Writing And Exercise, Or Writing Versus Exercise?

This seems to be something I cycle through every time I start a new book. I need to figure out a way to make things stick--or put more simply, showing the same discipline with exercise as I do with writing.

And finding a balance between writing time and making the time to exercise. I forgive myself lapses in exercise when I'm just starting a novel because devoting the lion's share of my time to writing gets the ball rolling--but I've been working on Arizona for a little under a month now, and exercise is still getting short shrift. So where have I struck a balance before?

I did in early 2009, when I was deep into my Shenandoah historical novels. I took a short walk before writing almost every day, and alternated writing days with exercise ones--on the exercise days I went to the campus fitness center to jog and lift weights for 45-60 minutes. I knocked out the four Shenandoah books in a little under two years and still managed, even with building arm and leg muscle, to have a net weight loss of 20 pounds. A few things derailed that, though, and I realized the other day that in a few months it will have been two years since I've had a regular workout routine (and naturally, all the progress I made then has since been wiped away).

That and a meeting I went to last week about a new health program here on campus and various financial incentives it offers got me thinking about this issue again. I know the benefits of the alternating routine because I've enjoyed them: my head gets clearer so my writing gets better, I feel better (which has the same effect)--all of which compensated for the "lost" writing time with increased good "production" when I did write--and finally, of course, there are all the other general health benefits. And yet the initial hurdle is the hardest. I walk Tucker the Big Dog, our German Shepherd mix, around our neighborhood almost every morning and some nights (Wheezy the Little Dog doesn't like to be walked by anyone but her Mama, Laurie), which is better than nothing but not nearly enough. I've cut back on some of my fried food consumption and did about two miles of walking this past Friday, but that's still not enough.

I think what I'm going to have to do is draw on the same mysterious reserve that fuels the writing again, and resume alternating writing and exercise days. I did it once before, so I know I can do it again if I just buckle down and do it. Not to mention the exercise time also doubles as productive Think Up Good Story Ideas Time.

It's time to get my boots on the ground again.

Dreamscape On A Brisk October Morning: Mike Nesmith And An Octogenarian Madwriter

I rarely blog about dreams just because I figure most people couldn't care less--or because some wind up as short stories or poems that you might end up reading anyway. But I had a couple back to back this morning that stood out more vividly and uniquely than my normal motif crop, such as the ever popular "Holy crap, I haven't been to my math class in weeks!" or the scintillating "I've spent this whole dream walking around looking for something and now I can't remember what":

Dream #1 had me watching a feature film-length anthology of animated shorts by up-and-coming animators all working under the direction of Mike Nesmith. It was titled Missing Parts, which I think came from a piece by an Israeli artist--I don't remember the storyline of that one in particular except both story and animation were stark. As far as I know Mike Nesmith never did anything like this, but now I really wish he had, and it does seem like the sort of thing that would be right up his alley.

Dream #2 featured me as an old man (the age of 83 sticks in my brain) facing the fact that I was about to have to go into a nursing home or long-term medical care. By that point I'd grown wealthy from writing but was pretty much alone, a widower, and I suddenly decided I wasn't having any dealings with nursing homes. "Screw that," I vowed to myself. "I'm not giving all my money to some hospital. What happens, happens." To help ensure that I stayed out of the confines of a permanent hospital bed I decided to give away all of my money to certain family and friends--right before the dream ended I started implementing this plan by giving my niece and nephews $100,000 each to do with whatever they wanted.

I'm not sure how much I like the setting of Dream #2, but I'd certainly be happy with the ending.

Noodle Cat Loves The Spirits

Not alcohol, that is, but the spirits of ancient toolmakers. Or one in particular.

Recently a friend who lives in the Southwestern U.S. and knows about my work on Arizona in some detail sent me an inspiration package filled with artifacts from their own land that included arrowheads and an axehead. These date to several centuries back, and as of last Friday are lined up across the top and base of my Writing Monitor.

Almost as soon as I did this my primary Writing Room Guardian, Vegas (aka Noodle Cat), suddenly took an interest in one particular arrowhead and HAD TO HAD TO HAD TO have it. I wouldn't let him, fearing that he'd break it. When I mentioned this to my friend, they told me that their cat likes to roll over the artifacts after they come out of the ground, so I figured it might not hurt to let Vegas have a bit of quality time with the arrowhead under controlled conditions.

Those conditions came today...but he didn't want to play with it. Instead he just wanted to hold it. When I extended it towards him he grabbed for it with both front paws and simply clasped it. When he wasn't holding it he placed a paw on it. I (and my friend) thought at first that this might be because of Friend Cat's smell, except that Vegas didn't pay any attention to the other artifacts at all.

I'm guessing that maybe there's something Vegas knows about this particular piece that I don't, or I'm not sensitive enough to detect. Whatever the story, he's perfectly welcome to visit with the arrowhead whenever we're working in the Writing Room together.

(By the way, sorry for the improper use of "they" above, but I want to keep my friend anonymous so they don't get inundated with requests for artifacts.)

Speaking The Same Tongue

PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 850 on Chapter 1 ("Those Who Came First") Section 2 ("The Dancing Spirits") of Arizona. Ooljee realizes that the things shared between the peoples she has encountered during her exile may go deeper than just a common language.

Total Words: 21100.

Reason For Stopping: Some workaday work (like laundry), and then getting ready for the paying work.

Book Year: 941 B.C.

Mammalian Assistance: Vegas was perched on his aerie, and Nugget alternately guarded the table and window.

Exercise: Walked Tucker around the neighborhood, then walked down to campus.

Stimulants: None.

State Of The Garden: Laurie and I planted our new Winesap apple tree yesterday. Hurray!

Other Epics I'm Studying: I've started watching the miniseries version of The Winds of War; the last time I saw it all the way through was when it originally broadcast in 1983. (I've read Herman Wouk's novel twice.)

Today's Opening Passage: The work they forced on Ooljee was simple, something she’d already been doing all her life. Despite the fact that the Yoreme and other tribes they met living between the mountains and the sea had no agriculture, these people did, farming hilly strips of maize—now dead uncleared stalks—along water sources while living on higher terraced hillsides fortified by earthen berms, where she found herself now. Beside her they placed a stack of flint corn—the maize with hard shells that protected the kernels against the frigid desert nights—along with a mealing stone called a metate and a grinding stone, a mano, so well-used it was worn in five places that fit her fingers. They laid the sleeping Doba almost gently beside her and gestured for Ooljee to get to work.

Darling Du Jour: Nothing springs out at me.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Michener; The Measure of the Magic by Terry Brooks.