I run. I run 6 days a week (usually). I often run alone (though this not often by preference). I add up the miles, calculate the times, keep track of the data and hoard it, occasionally unloading it on some poor unsuspecting fool with the kind-hearted misjudgment to ask me about how my training's going only to be sucked into my earnest long-winded descriptions of mile split times and goal pace. Mostly, though, the data piles up alone, looked at only by me. Thought about only by me, often on those long, solo runs. The numbers exist, though, as does my enthusiasm about them, and I always mean to do something useful and good with that data.
The other stored-up side effect of my weekly hours of solitary running are my thoughts. Strings of sentences woven together beautifully or instead left clashingly, unhingedly, misspelledly left swirling around. Names for characters in the novel I almost always am sure I'll never write, great invention ideas to sell to some start-up, to-do lists that get forgotten, world problems resolved, Russian verbs conjugated and nouns declined. I rarely do anything with these thinkings. Especially with Sam away and only a dopey greyhound close at hand (usually asleep) to share my best ideas with or embarrassedly admit the worst to, I have a pent-up junk drawer of words. Maybe it's the hangover of a run in too-hot evening humidity (snooze prevailed over reason today, and my AM run became a PM sweatfest), but I decided to do something about it. For once, action on intentions.
It seems weird to me to start a blog when I don't have something to blog about. I'm not really a writer, although I can sometimes piece together sentences that mostly follow the rules. I'm not planning any upcoming trips or adventures, I don't make picture frames out of unusual found objects, I don't have kids, I'm not sick--so what for with the blog? I don't want to become an oversharer, informing the internet what I think about these great blue socks I'm wearing or what form my caloric intake of the day took (with ironic-cute filtered pictures, of course).
I don't know. Maybe I'll write on here often. Maybe this will be the one and only post, forever causing the pain of some future would-be blogger who wanted to use this address and now is stuck in the can't-move-forward of having to choose some other title. I guess when I do write on here, it's safe to say that I'll write things that are true, unless they aren't. I will try to write accurately and grammatically, while still being aware that ending sentences with prepositions still just sounds better than the strangely awkward, affected alternative, of which this clause is an example. See? Now this blog post just took a turn towards asshole. Maybe if I write on this blog enough I'll be able to resolved my inner debate over whether I think there should be two spaces or one between sentences.
So we'll see what happens here. It's got a title, which is 90% of the worst part, except that it isn't really because the real test will be in seeing if I stick with this. If I have something to say, worthwhile or otherwise.
The other stored-up side effect of my weekly hours of solitary running are my thoughts. Strings of sentences woven together beautifully or instead left clashingly, unhingedly, misspelledly left swirling around. Names for characters in the novel I almost always am sure I'll never write, great invention ideas to sell to some start-up, to-do lists that get forgotten, world problems resolved, Russian verbs conjugated and nouns declined. I rarely do anything with these thinkings. Especially with Sam away and only a dopey greyhound close at hand (usually asleep) to share my best ideas with or embarrassedly admit the worst to, I have a pent-up junk drawer of words. Maybe it's the hangover of a run in too-hot evening humidity (snooze prevailed over reason today, and my AM run became a PM sweatfest), but I decided to do something about it. For once, action on intentions.
It seems weird to me to start a blog when I don't have something to blog about. I'm not really a writer, although I can sometimes piece together sentences that mostly follow the rules. I'm not planning any upcoming trips or adventures, I don't make picture frames out of unusual found objects, I don't have kids, I'm not sick--so what for with the blog? I don't want to become an oversharer, informing the internet what I think about these great blue socks I'm wearing or what form my caloric intake of the day took (with ironic-cute filtered pictures, of course).
I don't know. Maybe I'll write on here often. Maybe this will be the one and only post, forever causing the pain of some future would-be blogger who wanted to use this address and now is stuck in the can't-move-forward of having to choose some other title. I guess when I do write on here, it's safe to say that I'll write things that are true, unless they aren't. I will try to write accurately and grammatically, while still being aware that ending sentences with prepositions still just sounds better than the strangely awkward, affected alternative, of which this clause is an example. See? Now this blog post just took a turn towards asshole. Maybe if I write on this blog enough I'll be able to resolved my inner debate over whether I think there should be two spaces or one between sentences.
So we'll see what happens here. It's got a title, which is 90% of the worst part, except that it isn't really because the real test will be in seeing if I stick with this. If I have something to say, worthwhile or otherwise.
