The Exercise of Writing: Hit the Starting Blocks

Posted

 

(This post is the first in a week-long co-blogging series between myself and Sara Lewis Holmes on The Exercise of Writing. See previous post for complete schedule.)

 

 

When I was a kid in Colorado, I skied.

A lot.

 

Sometimes school let out early and the bus dropped us at the slopes.

 

Sometimes I found powder with my mom, sometimes I ran gates with my team.

 

Sometimes I’d leave a ski at the bottom so I could take a wild, one-legged ride.

 

My ski pass for the whole season (and I know this is gonna make you want to hurl) cost $57.

 

But here’s the thing. I was never great.

Nobody had their sights set on the Olympics for me… or even a decent college scholarship.

I knew it.

But I loved it just the same.

 

I loved eating Bit O’ Honey on the chair-a-lift.

I loved the names of all the runs and the signs with their geometric shapes and the little paper maps.

I loved pointing my tips downhill and pushing off.

 

Fast forward about 25 years.

 

I’m training for some race – a 10K or a triathlon or a half-marathon.

My daughter asks me if I’m going to win.

She is not kidding and I love her for that.

I’m able to articulate, at this point, why I’m not going to win, and how deeply and truly okay that is, and how it feels like I’m getting my own big fat prize just for running.

 

Which is what has kept me writing all these years.

My own big fat prize.

Not the Olympics.

Not a college scholarship.

Just the totally exhilarating sense of working hard at something and makin’ it happen. 
The thrill of fresh tracks. 
The thrill of working those same tracks over – again and again and again until it’s almost easy. 
The thrill of watching myself do something I only imagined I could do…

 

When Sara and I started talking about the physicality of writing, I don’t know what we meant, exactly.

 

Using sport as an analogy for what we do with words each day?

Using actual sport to support or inspire our creative work?

Using exercise to survive the anxiety of the writer’s life?

 

All of that, I think.

Body is inextricable from brain.

Writing is not entirely a cerebral act.

(There are times when I wonder if writing is cerebral at all.)

 

Twyla Tharp, the dancer, wrote a book called The Creative Habit and it is, unsurprisingly, filled with bodily ways of thinking about creativity. Tharp herself creates with her body but she speaks, in the book, to writers and painters, composers and chefs. And to all of us she says, “I can’t say enough about the connection between body and mind; when you stimulate your body, your brain comes alive in ways you can’t simulate in a sedentary position. The brain is an organ, tied integrally to all the other systems in the body, and it’s affected by blood flow, neural transmission, all the processes you undergo when you put your body through its paces.”

 

I, for one, am not gonna argue with her.

 

Writing is like sport – sprints and long slogs, blisters and, if you’re lucky, hitting an altered state.

 

Writing is fed by sport – the blood flow, the neural transmission – y’know, what Twyla said.

 

Writing is survived through sport – the release, the fresh air, the mind flush.

 

Right?
 

Sara? 
Sara? 
You there, sister????

 

 

52 Responses to “The Exercise of Writing: Hit the Starting Blocks”

  3. hipwritermama

    Oh my word. Ski passes cost $57 in Colorado? Lucky, lucky.

    Love this post. Thanks for the analogy of sports and writing. Very fitting.

  4. Anonymous

    So much in life is about the starting gate. Like me getting off the computer and going to the kitchen table to grade papers, which isn’t hard, and won’t take long ONCE I JUST GET STARTED!

    Okay. I’m going now.

    Mary Lee

    • liz_scanlon

      Well, believe what you want, Robin.
      I have NO pain threshold and I run (alas, jog) like a mule.
      But I like it…
      How ’bout you, burly backpacking lady…

  6. barboconnor

    I LOVE that Twyla Tharp book. It’s one of those books I read over and over again and always get something new out of it.

  7. Anonymous

    TadMack says:

    At the risk of sounding ridiculously hypocritical (Sara knows I’m a short-n-pudgy) I *do* like lunges. I’ve got this Brenda Ueland book all about how writers should walk long miles per day, and …to be frank, I never bought any of it, not really. Until I started the cross-country machine at the gym, and found my ‘altered state.’ Apparently if there are rocks or weeds or dog doodies, I can’t get there, but it’s just the movement that finds that groove in your brain. And it is addictive.

    Good post.

    • laurasalas

      Re: TadMack says:

      Which Euland book is this? Is it If You Want to Write? I’m reading that but haven’t gotten to anything about long walks yet. Just curious. thanks!

  9. lindabudz

    Skiing? Me? No way. But, dance … OK, now I’m feeling you.

    I’m starting a yoga class tomorrow, and I wasn’t thinking of it in terms of how it might improve my writing, but NOW I am! Yippee! Thanks for this!

    • liz_scanlon

      See, everyone just needs to find their own activity. I, for one, cannot abide team sports. But I LOVE that some people LOVE them…
      Now, yoga.
      Yoga improves everything. Writing. Love. Life…

  10. Anonymous

    I love it! And this:

    “I’m able to articulate, at this point, why I’m not going to win, and how deeply and truly okay that is, and how it feels like I’m getting my own big fat prize just for running” . . .

    makes me think of teachers who mis-use reading programs, like AR, who dangle a trinket in front of the kids for reading a book, instead of reminding them that reading itself can be an intrinsic reward.

    Jules, 7-Imp

    • liz_scanlon

      Right!!! Go, Jules. Way to take this and run, you jock you! (I hate bribed reading. That’s like saying,”If you promise travel around the world and experience all that is offered, I’ll give you five dollars.” Hellloooo. Missing the point, folks…)

  11. saralholmes

    Whee! Great run, Liz. Loving the comments too. I wish I’d learned to ski when I was younger. I CAN ski, but I’m way too cautious. My kids ski (and board) right past me. If I’m honest, I’d have to say I prefer snowshoeing. So beautiful, so quiet, no chance at all that someone will mow you down…

    I’m ready to take the baton for tomorrow!

  12. Anonymous

    I’ve been working out one poem forever. It’s like doing cartwheels over and over trying to achieve that perfect form and balance. Hey maybe if I do cartwheels over and over I’ll get that poem right!