Lorraine Mace

Notes from the Margin — September 2010

Text Box: Writing Exercises As with many writers, I spend so much time sitting around, either writing or planning, that my rear has expanded in direct proportion to my literary endeavours. The more I write, the larger my bottom line seems to get. Which was why, in a sudden rush of enthusiasm for get-fit-itis, I invested in an exercise machine. I am one of life’s compulsive multi-taskers, so looked for creative ways of using my time on the machine. Whenever I’m unable to write them down, ideas hammer away inside my head, so I thought that if I used a Dictaphone to record the flashes of inspiration that were sure to come while I was working out, then life would be perfect. I’d get to work and play. The idea was to allow my creative impulses free rein while getting fit and slim (ready for all the glamorous photo opportunities that are sure to arise if I’m ever famous). Plots, characters and dialogue would pour forth in a deluge, as they always do when I’m nowhere near a computer or handy piece of paper. The chosen instrument of torture is one of those multi-thingy machines where you cycle standing up and your arms go backwards and forwards at the same time. Its proper name is an elliptical cross trainer – the name I gave it later was much shorter and far less polite. Anyway, I set the Dictaphone to voice activation and put it on bed next to the exerciser, ready to capture every word. Coordinating upper and lower body movements took a bit of getting used to, but I was soon furiously pedalling and working out like a demon. Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. The truth is that I put the tension and other dials on the very lowest settings, started cycling and nearly died from working muscles I’m sure I’m not supposed to have. As I pushed on through the pain barrier I waited for inspiration to strike, but the shock of exercising drove out any thoughts of plotlines. All that happened was my brain screamed at me to stop. Like now! This second! Get off the damn machine before you collapse, you silly woman, sort of thing. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I forced myself to go for the burn. (That’s what I’ve heard super fit exercise gurus say. I have no idea what it means, but if heartburn qualifies, then I was on fire.) Maybe, I thought, as the ideas are refusing to flourish, I could record some dialogue for my latest novel. The only problem was that by this stage I could barely breathe, let alone speak coherently. Still, the whole point of the exercise was to exercise, so I cycled on and let the dialogue form in my head. When I felt I had the words and inflection about right, I started to say it out loud, so that the trusty Dictaphone could record it. What a pity I wasn’t writing a sex scene, because by this stage I was so short of breath that, no matter what I tried to say, I sounded like a pervert practising anonymous telephone heavy-breathing techniques. I gave up on that idea, too. I cycled on for another hour or two until I felt I’d done enough (okay, so I’m telling fibs and it was more like ten minutes, but if time is relative, then I can pick any time span I like). Exhausted, I staggered off and turned towards the kitchen in search of much-needed liquid refreshment. Not looking where I was going, I tripped over the machine of death’s feet and flew headfirst towards the nearest wall. Instinctively, I put out my hand and managed to fracture two bones in my wrist! Not bad for day one. I spent the next six weeks with my wrist in a metal-braced gauntlet that would have looked at home in any medieval movie and had to follow that up with ten sessions of physiotherapy. As Diana Nadin, director of the Writers Bureau, said when I told her my tale of woe, “I think the moral to that story is that no one should ever use exercise machines. I avoid them like the plague. Every time I go near my husband’s rowing machine I give it the evil eye. I firmly believe sprawling on the sofa eating chocolate and watching trash TV is far healthier in the long run.” My wrist and muscles agree with her. Pass the chocolates and remote control. Write Away! Notes from the Margin


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