I'm always thinking of shit to write about when I'm on the bike. Not cycling related ideas, but other genuinely interesting, even controversial topics that any internet trawler would glad to scoop into its nets. They come to me, these inspiration flashes, in complete, sparkling sentences, syntax intact with a full flowing narrative and heart-wrenching conclusion. But by the time I turn into the car park or the garden path they are gone, leaving nothing in their place but the inevitable pasta lust. I could stop, I suppose, and whip out a notebook. How writerly I would then look. And there may well be a combination of up and down volume button presses I could perform on my headphones that would allow me record a voice memo. Talking as I ride? I could do that. Looking like a total weirdo is no bar to me. But I cannot talk this tripe. this tripe must be typed. My voice sounds funny, you see, and fake. It makes me feel ill to hear it. So I just need to sit down. And tap. Tap it out. I say that to students of spin, riding right on the edge of their sustainable threshold. It hurts. Yeah. But you tap it out.
All twelve of you guys* are just going to have to excuse the last couple of posts and then move on and be momentously forgiving of this one. This one is worse than all the bike and cutsie children entries you could imagine. Writing about writing. The last refuge of the scribbling scoundrel who finds herself bereft of inspiration. But my plan is to put it out there as my first, or counting yesterday and this morning, third resort, for it to very not be the last. I'm going to attempt a little something every day now. It may be slight and it may not appear on this soggy ground. But something it will be. I'm resolouting here and I would like for this resoloution to be public so that you might hurl things at me in the street when I almost certainly fail. Almost. Almost certainly.
It really does feel like a return to exercise. Creaky. Uncomfortable. Somewhat terrifying in how much harder it feels than when I was banging paragraph after paragraph, day after day. But I do it knowing it'll get better, easier if I just apply a little consistency. And always, even after the first go or the often tougher second, I stagger in the door, or push the keyboard away, feeling way better than I have for quite some time.
*That used to be my big joke, hahaha, I only have twelve readers. It was never that funny since I rarely climbed over 150 but now it's one of those literal actual fact things, and thus well, slightly funnier, albeit in a pathetic way, than it was before. Which is kind of nice. Twelve people I can cheerfully ignore. I do it all the time for money. And now it feels once more as if I'm doing this, whatever this is, for me. Saying that, feel free to attempt to rectify this situation in any way you feel fit. Subscribe and rate me on iTunes.