3 months and 5 days. That’s how long it took me to get back
on the bike. It is amazing, and not a little disconcerting, how easily we fall
out of good habits, even habits that we enjoy. It is surprisingly easy for a
period of vegetating, deserved though it may be, and intended to be brief, to
become gradually stretched for a few weeks, then a couple of months longer
until it becomes the status quo. The inertia of inactivity can be a mountain to
overcome. 
I can speak from personal experience that the same thing can
occur in areas outside of athletic endeavors. It seems to me these days that
everyone either wants to write a book, is writing a book, or has written a
book. Where this desire comes from I can’t say. At least, I can’t generalize as
I am sure the reasons behind this are as varied as individuals themselves.
Perhaps it is a natural desire to have a voice in a world of cacophony and
confusion that often does not seem to make sense. In an existence where our
mortality confronts us at every turn, perhaps it is our stab at a small piece
of immortality- leaving something behind that will outlast our physical presence
on the planet. At least for me, it is a welling desire to express myself in
print that seems to come from somewhere deep inside that I can no more suppress
than I can suppress my need to breathe for more than a few moments.
My love affair with the written word dates back to my
earliest memories, poring over books about Curious George, the Hardy Boys, Edgar
Rice Burroughs’ jungle tales of Tarzan (even though he never visited the dark
continent), and Ian Fleming’s iconic novels of 007, the deadly spy whose martinis
were always shaken, not stirred. Even as an adult, I latch on to certain
authors who, in time, become more like old friends that I visit and re-visit,
over and over: Alistair MacLean, James Clavell, J. R. R. Tolkiien, Tom Clancy,
John D. MacDonald, and Robert B. Parker. The protagonists of their works sometimes
seem as real to me as anyone I know in my daily life.
At the risk of being
labeled extreme, my son was named in honor of Travis McGee, the loose jointed,
bemused, white knight on the, as MacDonald decribed, “spavined steed with a
rusty lance”, whose unusual adventures made up MacDonald’s multi-hued series.
Without a doubt, my desire to write is an outgrowth of my
love of reading. This was confirmed to me by none other than Mr. Prolific
Writer himself, Stephen King. No, I didn’t hear this from him personally. He
wrote a book, On Writing , and in it he states, several times if I recall
accurately, that to be a writer, you must first be a reader. I have never been a
big fan of Stephen King- horror has never been my preferred genre- but over the
years I have read several of his works that I really enjoyed and to read him
expound on his writing career and feelings about writing made me feel like we
are kindred spirits in that regard.
Well, to make a very long story short, I have been working on
“my book” for about ten years. I have no real idea because it has been so long.
One manuscript was completed and sent to a developmental editor who, as
expected, provided some encouragement but otherwise tore it apart, and rightly
so. Now, I am looking at re-writing something I put years, and my heart and
soul into. With Ironman Florida behind me, I need a new challenge and this will
be it. 2014, will be the year of the re-write, in hopes of producing something
publishable.
Whereas the Ironman was daunting as a physical challenge,
this will be more of a mental challenge. I was able to overcome distractions
throughout last year, and some mental obstacles, to get through a year of training
for the Ironman. Now I have to overcome my demons of distraction, disorganization,
and a persistent stream of doubt that I am qualified to join the ranks of
successful, published writers. In addition, at this moment, I am dealing with a
serious case of writer’s block. The story is there; I just have to find a way
to get it out and on the page.
Ah, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Here goes……………..
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