Submitted by eternal Domnation
High School clocks crawl. That’s a fact. Perhaps it’s a stepping stone for the real world, where timepieces tend to run. For me, during my school days, the torturous pauses between the ticks were a direct correlation to my hunger to compete. I counted down the seconds until the bell rang, because when it did it meant one thing: practice.
Throughout my playing “career,” I always had to fight for a starting position. It made every second of practice count. Not only did I hone my skills, I also battled to get in the game. When I look back on it, it consumed me. I lived for it, I loved it. And it was just practice.
Several years later (ahem, we can leave it at that), I can feel the same tingle in my veins. The clock on my desk cannot not run fast enough. On the other side, my writing waits. With each word I type, I’m in a dogfight to make it in the game. Only this time, there is but one opponent, and it’s me. I alone can put words on paper, create stories, and decide if its good enough for the world to see. Bring it.