February has been a month of doggedness.
Earlier in the month, I was called a “pitbull.” No offense to anyone, but I don’t like pitbulls. They’re just not my dog of choice. So I took this word with me into my run later that same day to…sure, chew it over.
In my mind, pitbulls are all teeth and jaw and untrustworthy, according to my mother— or unfairly maligned, according to other people.
Either way, it’s not like being called a Collie, or a greyhound, or Golden Retriever. You are not called a pitbull because you’re snuggly or pet-able.
You can’t tell by this photo, but it’s melting here. The snow, I mean. Below my shoes is snow and slush, puddles and patches—which means the road is both clear and sneakily icy.
What is there to do when it’s veerrryyyy cold outside? Why, you can go running, of course.
What motivates us? I ask this of my undergrad novelists-to-be, as I find ways to motivate them towards a 50,000-word draft goal. Not all our motivations are virtuous or attractive, I say. We might be motivated by doing a job well, or by the shame of failing a class. Or both.