Posts Tagged ‘Gym’

Might even throw in some tea for good measure*.

I’m finally starting to feel like what I’ve signed up for (teaching + writing a novel + working with film people) might actually not be a tremendously bad idea. I had a very good working week that included a day of writing 3.000 words**, the manuscript is creeping towards the incredibly arbitrary half-way point and generally things are quite all right.

In a perfect world, though, I should have maybe 90 more minutes every day to go to the gym. It’s the one thing that has tumbled down the list of priorities, and a shame it is too – because I’ll risk ostracising myself from polite (and definitely writer-) society and come out: I quite like the gym. I like being in shape. I’ve been in tremendous shape in my life, but mostly I’ve been in some shape variations of not-too-good***. At the moment my default is better than it has been at times, but it could still be improved upon. Hanging out with swimsuit models and all round good guys Tom Pollock and Marc Aplin at Fantasycon definitely didn’t help. Luckily writers still do their impressing of the audience by proxy – but one cannot but wonder how long it’ll be until the bacteria of looks creeps into writing. There’s either a long, smart post to be done on this at some point or the acknowledgement that legions of smart people have covered our obsession with beauty way better than I’ll ever have, so I’ll tie that balloon off for now by quoting Oscar Wilde****:

“You have a wonderfully beautiful face, Mr. Gray. Don’t frown. You have. And beauty is a form of genius — is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation.”

…which worked out very well for him in the end.

I suppose as posts go, this one could be read to reflect the writer’s modest insecurities. It probably does, which annoyingly does not increase my Special Snowflake Status one bit. In effect what it means is that I’ve dealt with the last three months’ rapid upward swing in fortunes by being mostly balanced on the outside and filled with biscuits and minty chocolate on the inside. When things level out and I finish getting to grips with what needs to be done, I’ll get to work on that. Life, as they say, goes on – and apparently, much to my annoyance, you can’t do everything at once.

Someone should really look into that.

Toodles,

Snorri

* and a soggy blanket.
** Which sounds awesome – until you divide it over a week. Stephen King I am not.
*** And rhomboid at one point. Wouldn’t recommend.
****There is no way I can mention Oscar Wilde without this quote from Blackadder Goes Forth -

Blackadder: “Big, bearded, bonking, butch Oscar. The terror of the ladies. 114 illegitimate children, world heavyweight boxing champion and author of the best-selling pamphlet “Why I Like To Do It With Girls.” And Massingbird had him sent down for being a woopsie.”  (From Blackadder Goes Forth, Plan B)

Today, for various reasons, the brain Does Not Want. It doesn’t want to think, write, sing, dance or do any other dog-and-pony tricks. It just wants to curse the heat and be warm and not do much of anything. I’ve still managed to post cards for The Lady and talk to a dentist (how rock’n roll am I?) and go to the gym. I’ve recently started again, for the nth time – I’ve grounds to believe that the only reason why I’ll be watching rather than participating in the Olympics is lack of application. I’ve foregone the weights this time and am instead running (laughably little) every day, in order to inch it upwards and get in some kind of breathing shape. This is a cunning plan to combat stress, rest better and generally increase lifespan and whatnot. Exercise is necessary.

But so is writing, which is what I’m about to do. My random iPod just cracked on ‘Would’ by Alice in Chains, which by coincidence also came up yesterday at a key moment. Point taken, iPod. Point taken.

Another one seems to have whooshed past. So where are we?

Comfortable in the sofa and actively dodging getting stuck into an increasing number of things, that’s where we are.

However, all is not lost and sacrificed on the altar of procrastination. In less than ten minutes I shall leap forth, grab my jacket, seize my bag and vault towards the gym, where I shall huff and puff like a wheezing bag for a while. It shall be neither glorious nor pleasant to behold, but it shall happen, for such is my decree. The recent upswing in workload has all but obliterated whatever I could possibly (and optimistically) call a workout routine, and (just like I discover every eight months or so) having one of those makes life strangely easier. So an energetic vaulting is in order.

In other news, two American publishing houses have ‘parently asked for the manuscript of Swords, so that brings us up to eight people in various corners of the globe considering whether my modest Viking stylings are fit for public consumption. All of which is well and good – it does seem to take roughly seven different shades of forever, but every time I start frothing at the mouth and growling about people who don’t answer their emails I usually end up muttering “Rothfuss and Sanderson. Rothfuss and Sanderson” as I rock back and forth in a corner. It took those titans, currently standing astride the world of Fantasy, years and years to get their stuff published, so maybe my wait isn’t that long. When I’ve found a combination of time and energy (which has sadly not been that often), I’ve been amusing myself with writing short stories. It’s good fun, it leaves something tangible and it’s a good reminder that despite the publishing world’s current and puzzling lack of falling over itself to erect statues of me, I can still put some words together.

And on that bombshell I am going to leap to my feet and stride to the gym. And when I say ‘leap’ I mean power down the computer, put it in the bag, struggle to rise from my all too comfortable position and shuffle out of the house. But I will end up at the gym.