Running Not Writing
It's 2:40 PM. My sweat continues to drip, landing on this cheap plastic table from Office Depot that I somehow call a desk. I just finished up a quick run, one of several that I try to get in each week. I have the build (and looks) of a weed-smoking sci-fi fanatic, and it shows in stares from the general public. Everyone has their own reasons for exercising, and mine is to stay healthy, plus it feels really good...after the fact. During, it's an internal battle of your mind telling you it's fucking stupid, and that plenty of people are in perfectly good shape just walking.
But, like most people, I'm running away from something. I stream together words in a hopefully sophisticated manner for a living, and getting started always seems to be the hardest part. Once you're in that flow, that state, a 500 word or more post can be an absolute breeze. Ideas come easier, and thoughts expand like a spider's web, connecting the outer structure to the very core. It's a delicate dance of frustration and inspiration with distractions like social media and your favorite sites helping ease the process.
Most of the time, I feel great. I have thoughts of what I need to write for XYZ site I work for, and thoughts of what I'd like to write in the other time. NaNoWriMo is less than two weeks away, and I have ideas floating around for a sci-fi novel. I've never written a book before, but what the hell, what's the worst that could happen?
And that's the problem. I don't always know how my work will turn out. Will it be any good? Will anybody read it? Will it turn into something bigger such as another gig? The answer, at least with "will it be any good," is exposed further and further as the work goes on, but even then it's not a guarantee.
With running, I know the outcome. I know the different routes. I know the speed I can manage without burning myself out too early, and know what extra punishment I'm capable of taking. I know that if I push myself all the way through, I'll come out the other side feeling good and proud of myself.
With writing, I don't know what the other side will look like. Sure, with my paid work there's not as much mystery, but with a personal blog post, side project or what I hope to tackle in November, a novel, it could very easily turn out to be a huge waste of time, hours upon hours of pecking words into sentences with little to show for it.
Maybe I'm looking at it wrong, and not looking at it as the learning experience it is, and the process to become better each and every day. Maybe I'm too caught up in the fear of everything going all to shit, and reading comments and critiques about how they wish they'd have their time back.
Whatever it is, I'm trying to climb that wall of getting started despite it feeling covered in razor wire. Maybe I just need to get more bloodied, and be thankful I come out alive on the other side.
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