It wouldn't be accurate to say that I haven't written, exactly, although you've seen nothing here. I've spent as much - perhaps more - time than usual hunched over this laptop, trying to hammer out things that are not blog posts. But they are all deleted now. About which I am pleased. Or at least, not unhappy.
What are these things? Impressions. Tangents. I start with something or someone that strikes me and then go until I can't. And I don't save. Or I haven't, yet.
Joyce did this, more or less, and it always struck me as genius. Write things down, as they interest you. Words carry themselves forward, sometimes outpacing our expectations for them. Joyce carried with him a notebook, however, and thus of course did save everything, and incorporated much of it into his works. I am not Joyce, though, which is so absurd a thing to say that it simply must be said.
But while I don't save the words, I save the act. It's not undone. And that path now trod across my synapses perhaps brings me closer to something worth finding. Perhaps not. But the movement is worthwhile, just the same.
They say you never regret a run, and I find that to be true for reading and writing as well. Somewhat arbitrarily, I mandate for myself at least an hour of physical book reading a day, and as much time writing - or trying to. Add that to my hour or more of running, and you might get the impression that I don't get out much. You'd be correct. But it's good. And maybe "it" wouldn't be without these things, so, no regrets.
On the running front, I should note that I'm running a half marathon on Sunday. This race - the Kansas Half Marathon, April 2011 - was largely the impetus for my taking running somewhat more seriously, when I ran 1:33:27 on - and I can't say for sure - maybe 15 miles a week. I had fun, but if I'm being honest, the primary appeal was that I had stumbled upon a sport at which I was not immediately awful. I wanted to try and get something like "good", which has turned out to be quite the moving target, perpetually several minutes faster than whatever my best happens to be at that moment.
But - despite my occasional bitching, which might reasonably lead you to assume the opposite - I'm quite happy to chase the carrot, knowing full well that I can't possibly get it. The chase - and the exploration, of terrain both literal and metaphorical, that results - has become almost wholly the point.
(Still, I'd like to run a time I don't hate at the moment, even if I'll deem it too slow in 6 months.)
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