I was pretty good about writing when writing was what I was doing.
Now, I get up at 5:30 in the morning and roll into my riding clothes. In the Breezeway Cafe (the marina kitchen at the top of the dock), I slurp a small cup of coffee to get my eyes open before rolling out of the parking lot on my new bike. It’s a Giant. I like it.
An hour and mumble later, I arrive at the workout place and, well, work out. Just my arms – my legs are taken care of. Shower, ride to work, work.
It’s not that I don’t have deep thoughts. I ponder while I ride. An hour’s a long time, even that early, and I rarely make it all the way to work without having some kind of wonderation about the state of some piece of the world. But I’m on my bike during all of that.
I have even had a thought or two while working. I know, I know – don’t fall over. Thinking on the job? Scandal! But really, I wish it was okay for me to stop and log on, or at least to jot down a note. Maybe that’s the answer, a little pocket-sized notebook.
The point was that I was better at writing when I was writing. My fiction fueled my nonfiction and vice versa. I really badly miss India. I miss the people, the food, the smells and sights. Not so much the crazy traffic, but hey – nothing’s perfect. The hot humidity made me want to sit in cool rooms under fans, and I did. I sat in front of the computer and I was so, so productive.
Okay, enough of that. I have a book 2/3 written and now I need to finish it. And I need to turn my musings into postings. And I need to do that regardless of whether or not I have 24 hours a day to devote to those pursuits.
There’s the commitment. Like it?