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My daily life became an ongoing search for inspiration. I was desperate for my next successful blog post, and was willing to do almost anything to find fodder for my writing.
One day, on a whim, I decided that I would go for a run to “unlock my creativity.” I wasn’t entirely convinced that exertion of the physical sort was the key to my first Nobel prize, but the Blogger Buddy site was adamant. “Physical activity activates basal centers of the cognitive process,” the website touted. “Many writers find the act of performing simple movements - like washing dishes or going out for a run - will sensitizing synapses through an abrupt shift in focus in order to elevate reception of creative constructs through sub-conscious stimulation of neural receptors.” Blah -blah -go -for -a -run -and -stop -thinking -to -start -thinking -blah.
What Blogger Buddy forgot to tell me was that, unless your body is accustomed to physical exertion on the running level, it’s not exactly a mundane, simple movement.
It’s hell at five miles an hour.
My desperate desire to produce quality verbage had rendered my little frazzled brain incapable of long-term memory retrieval: specifically, the ability to remember high school gym class.
If my neural synapses had been functioning at their highest potential, I might have remembered my last attempt at becoming one of the gym-bunnies that could pound out a six minute mile and move right on to volleyball while the gym teacher regarded them with proud adoration. They could run effortlessly in laps around the gymnasium, quickly passing me - and then lapping me - while chatting in their obnoxious little pep-groups and giggling with that infuriating little high-school-cutesy giggle at their football star boyfriends.
I had the same amazing gym clothes. I had my hair pulled back into the same power-pony. And there - right there - was where the similarities ended.
The first step of that run was driven by pure jealous energy. I was insanely jealous that those skinny little bitches - in all their pep and cuteness - could so effortlessly impress their musclebound boyfriends and glean positive feedback from our drill sargeant gym instructor. That jealousy drove me into a panic that convinced me: if they could do it... so could I.
Less than half a mile in, it became blatantly obvious that sheer jealousy couldn’t propel me to their height. They had more than yoga pants and shiny hair on their side. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been operating in such a blind fury, I would have connected the peppy, cutesy girls to the cheerleading squad I hadn’t made at the beginning of the year. Unfortunately, the best thought I could formulate was a gutteral grunt of defeat as my body collapsed, drained completely of energy and will to push forward.
More unfortunately, I had also forgotten the humiliation of being escorted to the nurse’s office by one of the cutesy vomit-inducers and her even more vomit-inducing muscleboy, who dropped me in the waiting room and then stood in the hallway making out, just to mock my pain.
These are all flashes of memory that should have sparked inside my mind before I set off in search of literary inspiration.
One day, on a whim, I decided that I would go for a run to “unlock my creativity.” I wasn’t entirely convinced that exertion of the physical sort was the key to my first Nobel prize, but the Blogger Buddy site was adamant. “Physical activity activates basal centers of the cognitive process,” the website touted. “Many writers find the act of performing simple movements - like washing dishes or going out for a run - will sensitizing synapses through an abrupt shift in focus in order to elevate reception of creative constructs through sub-conscious stimulation of neural receptors.” Blah -blah -go -for -a -run -and -stop -thinking -to -start -thinking -blah.
What Blogger Buddy forgot to tell me was that, unless your body is accustomed to physical exertion on the running level, it’s not exactly a mundane, simple movement.
It’s hell at five miles an hour.
My desperate desire to produce quality verbage had rendered my little frazzled brain incapable of long-term memory retrieval: specifically, the ability to remember high school gym class.
If my neural synapses had been functioning at their highest potential, I might have remembered my last attempt at becoming one of the gym-bunnies that could pound out a six minute mile and move right on to volleyball while the gym teacher regarded them with proud adoration. They could run effortlessly in laps around the gymnasium, quickly passing me - and then lapping me - while chatting in their obnoxious little pep-groups and giggling with that infuriating little high-school-cutesy giggle at their football star boyfriends.
I had the same amazing gym clothes. I had my hair pulled back into the same power-pony. And there - right there - was where the similarities ended.
The first step of that run was driven by pure jealous energy. I was insanely jealous that those skinny little bitches - in all their pep and cuteness - could so effortlessly impress their musclebound boyfriends and glean positive feedback from our drill sargeant gym instructor. That jealousy drove me into a panic that convinced me: if they could do it... so could I.
Less than half a mile in, it became blatantly obvious that sheer jealousy couldn’t propel me to their height. They had more than yoga pants and shiny hair on their side. Perhaps, if I hadn’t been operating in such a blind fury, I would have connected the peppy, cutesy girls to the cheerleading squad I hadn’t made at the beginning of the year. Unfortunately, the best thought I could formulate was a gutteral grunt of defeat as my body collapsed, drained completely of energy and will to push forward.
More unfortunately, I had also forgotten the humiliation of being escorted to the nurse’s office by one of the cutesy vomit-inducers and her even more vomit-inducing muscleboy, who dropped me in the waiting room and then stood in the hallway making out, just to mock my pain.
These are all flashes of memory that should have sparked inside my mind before I set off in search of literary inspiration.
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