This has just been a bizarre week. And it’s only Wednesday.
So, yesterday was the 2nd Annual Charity Cornhole Tournament at my place of employment. It was also the 2nd Annual “me losing at the Cornhole Tournament,” but let me tell you. My team got decimated this year.
Last year (and you can read my recap here) we made it to the semi-finals. This year we were wiped clean off the board in, oh, I’d say less than twenty minutes. The guys were played were brutal. Intense. Hard core. They beat us 21-4. We scored four points. Four.
I’m sorry, but try as I might, I still cannot take Cornhole seriously. Mainly because:
- It’s called Cornhole. Corn. Hole.
- We were playing with pink and turquoise bean bags and throwing at pink and turquoise boards.
Evidently, there are specific rules Cornholers (ugh, it’s like a soldering iron to the brain!) must adhere to when playing. Yesterday I learned my brain shuts down when people start tossing around words like, “regulation” and “standard rules of play.” I’m throwing a bean bag. At a board. And, let me tell you, I’m not doing it well.
As a professional non-competitor, I usually don’t participate in activities where game pieces are “placed at regulation distance.” But it was for charity. And hey, on the bright side? The guys who beat us went on to win the entire tournament. It was like losing to the team that goes on to win the Super Bowl. I can legitimize that with a hearty, “Well, okay then.”
And by the way, regulation distance is approximately a quarter of a mile, because: wow. Those boards were mighty far apart. Granted, it’s been roughly nineteen years (that sound you hear is me throwing up) since I played church league slow pitch softball, but I was struggling to get the bean bag to the board. Maybe I was restraining myself. Don’t need any bean bag related injuries going on during the work day.
In other news, in a stunning turn of events, I’m writing a contemporary right now. I know, right? I’m pretty stunned, too. Here’s the thing: during the same weekend, I started two new novels, one a historical and one contemporary. I wrote three pages on both and then let them sit. Yesterday during my lunch break (and prior to the agony of Cornhole defeat), I just about finished the entire first chapter of the contemporary.
I haven’t written a contemorary since…lets see, probably since 2004. And I’m certain it was 2004, because I write it when we were living in Harpers Ferry. I’m not sure if I’m just in love with the plot I have in mind for this one or feeling dodgy about writing another historical when my current is getting rejected by all manner of agents (okay, fine, two agents. But mostly a lack of response which, in the long run, is a rejection), but I’m actually super excited. That never happens with a contemporary. Well, not since 2004.
Who knows. The way my writing muse works, I’ll be back working on the historical this weekend and the contemporary will be long forgotten. Because that’s how I roll: all super excited by a new idea, and then boom. Up to my armpits in the Civil War.
I know. Stand back, single gentlemen. I’m a married mother of two. 😉