Today I had two new ideas. Well, maybe one and a half; the half was remembering an idea I had a while ago that I liked, foolishly didn’t write down, and completely forgot.
The other idea I’ll be writing up maybe tomorrow and some this week if all goes well. I can ill afford to offend my recalcitrant muse, to whom I’ve recently extended a cordial invitation to return and make fertile once more the fallow fields of my creative mind.
Though, in all honesty, it looks more like me prostrate before her, begging through my tears and snot for her to flush out my constipated mind with her enema-like presence. Because that’s how I envision my writing life right now, a case of glaciated mental constipation.
I have had slow improvement over this half-month of NaNoWriMo. I gave up the idea of writing a novel during the month, opting instead to take any words that come to me and put them down without keeping to just the novel. I’m hopping around between it, plus some bits and pieces of another novel and a short story or two.
That slow improvement came to an awful halt on Tuesday. While at the gym taking part in a group training class called Special Forces, I did a deadlift and knew immediately I had fucked up.
A Short History of My Back
You see, eight years ago I hurt my back very badly at the gym, causing a bulging disk between my L4 and L5 lower back spine thingies. At the time, I was in incredible shape. I would do 50 minutes of indoor bike spin class in the morning, and then do as much as two hours of hardcore weightlifting.
This is what you do when at 38 your seven year relationship suddenly ends; you turn yourself into bait while you still have a few years left.
After I hurt my back, all my hard work began collapsing. I couldn’t workout like I used to—not even close—I couldn’t snowboard anymore, and I was in constant pain, 24/7/365. Sometimes I could barely walk it hurt so badly. The fixes didn’t fix much it seemed at the time (including a twice-performed procedure where they drive a very long needle into my spine and inject some sort of steroid). I had resigned myself to living in pain for the rest of my life.
And then about a year ago, the pain went away, mostly because I got a new mattress, and that’s a story for another day. The pain had been slowly poisoning me as a person, making me bitter, short-tempered, and antisocial. But the relief I felt…I can’t even begin to tell you. What a reprieve!
And Then I Fucked It Up Again
…Or so I afraid. I left Special Forces when I felt the sickening the pinch in my back, and for the next few days it got progressively more painful, until I could barely get out of bed.
But today, mercifully, the pain has abated for the most part. It’s not perfect, but I am confident it will get back to where I was last week, pain-free and able to function again.
So, for much of this week I haven’t done much writing. A little bit, but not anywhere near what I’d planned. But that’s ok, because I’m not walking with my hips canted out to one side in a tortured S shape because of pain.
This was a reminder for me to appreciate where I am and the state of my life. I have nothing to complain about, really, and when I inevitably do it anyway, I just need to remember that pain and the horrible notion that I could have had that pain forever—so quit your bitching and write something while you can.
