I’ve never been much of a runner. I see the practicality of it – it’s a good skill to have in your pocket when being chased (zombies, rapists, evangelists), it’s the best way to lose weight, and it’s just a down right good form of exercise. I always laugh at people who say that they run to help themselves think or clear their heads, because whenever I’m running the only thing I can think about is when I can stop. Back in the Spring of ’09 when I was on one of my exercise binges, I started running in the gym at my apartment complex. Fast sprints at first coupled with intervals of walking so I didn’t die. And eventually, after a few weeks of whining and losing the itch in my legs, I could run/walk a few miles if the fancy struck me. And then, one day, in the midst of a jaunty Rihanna tune, it kicked. Senior thesis, graduation, moving to New York. The thoughts came in free fall. And eventually, so did I. Apparently, I’m the sort of person who should avoid thinking and running at the same time. Makes me off balance.
These days, I’m not one much for running, either (though, when Winter stop waving its metaphorical penis over the East coast and goes away, I’ll probably pick it up again. Nice trails in the area, once you get away from the college students). But the writing mimics that familiar ebb and flow. I can trick myself to crank out pages of material under some kind of duress – deadlines, Lou Ann Walker, graduation. But usually, I’m the one who suffers. These days, I’m becoming a fan of the short bursts. Pacing. Letting go of the urge to marathon. Revel in the sprint.