I spend hours a day staring at the computer as I write. My world involves creating verbal bloat, and then excising the parts of that bloat which simply do not work.
The problem with such a life is that I spend it on my ass, which over time has expanded to the point where it's time to engage in some self-editing. I need to trim the excess and end up with something presentable. Something of which I can be proud.
Today I made a commitment to lose the weight and to get into shape. And like any good writer, I'm not relying solely on my wits for success; I coughed up the cash for nutritional counseling (via Jenny Craig; their food is a good jump start but they teach you to transition to healthy "real" food) and I joined a gym.
I am pushing 48 years old, and this is no longer a choice. I want to see 50 and beyond, and if I don't do something now, that won't happen.
I'm a writer; I'm currently in the editing stage of the first draft of my eighth book and while I'm at it, I'm going to edit myself. I'm trimming 25,000 words from a bloated manuscript and 90 pounds from myself.
Yeah, that sucks. I have 80-90 pounds to lose. I'm just far enough over 200 pounds to be mortified on my own behalf; my first goal, with that in mind, is to get below 200.
Onederland.
It's out there, somewhere. I've been there before and it was a decent place, and I'd like to go back again.
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