Running was hard yesterday. Really hard.
I felt good setting off, then had a classic 'why am I doing this' moment, then got past that, then bumpfh. There's no other way to describe it; bumpfh. I just didn't feel like I had a run inside me.
It can be the same with writing. All of a sudden, the clatter of the keyboard stops, and I realise the cursor hasn't done anything but blink at me for five minutes, like a patient dog.
Everything inside me told me to turn back. Not your day. Give up on a bad job. Bumpfh is a comfy thing; cosy, reassuring as it helps you take off the running shoes, or switch windows from your WIP to your browser. Or switch off.
In the wind and dark, I switched playlists on my mp3 player, and kept going.
Some of it was walking; my body was part of the bumpfh conspiracy, pulling a stitch out of the 'can't run' bag to block my way. Some of it felt like spectacularly poor running; the kind where you think you're not making any more progress than you would with a swift walk.
But I moved forwards.
At the end, I did a sprint finish in the dark; I outran the security light at the end of my street, passing it before it could cast it's glare over me. I felt that sensation I must have had when I ran downhill as a kid; when your body places your feet with a precision you couldn't dream of actively replicating. It felt amazing.
That's what this blog post is about; just the process of writing, putting words in order on screen or on paper is important to me. It should be rewrites for Coalface, but this is a good alternative. All I have to do is keep the words moving, and the internal power of Freddy's story will do the rest.
I ran yesterday. And I'm writing today. Because that's what I do to move forward. I hope you move forward today, too.