Writing fictional characters is good because I get so sick of myself sometimes. The pickle is that the characters are all still me.
Lots of dog toys buried under snow.
We’re expecting another foot from tomorrow’s storm, and I didn’t want to shred the hidden toys when I cut a snowblower path from the backyard shed, so my son and I took shovels and, with Bones’s enthusiastic help, we successfully recovered:
- Purple Ball
- Earth Ball
- Pink Frisbee
Here is Bones “helping”:
Hell of a week. Damn good week. Not so good, perfectly honest, but here’s the result: stuff done.
Fiction aggressively written, vegetables dutifully eaten, lots of reading, lots of exercise. I un-Trumped a lot, gained perspective. I de-socialized, gained perspective. I was a craptastic person to live with for five days, so tomorrow I’m extra-hanging with my son, taking my dog for a snow walk, and taking my wife to an 80s dance party.
Note about the fiction: sometimes I need to aggressively write it, sometimes I need to make sweet love to it. Bear with me here. The creative process is a weird mix of bricklaying and sensual sculpting. You throw a lot of words down, realize they’re terrible, terrible, just terrible words in the wrong order and it’s stupid and you ought to quit and do data entry somewhere. And then you step back and breathe, and let the words breathe, and marvelous magic things occasionally happen. This week I brick-laid. Next week I breathe and massage it all more.
What I wrote about: a blossoming indoor tree, a ghost attempting suicide, an anti-house under a house. Also love, self-loathing, fear.
So hey, what happens when you work like a maniac for five days and then watch a movie with your wife, with gin, and decompress so hard you start sneezing and blowing your nose as if your head is actually-literally decompressing?
I will tell you. You feel justified in eating many corn chips because of all that exercise. You realize the brickmanlike fiction you wrote will magically awaken in the coming days. You get a little frisky with the wife (details withheld; nothing salacious; 80s night isn’t until tomorrow, after all).
You rewatch Zodiac (a note-perfect movie) and see a 1970s Bic pen and vividly remember chewing the plastic clip off the cap of that exact same pen in grammar school. You think, “I loved chewing that plastic clip when I was young, and I can remember the exact feeling of the plastic on my teeth and gums, and I’ll bet that’s why I identify so strongly with my dog when he’s chewing his bendy orange frisbee into bits and he knows I understand.”
So that’s the recap of my excessively productive week. I needed to do it, and I feel much better now that it’s over.
I’m stupidly tired after Day 4 of my excessively productive week.
I’ve kept on target with most of my goals, but the addition of snow-walking and snow-shoveling (along with insufficient sleep last night) has put me a little behind and I’ve got negative energy to do anything more tonight.
Off to bed, then, so I can be rested for the final push. I’ll post a grand tally of results tomorrow evening, and probably write a postmortem on Saturday.
Sweet dreams, jellybeans.
I’m viewing this week as electrical paddles. It’s meant to shock a healthier rhythm into my life.
The idea is to jolt myself into better habits. There’s no way I could sustain this level of effort, but when I dial it down next week — to 75%, let’s say — everything should feel more manageable and I’ll still be getting a lot done.
Plus it’s just kind of interesting to overdo things once in a while.
I wrote 1,350 words of fiction, read the day’s entries in my general knowledge and world history books, and read 125 pages of other books.
At the urging of two friends, I ate an extra 500 calories (for a total of 2,500) because my caloric deficit is way too deep, given that I’m also exercising a lot. Included in my meals were 3 servings of fruits and 5 servings of vegetables.
I burned 750 calories on the bike, and did 100 pushups and 20 chinups.
I mediated a total of 40 minutes.
I wore a tie.