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Did You Miss This? Is Theory Enough?

Proactive Interactive AntiResistance Support

Any of this sound familiar? Tell you what: I’ll include checkboxes so you can keep track. How many of these have you experienced in your writing life during the past two years?

Never finding the time to write
Making the time but not writing
Dreaming of writing but never getting started
Starting but never finishing
Starting but never finishing that one particular piece; you know the one I mean
Thinking you can do it without help
Thinking you’re beyond help
A love/hate relationship with your writing
Focusing on unhelpful negative feedback and ignoring positive feedback
Focusing on positive feedback and ignoring helpful negative feedback
Wanting to write deep but writing shallow
Writing for others instead of yourself
Writing for money but not treating it like a business
Reading about writing instead of writing
Seeking out feedback before you’re ready
Seeking out the wrong level of feedback
Ongoing health challenges
    Unexplained fatigue (physical or mental)
    Mysterious illness (a neverending or recurring cold or flu)
    Injuries (constant little accidents)
    Addiction of any kind (substance, activities, self-destructive habits)

How many did you check? Type the number right here:

Is it more than zero?

If it is, you’re facing Resistance.

I checked 17 boxes. SEVENTEEN.

I’m facing Resistance.

You’re facing Resistance.

Don’t do it alone.

If you’d like to join me in not doing it alone, join the AntiResistance Resistance.

And if you’d like to start right now, show your fellow writers they’re not alone: post your score as a comment below.

 


Feet First

He looked down the cliff’s face to the water. It wasn’t the distance that concerned him; he’d gone into water from far higher than the 30 feet it looked to be.

No, what concerned him was the dark surface. It might mean deep water.

It might mean shallow water with a dark bottom.

Even deep water could have jagged rocks, old tree trunks, any manner of solid sharp debris.

If you have no choice but to go in, it doesn’t matter whether the water is deep or shallow, or so he told himself. What matters is that you go in feet first. An injury to one or both legs could be survived. Head injuries, out here in the middle of nowhere, probably not.

The first arrow hit the dirt close enough behind him that he heard it, felt a tiny shock in his feet. They would wait until they were close enough before loosing any more.

He leaped.

And as he went over the edge feet first, one foot snagged in the tangle of a tree root sticking out, flipping him completely, holding for less than an instant before he dropped again.

Head first.


Over the Rooftops

alleyAs I slid down the rough surface of the shingles, shredding my pants while putting years’ of wear on my shoes in a single moment, I thought about the ridiculous depictions of rooftop pursuits in the movies. Leaping across flat rooftops, scaling peaks and running down the other side.

Nonsense.

I was determined not to let this guy get away, not because I was being paid for it (though of course, I was) but because he’d rubbed my nose in his last escape.

Still, my knees and hands were bleeding, my clothes were rags, my stomach was heaving and lungs were burning. I had to catch him, but quick, or give up.

I’m not the “die trying” type, thank you very much.

I slid off the edge of the sloped shingle nightmare and fell the short distance to the flat roof below. I’d seen it coming or I wouldn’t have slid down. Found my footing and ran to the other side.

It was too far to jump. Too far for me, anyway. So he was gone. Again.

Glanced down to see how far my fall would have been, and there he was, rag-dolled over a pile of someone’s junk in the alley.

There goes my dreams of capture and confession.

Then I heard him groan, and one leg moved.

The pile of junk I landed in was softer than his, because I went down intentionally.

It still hurt. But not as much as he did.