My Writing Space #9

Now when it comes to me and Mr. Stephen King, I have no doubt that I am in better physical condition. When it comes to writing, Mr. King is prime beef, but I can still lift a hundred pounds over my head (although I usually lift my wife, and she's heavier!) and could probably whoop Mr. King's scrawny little butt.

This is my last, however, is my last place trophy from the bodybuilding competition I entered when I turned forty. My wife kept telling all 240 pounds of me, "You'll never get into shape. You'll never get a six pack out of that soggy belly." But forty pounds less and four months later, I was a lean, ripped 200 pound, deeply tanned old man. Got pictures to prove it.

Here's the trophy I keep in my office to help me remember my last place finish. My son makes fun of it and reminds me that he can do, at the very least, as well as I did. He writes on my trophy with a sharpie. He hangs his underwear on the trophy and says, "Look, Dad!" Then he whoops me!

Mr. King doesn't have a trophy like this . . . I'm sure of it.