Back Off the Wagon

Last time I posted about running, I'd just finished the 5K training program from Zombies, Run! and was feeling pretty good about the whole thing.  That was back in February, and you may have noticed that I haven't said anything about running since.

That would be because I've barely been running since.  As much as I planned to keep going, circumstances conspired to knock me back out of the habit.  Most notably, the day after I completed the 5K training I came down with a nasty bout of flu that left me bedridden for several days and woozy for rather longer.  That alone was enough to destroy the momentum and make me reluctant to go back out while the weather was still so cold.

Once the habit's gone, it's hard to get back to it.  I managed one or two runs in the intervening months, but it's only in this past week that I've managed to get going properly again (and I do hope writing about it isn't going to throw me off course again).  The trigger, in the end, was upgrading my phone and finally being able to run the full version of Zombies, Run!  The thought of repeating training missions over and over just wasn't appealing, but now I finally have new plots to listen to.  Sure, I'm not exactly running the whole thing at the moment but I'm using what I've learned from the training and I figure I'll improve the more I do it.  Plus now I get to collect supplies and build up my base and that sort of thing is just cool.

It'll be a while before I turn on the zombie chases though...

Measuring my Life in Lampposts

Today I did the final run in the Zombies, Run! training program.  No more drills, no more mandated stretching breaks, just 45 minutes in which to run at least 5k.

Spoiler alert: I did it.  I reckon I covered 5k in just under 38 minutes, which is hardly world-beating but then I did have to walk for some of it.  And much of it was into a massive headwind as well.  Endeavouring to run while the wind is pushing you the other way at 20mph is not exactly easy.  Sheer bloody-mindedness kept me running continuously for very nearly the whole of the first 2k, but it also wore me out to the point where much of the rest was erratic, to say the least.  There's plenty of room to improve on my time if I keep at it.

At times like that, when running is a struggle, and especially since this last run didn't include the handy time checks I've been used to getting every couple of minutes, I make a lot of use of lampposts.  I tell myself that if I can just keep running as far as the next one, then I can slow down and walk to get my breath back.  And when I walk, I tell myself that it's only as far as the next lamppost, and then I'm going to start running again.  And then I'll run again, and I'll run until I'm worn out and think I can't go any further, and I'll make myself go as far as the next lamppost before I slow down.

It's a similar approach to the one I use when writing.  I found a long time ago that if I really want to write without getting distracted then I have to set myself targets.  I write in fifteen minute bursts.  Enough time to get going, not enough time to get bored.  And short enough that I can wait until it's done before I check Twitter or look at funny cat pictures.  I just have to make it to the next lamppost.

Untitled, like its subject

Every November, I write a terrible novel.

The National NovelWriting Month challenge is reasonably well-known these days, I think, and involves churning out a first draft of at least 50,000 words within the 30 days of November. I've been doing it since 2005, mostly because I find it an absurd amount of fun but also because it affords me the opportunity to transfer the stories in my head onto paper.

One upshot of having done it for so long is that 50,000 words really isn't that much of a challenge any more. It's not that much of a novel by modern standards, either. So I've taken to setting myself harder challenges instead. In 2012 I had ideas for two separate-but-related paranormal romances, one with zombies, one with demons. Rather than choose between them I elected to write them both and aim for 100,000 words in total. Parts of it were undeniably fun; there was zombie sex with parts falling off at inopportune moments; there was tentacle sex with at least fifteen tentacles; and there was a decidedly D/s threesome where the two gentlemen were technically the same person and the lady was under orders to obey one and not the other. Writing that many words in such a short amount of time nearly did for me, though. I struggled with RSI (never normally a problem) and had a massive meltdown in week three when the effort of sustaining the pace finally caught up to me. I made it to the target in the end, but it was only by the skin of my teeth.

So for 2013, 100,000 words was definitely out of the question. Instead I set myself the more manageable target of 75,000 words, but with a determination to get that much out of a single story. Much of what I've written over the years has petered out shortly after 50k, and I was keen to finally write something that would run a little longer. In the end, that story got to 78,000 within November and was finally finished in the following week at around 82,000. It's the longest first draft I've ever written, and I'm surprisingly pleased with it even now.  It's a tricky tale that starts as the story of a bored wife embarking on an illicit affair, takes a sudden left turn into urban fantasy with musings on the philosophy of creativity and ends, as all the best stories do, in betrayal and tragedy.

Why am I talking about this now, in January? It's a long time until next November and the next NaNoWriMo project (for which I'm thinking of tackling gothic horror). It comes back to the idea of challenges. I can write a first draft. I can knock out a story in a month, but it'll be baggy and uneven, and things will change mid-story as ideas suddenly come to me. It's not something I can share, except possibly with a couple of trusted beta readers. I need to get better at editing, at spending the other eleven months of the year putting in the graft that's needed to knock that story into shape, rather than leaving it languishing on my hard drive forever.

So this is my declaration: I will edit this novel, this year. I will put in some effort, and work on those words, until I have something I can be proud of for more than just the speed at which it was written. I say this here, so it's in writing. I can't go back on this pledge now, and anyone who reads this can chase me about it and ask me how it's going. And if it's not going, they can ask me why the hell not and refuse to accept any excuses from me.

I will edit this novel, this year. I will.

Make me.

I've been musing on the concept of exercise lately

This is because I've somehow wound up taking up running.  Thanks to the wonder that is Zombies, Run! I've been working my way through a couch-to-5k program and surprising myself with the results.  Not just in terms of how much further I'm now capable of running after five weeks of training, but also in terms of the fact that I'm five weeks in and still interested in continuing.

I'm not a sporty person.  I lack co-ordination and grace, I'm suspicious of the kind of enthusiasm implied by physical activity, and I was raised to favour intellectual achievements over sporting ones.  And it's only now, having somehow fallen into going for a run, that I realise how far my education fed into my prejudices rather than encouraging me out of them.

Like I said, I'm not co-ordinated.  Nor am I built for speed.  There was no way I was ever going be a natural athlete, no way I could be top of the class at PE in the way that I was top of most other classes.  Where I think PE lessons failed me is in never giving me a way of seeing any kind of improvement.  Regardless of the sport we were doing, I was flailing around at the back somewhere.  Sometimes I wasn't even entirely certain what the rules were, or what I was supposed to be doing.  And because we never seemed to do much in the way of organised training, I could only measure myself by comparison to other people.  And I was always, always down at the bottom.

Now I'm running.  I'm running alone, after dark so no one can see how awkwardly I run, how red my face is or how often I have to stop and walk for a bit.  There's no one to measure myself against, except me.  I may never trouble Mo Farah, but I could leave me from three weeks ago for dust.  That lardarse could hardly run for thirty seconds without gasping for breath.  The difference really is remarkable.  There's only three weeks left in the training scheme, but suddenly that 5k is looking reachable.

I'm not expecting to win any races.  I'm not even expecting to take part in any races (although this one always looks oddly fun - who doesn't want a free fish?).  Mostly I just want to be able to run for the bus without almost dying.  For years I thought that was, if not impossible, then certainly something that would take a lot of effort with no real enjoyment.  I'm still trying to get my head around the idea that it might actually be fun, but there does seem to be something quite satisfying about pounding along the pavement with heavy metal in my ears and zombies on my tail.

And of course, there's something even more satisfying about getting back home and into a nice hot shower afterwards...