Blinders On!

toy-pictures-03I am not a horse.

This should be a simple enough concept to grasp, especially for the accused-equine in question.

Should be.

Isn’t.

Apparently for me to work effectively, the blinders must remain tightly secured at all times.

I refer to, of course, those flaps/blinkers racehorses or workhorses often wear to keep them focused on the road ahead and nothing more.  There’s no looking back at what’s coming up from the rear. There’s no looking sideways to see distractions or the competition. Straight ahead. End of story.

Well, yesterday, in a mistaken effort to start toeing my way into the big historical romance writers groups on Facebook, I made the error in actually glancing at some of these esteemed author’s postings…

*pauses to scratch the hives of abject terror now encircling my throat…*

Let’s just say it was a COLOSSAL mistake.

There were huge discussions on late 18th century footwear.

Group conversations on daily Colonial diets.

Raging debates on tri-corner hats!… (Ok, this one is an exaggeration, but I’m sure it’s there somewhere. At that point, I was cowering behind my dog hyperventilating and had lost all tactile ability.)

The point is, I was intimidated clear out of my early 21st century shoes.

So, blinders back on.

I cannot look to the side. I’ve got to run my own race, using what scraggly legs and big clumsy heart God has given me.

Period.

No, I may not be a horse. But, for pity’s sake, send me nowhere without my blinkers.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe

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