I think about writing about swimming all the time. Every time I swim, I do length after length, telling stories and crafting sentences, but then in the time it takes to run to the shower, shower, dry off, moisturize (winter and chlorine are a punishing combination), get dressed and get home, the words have evaporated, as has the impulse to write anything down. And then I tell myself it doesn’t matter anyways, that my swims these days are routine and ordinary. It’s not like the summer where I find new, exciting places to dip. It’s the same pool, at the same times every week with the same losing-its-structural-integrity bathing suit.

But I read Kerry’s “back to the blog movement” post, the imperative of blogging, of writing in that meandering way that maybe leads to answers, or maybe to questions, or maybe nothing at all:

“…write your way toward any answers you’re seeking. So a random post about a missing hat, or another about how I was looking for a babysitter. These were posts I wrote because it felt good to be writing and employing the first-person perspective again, though I wasn’t sure what they all added up to. In some ways, it felt like I was learning to be a blogger all over, learning to be uncomfortable. Questioning what this space was for, what stories I was telling, and what my voice was. So what’s the point? There usually wasn’t one.”

And then I read the thoughtful response pieces by Julia and Melanie and decided mid-swim this morning that it didn’t matter that my swims were routine and predictable. Writing and swimming are my two very favourite things and being able to write about swimming, (and think about writing while swimming) is my happy place.

And then I realized that my ordinary, routine, predictable swims are also exceptional and revelatory. Two weeks ago, I was kicking with a flutter board and  three-quarters of the way to the deep end (that actually isn’t deep at all), I had a flash of my next novel project. The character, the plot, all of it arrived in a fully formed package. Just like that. I’m in the final stages of my novel about Amelia Earhart and was mostly convinced that I’d never had another novel in me again, but as soon as I was back in the water, letting my mind do that wandering thing I love so very much, this novel idea arrived. It’s only been two weeks, but I am positively smitten and spend every waking minute jotting down notes and writing scenes and figuring out who all these characters are…

And then, just this morning, I stepped out of the house in the -35 chill with a huge almost-full moon hanging low over the houses on the other side of the street. And then I watched this moon from the middle lane of the pool, hanging huge and round behind a hydro tower as the sky turned a deep purple, then a lighter purple, and finally a glowing mauve. I haven’t watched the moon set, especially while swimming in well, ever.

And so, blogging and swimming and swimming and blogging…here we are, with moons and new characters and the same routine over and over again.