I read somewhere last year that acclaimed authors including Joyce and Dickens were also great walkers, an attribute that is reflected in their work. Hmmm. I am most definitely not a great walker, and wonder if this inability to wander the streets, or climb mountains, is always going to condemn me to what someone recently termed ‘concise’ writing, and never to sprawling, magnificent stories. To walk, is to journey in the mind. So to not walk…The challenge is presenting itself to me. Can I reach as far when I’m physically not going anywhere?
It’s funny, when I do walk, I don’t think about anything except whether I can make it smoothly to my destination. Now, I’m trying to notice when the thoughts of characters, conversations or events come to mind. I walked down to an estuary a couple of weeks ago, in search of inspiration, but got none. It was when I was sitting, a beautiful view shimmering in the corner of my vision, that I was able to think.
My stories are still small, and mostly uneventful, but maybe being still is the beginning of going deeper. Maybe when I’m stationary, my characters will start to dance.