Wednesday, January 27, 2010

My Great Uncle Horace

As I am writing to you, I am wearing my metaphorical sweatbands, dolphin shorts, and even leg warmers. Metaphorical leg warmers. I wonder if those look any stupider than real leg warmers do...but I digress.

I'm talking about exercising friends. Exercising our writing muscles.

Why do doughy middle-aged men, who have NO business wearing them, put on spandex bicycle shorts and pound the bike trails on the weekends? Why do 60 year old women turn on their 60 year old copy of "Sweatin' to the Oldies" volume 2 tapes every morning? Why do I park myself in front of a treadmill for thirty minutes everyday though I'd much rather be watching old episodes of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on Hulu?

The belabored answer to this belabored question: Because its good exercise.

Writing a novel in and of itself is an amazing exercise. It is the workout world's equivalent to a marathon. And sure, anyone could stand at the starting line of a marathon. And almost anyone, whether it be 5 hours later or five days later, can cross the finish line. But what about the exercise we do to get up to that point?

Short writing is great exercise. These silly, insanely narcissistic blog posts are great exercise for my thinking bones. I've even taken up journal writing as good practice, though I shudder for my progeny who will someday have to read it. So while the marathon of writing a novel may be as outlandish as my great uncle Horace with a game leg making up Mount Everest, jotting down thoughts you have every now and then is doable. And even sometimes a little fun.

And I'm sorry Great Uncle Horace, but you and I both know you ain't making it up the side of any moutain anytime soon.

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