In which I write about running and run on about writing

They say writing is like exercise. Do it every day, keep using the proverbial writing muscle, and you'll grow to be a better, stronger writer. But I haven't been writing. Not here, not anywhere. So, yeah. Atrophy much?

That said, I've been running like a mad woman. As in real, actual exercise. Not that metaphorical exercise-your-mind-and-grow-in-your-craft crap. I mean real, hard core run-like-a-rabid-dog-is-hot-on-your-heels exercise. When time is limited (as it always is) and I have to choose, I'm choosing the thing that gives me visible results. The more I run, the faster I get. And you can measure fast. And I like the measurable. Can't get enough of the measurable.

Writing gives me none of that. It's all intrinsic and unpinnable. Writing tips my scales toward neurotic. I worry I have nothing of value to say, that my narcissism has grown intolerable, that no one's reading.  But running? Running is just running. I just do it and don't give a rat's patootie whether my tempo run resonated with anyone. 

Running allows me to escape. Whereas writing nails me down, forces confession, twists my heart until I'm willing to look my life in the eye.

So, I guess when I put it that way, it's time to start writing again, isn't it?

(For the record, I totally kicked asphalt on my 8 mile tempo run this morning.)