A Horse! A Horse!

The time has arrived, is actually here now, weighing upon you, much in the manner of a jockey estimating the responsiveness of his mount.

Wait, how mixed can a metaphor be; how can time be the jockey riding the horse that is you?

Ah, you say.

The time that has arrived is the Summer, more in abstraction than realness of the solstice.  Many of your obligations are on hold until September.  True enough, there is the launching of your book into the world.  There are a few editing jobs awaiting you, but for all practical purposes, the Summer is yours, at least the relative freedom of it is available to you.  In fairness, you have no notion of what if any surprises Reality has in store for you.  The implications and reality are clear enough:  You have time to work.  You also have time to squander, to procrastinate, to indulge.  The former two are less preferable than the latter.

It is your awareness that time can be issued its walking papers, that the new jockey is the work; you are the horse.

1.  The prequel to the novel you were at work on.
2.  The actual novel you were at work on.
3.  One of six projects you offered your publisher as something you could have ready for edits by December of this year.
4.  A short story, "Uncle Charlie," about one half done.

Four jockeys to sit astride you, guiding you into the romp that is a workout, steering and nudging and goading you beyond squander, procrastinate, and indulge.

How ever dumb it is--and you have been presented with some things original in their dumbness this past week at the writers' conference--it is not squander nor procrastinate nor indulge.

Four jockeys, already forming the word giddyup.