Sweat, Struggle, Story: Why Creativity Thrives on Movement

Why I Run to Write

Welcome to Writing Under the Palm Tree. This week, I’m discussing the indelible connection between movement and creativity.

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It is thirty-three degrees outside. The snow has become crunchy, not fully snow or ice. Even while wrapped in gloves, my fingers feel numb, apart from the rest of my body. I am running—for fun.

That’s not quite right. I am running for survival. I am running to plunge my hands, then my head, then my neck, up and above the waves as they crest.

I am running to render myself useless to everyone and everything for thirty to forty minutes and only be in my body, only be in the moment, in the struggle, in the triumph.

My reasons for running are counterintuitive. If I had written them down, I am not sure they would make sense.

Here goes.

A lot of my fictional characters are runners or were runners. Which is something I am just putting together now.

I think this is because running, the way it challenges you, re-maps your brain after you push past the initial discomfort and the self-doubt, is something I viscerally attach to.

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In my working draft of a short story I am developing, there is an excerpt that is emblematic of how the act of running rests my mind, wrestles me away from my troubles, and allows me to pierce linearly into a more creative plane.

I’ve loved running since middle school.

I love it for all the reasons people hate it. I love it for the exertion it requires, the way it pulls and strips you of all avarice, of all pretension, and leaves you, instinctual, nervy.

I like that ragged spent feeling, knowing you burned through almost everything, all the black swirling toxins have left you.

Movement of any kind can get me into this headspace where I am not thinking about how to think, how, and what to write. I am simply being.

My mind is always processing and mulling things over in the background. Shining a spotlight on a difficult plot hole I can’t patch or a character that isn’t coming together, puts undue pressure on my brain. My mental gears freeze up, the synapses slow from the intense scrutiny.

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As a way of avoiding this hyperfixation. I let my brain do its thing in the background, while I go for a run. I release control. I move with vigorous intent.

I suspect I would have the same benefits if I played basketball, soccer, tennis, or some other sport where I could lose myself to instinctual and repetitive movements.

I know the tried and true advice is to go for a walk. That’s hit or miss for me. Going for a walk is passive enough that my brain can foreground my narrative and creative struggles and fixate on them.

I’ll find myself turning a bend on some leafy street by the marsh near my house, and instead of appreciating the beauty around me, I fixate on how the hell I plan to get my main character to be more decisive in solving the story’s central mystery.

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In Between Hours ~ Poetry & Process

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What are one or two things you do to free up your mind and get into your body?

Share your go-to practices in the comments below. We need to support our fellow creatives now more than ever. You may be the reason someone can continue writing that critical chapter or scene from their manuscript.

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As always, I will leave you with some wisdom from my ancestors.

If you are building a house and a nail breaks, do you stop building or do you change the nail?

My hope for you is that you find ways to change the nail as you build your house of words and narrative. May you discover the thing that gets your brain out of the spotlight and your body into rarified air.

May you find ways to breathe new life into yourself, and into, your writing.

In Solidarity,

Olu

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