This morning’s weigh-in yielded me a small (abysmal) loss of 1 pound for the week.  I am officially down 4.5 pounds since beginning my diet, which leads me to today’s topic:

13 things that suck about dieting:

1.  Laura Kinsale coming on your blog and asking you who you’re trying to impress.  Uh, Laura?  I know you’re Laura Freaking Kinsale (her parents really knew what they were doing when they named her that), and I appreciate everything about you, but I’ve seen your photo and your enviable slimness inspires almost the same despair in me as your enviable prose.  I cannot write my way to your fabulousness.  Please let me starve my way back to my trousers without too much shame.

2.  No one asks why I’m on a diet.  There was a time, not so far away and long ago, that if I mentioned having tried a particular diet (no carb) and stated that it didn’t work for me, people would roll their eyes and exclaim, “That’s because you don’t NEED to lose weight!”  No one’s said that to me for a while now.  (Except The German, who loyally claims I look great.  It’s not a wonder we’ve been happily married as long as we have.)

3.  Eating out is no longer fun.  Dieting doesn’t just suck the life from your daily routine.  No!  It ruins celebrations, too!

4.  Cocktails have calories?  But they’re liquid.  And they make me forget that I’m hungry.  And I want one.

5.  Vegetable soup becomes an instant enema.   Sadly, I figured this out yesterday.  It seems my body is tired of the roughage, and wonders why I’m pouring hot salad down the drain.

6.  People who are not on a diet suck.  They care nothing for my pain (German), and eat donuts (German) and cheeseburgers (German) and drink beer (German).  And then they lose 4 pounds (German) and shrug, claiming it must be all those low fat dinners they’ve been eating (GERMAN).

7.  Feeling thinner is a state of mind.  Because your trousers?  They still don’t fit.

8.  You can’t buy now, pay later.  Dieting is like saving up for something before you buy it, and my generation doesn’t completely understand this principle.  “You mean, I have to work now, and WAIT?”

9.  It’s easier to be hungry than to figure out what you can eat.  Due to #5, unlimited vegetables are no so much “on the table” for me, you know what I mean?  Give me a steady Scottish diet of meat, potatoes, oatmeal, and liquor, and I feel just fine, thanks.  Feed me rabbit food, and not so much.  The gurgley woo-woos are not conducive to putting on the gym kit.  Which leads me to….

10.  Exercise becomes confusing.   Cardio burns fat.  No, it doesn’t.  Yes, it does.  But you need to lift weights.  Free weights.  But do it right or it won’t work.  And to really blast that fat off, do lots of cardio.  You can have all the muscle in the world, but if it’s covered in fat you won’t see it.  Run.  No walk.  The elliptical is great.  The elliptical only works if you have the resistance on high.  No, low impact is the way to go.  You’re doing how much cardio?  That’s too much!  Lift more weights.

11.  Being tired of it all, and wanting to give up.  Sometimes Laura Kinsale makes sense, and I do ask myself why I am doing this.  And then I look at my closet full of pretty clothes, and I just want to wear them again.  Is that too much to ask?

12.  You’re worrying about it too much.  Apparently, EVERYTHING is my fault, because worrying raises cortisol and cortisol causes belly fat.  So I gained weight because I had too much fun, and now I can’t lose it effectively because I am having no fun at all.  Figure that out.

13.  Bathing suits.  Enough said.  (2 1/2 weeks to go until I have to wear one every day for a week.)

I’m sure there are lots of you who have something to add to my list.  Feel free to commiserate in the comments.  I’m off for now to have my yogurt (1 point), high fiber cereal (3 points), and to strap on my gym kit.  Oh, and after that, I’m going to pay the bills.  And after that?  I’m going to try to push through writer’s block.  All while being hungry. 

Someone, please, give me a pat on the back.  Baby Tracy could really use one right about now.

Megan tagged me!

The rules are:
1. Link back to the person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. Share six unimportant things about yourself.
4. Tag six random people at the end of your blog entry.
5. Let the tagged people know by leaving a comment on their blogs.

Okay, so six unimportant things:

1.  I have really pretty hair, and I’m rather vain about it. 

2.  I love menswear.  I mean, so much that I’ve often thought of getting a job where I could “dress” men all day, helping them pick out suits and ties and shirts and shoes.  Oh, and cologne.  And cuff-links.  And belts.  And waistcoats.  *le sigh*  It’s high on my list of careers to pursue if the writing gig flops.

 = Super Fun

3.  I had very few toys when I was growing up, but even still, I wouldn’t play with the ones I loved.  I’d take them out and look at them, pretend to use them, and then tuck them back away in my drawer.  (Pathetic, I know.)  So when I was moving out of my mom’s house, I gave all the toys, still like brand new, to my sister, who was 10 at the time.  The toys were all broken within the week, and by week 2, none of the Barbies had hair.  I’m still annoyed by this, even though it makes me smile.  I don’t think a single thing characterizes the differences between my sister and me more than this story.  Moral: Play with your stuff.  It’s what it’s there for.

4.  I am 37.  I still feel like I’m 28.  I sometimes wonder when I’ll ever feel my age, and if I’ll ever feel ‘grown up.’  I dread the former; I doubt the latter.

5.  When I’m especially sad and lonely, I listen to Gordon Lightfoot.  

6.  I sleep naked, but I own about 30 pairs of pajamas. 

If you want to play, consider yourself tagged. 

If you’re here to read Laura Kinsale’s words of wisdom, scroll down.  It’s in the comments of the SBD post.

If you’re here because you are wondering how *I* am doing, here are the basics: Insomnia, crippling self-doubt, and procrastination are King.  I am, however, down three pounds, so it isn’t as bleak as all that.

If you’re here for hot guys, I’m happy to oblige:

If you’re the person who found my blog via the search “I am morbidly obese and have a hard spot” may I kindly suggest seeing a doctor?  The Internet is great for self-diagnosis (and who doesn’t like scaring themselves with all the diseases one may have/contract?), but this is no ordinary case of cybercondria.  Seriously. 

If it happens you’re the chick who’s wondering, “does he love me?  if so, why is he so cold?” please consider that if you’re not sure, he probably doesn’t.  I know I write romance, and so you’re not too far off the mark in coming here for hope, but sister, this is the real world, where actions mean more than words.  Alpha males aren’t tamed and rakes aren’t reformed.  Send that monkey back to the jungle.

Or if you’re just here to hang out and take a keek around in the inner workings of my cranium, Welcome!

So as I mentioned in the comments of the previous post, I am ripping the guts out of the book.  As in, if it smells the least bit funky, I’m cutting it – even if it’s good and I want to keep it.  There’s tons of that, unfortunately, and so it seems my progress will be set back considerably.

For every novel I write, I always keep a file for it called Cutting Room Floor.  That’s where I take all the segments of stuff I’ve written and had to cut, because I don’t want to delete it in case I want to use it, after all.  That file is already more than 4500 words, just from the hour or so I spent on it this morning.

Gah.

I swear, I may just clown out.

I could have been an interior designer, or a muscle therapist, or a bartender, or even just some corporate drone working for bennies and the weekend, but no, I just HAD to be a writer.

Chump.

So help me out, would you?  I’m going on vacation, and I need a new bathing suit or two.  Fifties retro pinup suits: Hot or Not?

I say smoking hot, and I WANT it.  (One caveat: I will not look like that in it.)  However, if left to my own devices, every outfit would be more of a costume. 

So I’m reaching out.   Ladies?  Is it a Do, or a Don’t?

Man, you guys keep coming back, and I feel so bad when I go so long between posts.  Will try to do better.

Meanwhile, join me as I partake in Beth’s Monday tradition: SBD.  Beth, I don’t know how smart* it’ll be, but I’m going to get it off my chest, anyway.

I’m writing a new novel and I’m struggling.  I mean, really really struggling for every scene, every motivation, every word.  And I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone or more desolate in this gig.

You know, trolling the Internets will yield plenty of commentary about romance novels, and perhaps I’ve read too much of it.  I am paralyzed with fear and worry.  I cannot seem to forget that it’s a book I’m writing, rather than a story for my own amusement, which to my knowledge, is the only way to catch a buzz in this business.

It’s due this summer.  Every time I sit to write, I mentally tally the months, weeks, days left.  And then I silently freak out.

I think that’s what people mean when they say it’s a lonely job.  It’s not so much that you DO it alone, because that’s a given.  I think the loneliness comes from it being just you and the words and the fear.

Some days it’s just harder to ignore how public it is, to put something out there that consists of everything you know about love and fear and sex and hate.

Some days it’s impossible to remember why I want to do this at all.

Honestly, I am so tapped out right now that all I can do is fantasize about cashing out (On my contract, not my life.  I take writing seriously, but not to that extent.).  But the truth is, I just can’t stop yet.  This might be the last book I write (under contract), and I’m trying so hard to enjoy it, to make it great, and to put everything I’ve got into it. 

Which isn’t very much right now, sadly.  Anyone got a remedy**?

*I’m dieting and am so hungry that my brain can’t put together three words without thinking about food, and is likely to blame for the lack of inspiration, motivation, and confidence.

**Other than food?  I have to be in a bathing suit in four (4!!!) weeks.