I spend much of my life sitting at a laptop. That is
hardly surprising for a writer, but I am probably more conscious of the
physical consequences than I once was. Cancer left me disabled, surgery cost me
ribs, and there are now fairly definite limits to what my body will tolerate.
Accepting those limits has been difficult. Earlier in my life I was intensely competitive in sport. Exercise meant pushing harder, going faster or trying to beat somebody, including myself. That instinct did not conveniently disappear when my circumstances changed, and I still find it hard to accept that what counts as a good session now would once have seemed barely a warm-up.
I have no useful argument to make with my body about this, although that has not always stopped me from having one.
These days I walk, use light weights and spend some time on an indoor exercise bike. What I can manage varies, and I have gradually become better at recognising when enough really is enough.
The biggest adjustment has been learning exercise needn’t be competitive. Sometimes I turn the exercise bike into a race against an imaginary rival, and suffer for it, but mostly I enjoy being active and the quiet satisfaction afterwards.
There are obvious benefits to general health, particularly when so much of my day is spent sitting. The effect on my state of mind is less obvious but probably just as important.
Spend long enough working on a difficult passage, and it can begin to assume an importance it does not deserve. I can change a sentence, read it again and eventually lose any clear sense of whether I am improving it or merely interfering with it and going outside interrupts that. My attention gradually moves elsewhere, and what seemed urgent half an hour earlier usually looks rather more ordinary when I see it again.
No revelation is required. Sometimes a little distance is enough.
Some days, exercise isn't really an option. My body can make that decision before I do, and experience has taught me that ignoring it is rarely worthwhile. Fortunately, physical activity is not the only way I can change the direction of a day.
I have played the piano for most of my life. If I do not feel capable of much physically, I can sit down and play instead. The concentration is different, but the change of focus can be just as effective. Ten minutes sometimes becomes much longer without my noticing, especially if I find a piece I want to keep going with.
This is something I value because it doesn't have to achieve anything. I spent enough years studying and working with music for playing to have had plenty of purposes in the past. It doesn’t always need one now.
There is also some reassurance in having parts of the day that feel worthwhile without being judged by how much I have produced. After cancer, that matters to me. A day does not have to justify itself through pages written or anything else that can be counted.
I do not regard any of this as a formula for other writers. Everyone has their own way of finding some space in the day. What they choose to do with it is entirely their affair.
For me, this is how things have developed. Some days I manage more than I expected. On others, the bike remains where it is, and I may play the piano instead or do neither.
There are still occasions where I push too hard. I still get irritated
by what I can no longer do, and I doubt that the competitive part of me has
entirely accepted the arrangement.
