You can’t believe how fired up I was to get after some writing today. As a measure of accountability, I promised a friend I’d send him a chapter of a book proposal for Monday. He encouraged me to shake things up and dicate it, with the hope that the content might come across a little less writery. Which I get. When I’m cranking out fresh powder, or trying to anyway, what slows me down more than anything is this insistence that every sentence needs to be perfect, and dovetail seamlessly into the one before it, before I can move on. Which is the opposite of creativity. It’s problem-solving, where every sentence is a Rubik’s Cube, with each word a brightly-colored square. It’s slow fucking going.
So I’ve got ten or fifteen minutes worth of content- maybe 45 minutes of transcribing – and then some editing. I’m actually looking forward to that part, but for now, I’m just fucking around here. I’ve already made a playlist and I’m ‘thinking about taking a run, although a light rain has just begun and I don’t want to get caught having to cross back across the canyon in the rain. Yes, I’ve become soft. I used to run 18 miles a pop along the lakefront in Chicago in blizzards. No shit. I know that sounds like what 80 year olds say when they talk about the world when they were kids, but when I lived in Chicago, we were always training for a February marathon – Vegas or New Orleans, usually – which mean we’d have to do our long runs in January, following narrow little jogging paths winding through the snow along the lake with the snow reflecting the sun back into our eyes, the wind bashing away at whatever portions of our faces were uncovered and nothing but the crunch of Nike on snow to break up the silence. Fast forward to this morning and I’m leery about jogging five miles in a light drizzle. Ugh.
OK, with that, I’m off. To do what, ain’t for sure yet, but I’ll figure something out.
Update, 10:43 a.m.
I ran five miles without enduring a single drop of rain.