Why Do You Write?

I was asked yesterday why I love so much to write, and that got me thinking.  Sure I could say it is a cathartic release or even a way to expel all my pent up creative energy.   I love telling stories and weaving completely new worlds. But even though all that is true, I think the answer I gave her was the purest.

Every time I put pen to paper, I get to reinvent myself.  Each time I create a world and build the characters that will make it spin, every thread, every first kiss, every single word spoken . . . I get to live it.   

Mind you, these lives we pour out on paper only exist in our creative minds, but building them is like living a total separate life for a few hours a day.

So tell me, why do you write?

Risky Writing

My parents are polar opposites; completely compatible polar opposites.  My dad says the higher the risk, the greater the fall.  My mom lives by the philosophy that the greater the risk, the higher you will soar.  As I sit here debating whether to add a certain controversial thread to my manuscript, I can't help but wonder which of my parents is right.

You Run; I'll Walk!

I am not a runner; I don’t pretend to be.  My husband is.  He runs ten miles outside every day regardless of the weather (and we live in New England so running outside can be quite an adventure in the winter.)  My son is a runner – he is on the cross country team for his middle school.  Even my five year old has taken up the sport.  Everyday I do at least two loads of laundry that is solely running related stuff, and each morning I move all three pairs of smelly, soaked-drenched sneakers from the kitchen floor to the deck.

In an effort to live by the theory ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ I decided I two would take up running.  I thought I would just slap on a pair of old sneakers, toss on a t-short and head out.  Apparently not.  According to the runners in my family, I needed gear.  Lots of it.   Special quick-dry shorts and thin running socks.  I needed a certain type of sneaker, one that had to chosen by the shape of my foot and the form of my stride.  I needed a GPS watch to track my distance, and arm strap to check my heart rate.  Another armband was needed for my iPod with special waterproof head phones.  And lastly, it was essential that I have this funky looking water bottle that attaches to my hand.

So I have it all.  I am the finest outfitted runner this side of the Mississippi.  Problem is, I hate it. I mean I.  REALLY.  HATE.  IT.  My feet hurt five minutes in.  I feel like I can’t breathe, my right sides kills, and I always, always have to pee.  The dog, who my husband insists I run with, has to stop to shit every five minutes, and God help me if he sees another dog.  My husband says I just need to run through it, that by the time I hit the third mile, I will find that zone.  You can imagine my reply to that.  If not, just string together every curse you know then add a few more and you pretty much got it.

Oh . . . and most importantly my chest kills.  The runners in my family, who are all boys mind you, forgot to mention that a special, well-made and very constricting running bra was probably in order.  So now my tata’s hurt to.

So that’s my rant for the week, completely writing unrelated.  Hope all you runners out there get a good chuckle from my pain – I do.  Enjoy your day; I’m off for a very slow, very painful and completely unenjoyable run.