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Here’s the thing about anabolic steroids. If they’re bad for guys, they must be really, really bad for girls.

And yet, if I were a teenager today, wouldn’t I be tempted?

I played in the “old days” when girls’ sports were a whisper and not a glory. We wore tunics for basketball, old wool things that made us sweat like linebackers. We played softball on a Little-League baseball field and I—a wicked pull hitter—routinely put the ball in the pond on the foul side of third base. (What…you think we actually had fences?) We played field hockey games on the football practice field, dodging rocks and kicking up dust. There were no accolades and no fan base (not even parents). Except for the gymnasts, who looked really good in their leotards, we all hid the fact that we were varsity athletes.

Title IX changed everything.

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ESPN just ran a "Breaking News" segment on Tom Brady. The announcer was breathless in replaying a phone conversation Tom had with a Canadian radio station. Tom gave all the blah-blah a New England Patriot is trained to deliver, high word count but no content. Any public statement from the injured quarterback earns a flashing banner on Sports Center, even when he says nothing. And if Tom appeared in public with a limp or knee brace, all of Patriot nation will go weak-kneed.

Here's the thing about writing. There's no breaking news when we work through our injuries. No one watches what we do or wonders how our work is progressing. No one cares if we've broken a shoulder or endured a sinus infection or (like one of my dear friends) have cancer.

Tom Brady is larger than life. Writers are nine-point font, words on the page, maybe a catchy cover and a flash on a website. We want it like this, don't we? Readers should enjoy our books, not worry about the sweat and suffering it took to get there.

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When we had been dating only a couple of months, my husband gave me a basketball for my birthday, thus making certain that he was the man I would marry.

Writing Boost has been great excuse to re-discover the game. I bought a new net for the hoop on the backboard, inflated the basketball, took some shots, adjusted my aim for the arthritis in my shoulder, shot some more. Couldn't stop, because that's the nature of this compulsion, as any young or wish-I-were-still-young person can tell you.

It doesn't matter if you're male or female, fourteen or forty, professional or playground-you only have to bounce the ball once to want to keep the pam pam pam coming. 

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My co-workers think I'm insane.

In the past month, the Northeast has been assaulted by snow, ice, and bitter cold. Doesn't matter-I am compelled to hike. A nearby wildlife refuge, with its forest, hills, and river, feeds my compulsion.

While everyone else heads to the cafeteria for lunch, I pull on snow pants, heavy socks, thermal mittens, and hiking boots. I zip my ski shell and smear Vaseline on my nose and cheeks so I won't get frost bite.

I trudge into the woods, endure fifteen minutes of biting wind and wonder if maybe I am insane. The endorphins suddenly kick in, with an avalance of body heat. I rip off as many layers as I can without getting arrested. Skin stinging, heart pounding, I breathe freedom.

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Kathy Mackel is one of our guest bloggers during the week of January 19th. If you have any questions for Kathy Mackel, add a comment to any of her posts. Here is some more information about Boost:

 Thirteen-year-old Savvy is six two and full of raw basketball talent; her three-point shot is deadly. But she’s also skinny and gets pushed around on the court. Her older sister, Callie, is a freshman on varsity cheerleading, but she’s not quite light enough to be a flier—her coveted position. Both girls need to boost their level of competition to get off the bench and into the action. When steroids are found in Savvy’s gym bag, she claims they are not hers. Suddenly, accusations are flying and nobody knows who is telling the truth.

When it comes to competitive sports, no one is exempt from being offered a boost.