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  • Writer's pictureRoo I Macleod

The Hapless Writer-Life is like a marathon

The Writer's Blog 16082015

My worst fears have been realized ...

The scales died last night. Honest guv I went no where near them. Well yeah for sure I threatened them, gave 'em a look and wavered my foot over them a few times but I never, not once stepped ont them, not in a couple of months. Listen I wear track pants all day every day because I know washing your trousers on a hot wash isn't good for the diet.

Drinking is in hand but. Oh yeah I've found a new cheap off license that doesn't exclaim with glee when I walk in and raid the beer fridge.

Life is a marathon, so let's train for it.

I like twitter ‘coz it gets me to organize my thoughts into neat minuscule capsules, but I despair of people’s twitter blurbs.

Life is a marathon, so let’s train for it.

What the fuck does that mean. Writing a novel is a marathon and training for it is essential, but once it’s finished you can huff and puff and throw up from the exertion. There is an end to the marathon before you begin training for the next one. Who is going to train to die? Who wants to get fit, so bloody fit just so you die. What are we training for except the acceptance of death and that doesn’t take training but a morbid fear induced acceptance of the end being the end? The last breath means no more breaths or thoughts or actions or significance. Fuck I’m depressing myself now. Enough of this madness of training to die and accept the breaths run out and be happy with your intake and the vigour of your exhalations.

I own three dogs. Big dogs in a small flat but they’re good dogs because they choose sleep over exertion. I have a girl friend who follows the same principle, but she don’t like me talking about her. And I spend my whole time before my laptop fretting over words, while my dogs sleep and my girlfriend sleeps and sometimes the whole world sleeps and I wonder why I stress about the word, the phrase when no one else is bothered. Why do I feel I have to be so damn good when my inspiration sleeps and appears happy with the never ending slumber. I get five hours of zzz’s if I’m lucky coz I’m constantly thinking about the next word and as we know about the marathon there’s no point training to die an honourable death. Death is slow and irreversible and in most cases messy. Drool blood, fecal matter on a wet bed.

You see my dogs live for the walk. They don’t do chasing or fetching but they sniff big time. And the walk, four times a day gets their juices flowing like they know they’re going to get something grand outside my small flat. And they’re never disappointed by the smells and my park has some ropey stuff going on in the grass. They love it, but back home, a lap at the dish, a snuffle at the food bowl and their back to sleep. All is well again, until the next walk. And they don’t demand the walk. Just grateful for the walk.

Why can’t I be grateful for the breaths and the sighs and the exhalations? I eat well enough, sleep with a good loud snoring action and have no problem with my bowels so why do I want to fret over a word, a phrase or a thought? Is the writing my marathon toward death? Will I utter something profound on my death bed? Will I think a thought as I take my last breath that clarifies life. I don’t know and I’m not looking to find out the smell and the walk wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Stay hapless, eh?

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