When I first began writing I was relieved I no longer had to put up with irritating conversations during the commute, in the office etc and I was glad I wasn’t beholden to an employer. Not that I’m raking it in – in fact quite the opposite.
I stopped following the sandwich-for-lunch routine and rushing for morning trains / buses. Even during the early days of writing I still used to do a few seconds of early morning stretching exercises before walking / catching the bus or train to get to the coffee shop to write.
After eight months on home territory I’ve stopped smiling. My environment is far from being the best neither are my neighbours, but enough is enough.
I’ve put on weight (more than just a few pounds) and feel physical discomfort. I no longer talk to people as much as I used to and as a consequence I’ve lost whatever presence I had when speaking (hope that makes sense).
I also haven’t had my hair cut in months and I’ve saved on washing powder by doing the laundry…well whenever I can be bothered to walk to the washing machine. It seems that the demands of an office / public life aren’t all negative.
However the most bizarre thing to happen is that my ankles now hurt. I’ve spent my adult life walking quite easily for a few miles in cities but over the past few weeks I stopped. Instead I spend most of my time in a chair or on my bed with my legs stretched out with my computer on my lap. My lower calves first began to ache and now when I stand I hobble because my ankles hurt so much. They still hurt. I have no idea why – lack of exercise I assume – but it’s worrying.
Yesterday evening I’d had enough. My routine, such as it is, has become pretty slack and I’ll be changing things before the end of the month. I’m not going to sacrifice my health for the sake of following a so-called writer’s life.