It has taken me a good five years to work out that I will never be a runner, and another five to accept that that’s okay. See, I love the idea of running. Whenever I see people running, I identify with them. And I do enjoy the feeling of having just finished a run. But the running itself? Not my thing.
So a runner, I am not. But walking? That’s definitely more my speed.
I’d never really thought about it before today, but walking and writing go very much hand in hand. Whilst of course, the actual pen-to-paper writing work happens indoors, sitting down, being outdoors and moving is where a lot of the magic happens.
I’ve never liked the idea of ‘writing inspiration’, because for someone as left-brained as I am, this lofty, abstract concept strikes fear into my heart. So no, I don’t believe that walking brings inspiration. But I do believe that there is something about the mechanical process of putting one foot in front of the other that has an organising effect on my thoughts, cutting through the swirling fog and marshalling all of the odds and ends into a neat filing system, ready to be accessed when I go back inside.
Walking makes me a better writer, but I mused this morning, as I wandered through the licorice-allsort-esque columns of the Palais Royale, whether writing didn’t make me a better walker.