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.
