Right, then. Exercise. How much do we writers do?Anyone who's met me in the last six months will be shocked to their very core to hear this, but I haven't been to the gym since April. Incredible, eh? Well, I finally hauled myself back down there today, and sweet Jesus on a treadmill, I was instantly reminded of the amazing effects of exercise. Not just on the body, but on the mind. Endorphins rock. I remembered how I used to spend an hour in the gym in the mornings, then spend the afternoons writing like some kind of tornado (albeit a tornado with writing inclination and ability, as opposed to a knack for wanton destruction).
We scribblers spend our days sitting down, our backs a tad hunched until we remember to straighten up. We're in constant danger of RSI, as those looming deadlines tempt us to compromise our physical well-being. So we should, occasionally at least, get the blood flowing, to nourish those all-important nerves, work those joints and stop our backsides from becoming seat-shaped.
On a mental level, what better writing inspiration than to have joyous happy (and legal) chemicals spinning through your brain? Don't know about you, but booze and writing don't really go hand-in-hand for me (not creative, fictional writing anyway... I'm half a bottle of Merlot down as I type) and drugs are out. I've stopped smoking. Again. So the endorphin - and of course that staple, caffeine - could well be our last viable brain-buzz...
7 comments:
Rowing machines are better. Easier to balance the pizza box on your knees and take the fag out your mouth.
You can't be a tornado or creativity AND destruction?
As for booze... Not always a terrible thing for a first draft, as a bottle of beer or two in, I stop over-analysing and just write. Of course, it always needs some serious rewriting when utterly sober, but hey, there's something on the page.
Exercise??? I wondered why my ass had got so big in the last six months.
Totally agree - exercise a bit, sleep more deeply, and then type up the crazy dreams. Perfect source of ideas.
If I could only fit in the exercising bit of that plan...
J
Walked from Victoria to Oxford Street and back yesterday due to the tube strike - that's my exercise for the quarter!
Isn't exercise that thing that starts with health and good intentions and always ends with pain and regret. Or is that love I'm thinking of?
Well, I try to dance at least once a week...
but then the guards always come and bang on the outside of the blast doors so I'm forced to flee the light filtering through the steel grate and scurry back into the dark sweet embrace of the shadows in the lower catacombs.
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