Okay, so I’m now 27 days in and I have written 91 pages. That puts me 1.1 pages over my target. I should be happy, but I’m not… this script is still not finished. Why is the end so hard to reach?

When I started this script almost a month ago, I was ready. Well, sort of. After three or four false starts, I was ready.

I had my outline, Final Draft, I had snacks… it seemed like a winning combination. I would stare for endless hours at my screen and then I would type diligently for 20 pages. I would procrastinate and then I would write 3 really tough pages for 9 hours. I never seemed to find my rhythm like in other projects.

This whole writing process, this writing to a self-imposed deadline with no promised paycheck at the end, reminds me every minute of every day of a 1-mile marathon I ran when I was a kid.

My step-mother, Eileen, and I trained for weeks to participate in Millbrook, NY’s fun summer festival activities with the hopes that I would do great. I always have loved the idea of being a runner; the light on your feet pounding, the swift feeling of power as you raced your body hard like a steam engine. I always could see the deliberate turning of the body’s gears, as I watched other runners passing me by on the NYC reservoir’s track and I longed to be poetry on my feet.

My family had a weekend house there, so we practiced running the course religiously. We also ran in the city. I never could keep up. Even as a 13-year-old, I was no runner. (Author’s note: at 13 I had a D-cup. Now that I’ve put that inappropriate image in your head, here’s a picture of your mother.)

Well, the day of the race came. I woke up, I was ready to go. I was running the course in my mind. I laced up my sneakers. I was bouncing around like Rocky. That’s what runners do, right? They warm up and stuff?

My parents took me down to the starting line a bit early. I was one of those busy-body kids. The kind of kid you tell to stay someplace, and they don’t listen. They go off in a fog, thinking their weird kid thoughts and then wind up sleuthing mysteries that no one knew existed. Well, yeah, that was me. So on that day, I wound up next to the awards table and discovered they were giving trophies for the various races. There was one for the 1st girl and 1st boy of the 1-mile race. Hmm… I liked my odds for a trophy. I looked around at the other kids who were taking their place, and so far, it was only boys and me. I also liked my odds for having a soda with a boy at the diner afterward. But that’s another story.

I silently prayed that no other girls would show, just so I could trophy, and that’s when they gathered us around. The gun was fired. We were off and running. Haha! I was the only girl in the race, and provided I didn’t die and I crossed the finish line, I would win a trophy! I was so getting that trophy, I was so getting it, if it killed me.

At first, surrounded by a bunch of very cute boys I was running and bouncing and being a pony-tail flipping moron. For about six feet I kept this up, until I couldn’t breathe. The cute boys all ran very ahead of me, very quickly, leaving me with my plodding feet, beating mercilessly down on the cruel hard pavement, my gasping breath that no amount of well-intentioned training could’ve prevented, it was just me and the road. I had to run or quit. It was up to me.

So, like a quarter mile in I’m thinking, how far is a mile? That’s like 20 NYC blocks right? I can run 20 blocks. So like that’s from my house to 73rd Street. I can totally do that. Then maybe two NYC blocks later I start complaining to myself “The reason why NYC is so much better than the stupid country is that there’s stuff to look at while you’re running the mile. God!” This carried on for maybe six more NYC blocks, until I was too tired to silently complain anymore. I was now just groaning on a loop inside my mind.

I had run this course before. I knew how much farther it was going to be, and it was indeed far. I couldn’t breathe. My legs were burning as they always did every time I tried to run. I wondered how it was that people were able to run 26 miles. I didn’t think at this point I could evade a serial killer if I had to. I would be the first person killed in a horror movie. I just knew it.

But I kept on running. So, like NYC block 17, I’m basically blind, sort of delirious, definitely deranged. I can’t breathe. I am drenched with sweat. I feel pretty low, but I’m still moving. Barely. That’s when the ambulance showed up. I wondered who they were there for. I hoped they were alright who ever they were. The paramedic, sitting  in the open back door of the ambulance spoke to me. “Are you, Xandy?”

The ambulance pulled up and around me, so that they were in front of me, pacing me while I ran. One of the paramedics sat in the back, the doors open, his legs dangling. His partner tooted the horn at me. I was startled. I shivered, I was roused, like a demon was released from my body. And there before me was the smiling paramedic. He told me all about the mayor and how he was worried that I was dead. He told me to get in the ambulance and they would drive me the rest of the way.

I had been gone so long that the mayor thought I was dead? How long had I been running this mile? Going on 3 hours. No wonder I was so tired. I was dehydrated, I was exhausted. I was basically brain dead. The paramedic tried to hand me some water, but I refused. The mayor thought I was dead?! Oh, crap! There would be no trophy for me now. All of this for nothing. I slowed to a stumble. The paramedic told me to hop in. They would take me the rest of the way.

I was done. I was done 8 NYC blocks back. I was dead on my feet. But I was no quitter. As soon as I realized the mayor thought I was dead, and sent the ambulance to resuscitate me I got a second wind.  I don’t know from where or how, but I roused and I ran. I wiped the sweat from my beet red face, I fixed my pony tail and I ran.

I refused to let the ambulance take me the rest of the way. I had come so far and only my determination would carry me across the finish line. And, something like 20 more minutes later, about another quarter of a NYC block,  I finished. The whole town was there, to cheer me across the refastened finish line.

Everyone came out to see the girl who took nearly four hours to run a mile. It was humiliating. Everyone in our town now knew us. The search for me, or really the town-wide caucus to decide if they should send the ambulance to go find me, had really brought everyone together. It would’ve been sweet if not at my expense.

I made it three inches on the other side of the finish line, and that’s where I collapsed. My parents were there. My dad had many stories about the nice people concerned about me, about all of the people who volunteered to uncover my dead body. Eileen was proud of me that I finished on my own. So was I. In fact I was so glad to no longer be moving, that I forgot that I didn’t win a trophy.

I was finally able to stand. Eileen said I could order whatever I wanted from the diner to celebrate my victory. That’s when the mayor came over. He was thrilled to discover that while I was indeed a wreck, I wasn’t dead and a girl found alive during the town festivities is a weight off of his shoulders. The race had been over for the better part of 5 hours for everyone else, even though it was only really minutes for me. But, he handed me my trophy anyway, and said that I deserved to win just for having the strength to finish. I felt renewed. I accepted it and walked with my parents to the diner and ate probably the best BLT that ever existed.

I’m sure that as soon as I type “The End” on my script, I’ll feel as accomplished as I did after finishing the 5-hour 1-mile marathon that cost the city $17,000 in man hours and service from the dedicated paramedics. How does this relate to my #Scriptfrenzy script? Well, I’m right now at NYC block 17 and I’m really looking forward to my BLT.