Day 2 of #1000wordsofsummer
I woke up at 4:30 AM today, not because I’m disciplined or inspired, but because my body decided to betray me again. Hopefully you don’t understand the full-body aches and restlessness. That strange floaty feeling where your brain’s buzzing like a neon sign in a gas station bathroom. I tried to go back to sleep. My knee laughed.
So I wrote Chapter 2, almost. That little “almost” is doing a lot of heavy lifting, but words were made, 1330 words. Sentences assembled themselves in what I believe is a semi coherent order. There was coffee. There were no breaks. I felt like a tortured genius for roughly 2 hours. I’m up to 2843 words,on Day 2.
Then I crashed. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. In every way a person can crash without the involvement of airbags. I collapsed on the couch like a Roman poet after too much wine and too little appreciation. My knee screamed, again. Loudly.
Let me tell you about this knee. Three surgeries. One dislocation so gnarly I still wince when I think about the sound it made. Decades of sports and martial arts. Every injury I got was worn like a badge. I’ve got the scars that’ll last a lifetime, inside and out.
I threw myself into the life like the game owed me life money. I was an animal. A joyous, competitive, slightly unhinged animal. And I regret none of it. Well, sometimes I say I do. Usually when it’s raining or I try to walk down stairs like a normal person. But truthfully? I’d do it all again, and probably with worse form.
Tomorrow, I will see the orthopedic doctor. I think I know what they’re going to say. We’re probably looking at knee replacement. Which, sure, is intimidating, but I’ve replaced harder things in my life. Shoes. Tires. Ex’s.
The truth is, every choice I made, every twisted ankle and every concussion was a wild, beautiful decision that brought me right here. To a life that despite the occasional existential spiral and questionable joint health, ain’t too bad. I’m a little crazy, but I’ve got some damn good stories. Maybe one day I’ll write them all down. For now, I’m avoiding nonfiction like it’s a debt collector.
Instead, I’m working on this novel. And since you’re here, reading this, I figured I’d share a little taste from Chapter 2:
“Grace didn’t knock. She never knocked. She stepped into Victoria’s apartment like she owned it, or at least like she had a key. She didn’t, but that had never stopped her before. Her dress was red. Her lipstick was red. Her intentions were… not subtle.”
So far, the book is shaping up to be sharp, simmering, and just a little dangerous. There’s history between these characters, and not the sweet kind. The kind that presses on bruises to see if they still hurt. I’m not rushing it, but I can feel it building, like thunder in the distance. I think we’re getting close to the storm.
Until then, I’ll be here, writing when I can, icing my knee, and trying not to spiral when I Google “Knee replacement fails…”
Wish me luck tomorrow,
Harlo
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