Gilbert pretty much cornered the market on that one and put a cherry on top by having Julia Roberts play her in Eat Pray Love. Nice work ma’am. 2) The unbearable heartache and persisting love that comes with having a sibling with a serious illness and disability. I could write volumes about the amazing being that is my brother. Unfortunately, these themes have been obligingly covered (and made into a movie) by Jodi Picoult in My Sister’s Keeper, along with several other wonderful books (oh the angst of it all!). 3) My hilarious eardrum incident already described in brilliant detail by Stephen King – well done sir. 4) Even my foul mouthed snarkiness has already been done better by another MN writer, Diablo Cody. If only I’d had the balls to be a stripper 10 years ago when I had a wash board stomach (strictly for writing material, of course). 5) And my gigantic, enmeshed, passive aggressive, yet loving and well intentioned family? Well I could swear Jonathan Franzen may have moved into my parents’ basement while writing part of that amazing book, The Corrections, (my favorite).  All of my blunders in general (like the time I got hit by an Isuzu Rodeo while running on the River Road - long story) are a bit Bridget Jones-esque, and I’m quite sure the general population could not stomach another floundering thirty something (oh Christ, she was probably in her 20’s). Take away the British accent and it’s a pretty hard sell.

I am aware that because I wasted my formative years on a popularity quest, my college years on drinking, my 20’s (the cutest and most vibrant decade of my life) on a salty, depressing, juvenile marriage – that I am a little late to the party of putting pen to paper. Sure I can turn a phrase with some manner of witty vocab – man do I love a good bit of phraseology. A colorful well played sentence can really put a smile on my face. I love words – I love when they are well chosen and surprising and poignant and thoughtful. I can get lost in words and live there for days.  But mine are short bursts – stunted. Where is the story? It’s like I’m writing snappy jingles instead of an overture. Give me characters, give me plot and conflict! I can flourish up the in betweens just fine.

Yet the universe calls, the mind churns, the pen moves. Where? I have no idea. Let’s find the point and find it fast. It’s just on the tip of my cloudy cortex trying to find its way out. Short bursts of brilliance? For now - yes, please I’ll take it.