Part of the coursework for my degree requires that I write annotations of the books I am reading. These are not reviews of books which is nice because it frees me up to learn more without worry about critiquing the story. I am finding that it’s a nice way to read. This kind of reading reminds me of a summer I spent shelving books at our library next door, and how some of these books seemed to make their way home with me after a shift. Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary prompted me to pick up my journal again as well as ask my boss for more “diary books.” She directed me to The Diary of Anne Frank and I read that one too.
I continued to write in my journal and worried that I was starting to sound like Anne, but what I think was happening is that I was beginning to pick up forms that she was using in her writing. Maybe I noticed she went beyond just describing her living quarters so I sat and tried the same thing: wondering about the el that rushed into the city outside my bedroom window, or the squirrels that walked on the telephone wires just a few feet from where I sat. I think what an annotation does is give you a chance to study someone who knows what they’re doing, point something out about their writing, and then give it a try yourself. For me, this process is exciting and scary.
There’s a class at our gym that I like to take on Wednesdays. It consists of 30 minutes on the treadmill and then 30 minutes on the bike: Trek and Spin is what it’s called. I started taking it three years ago on accident. I thought it was just a spin class and signed up for it because the room is right next to the nursery where Hadley and Harper would be. If there was a problem, the staff could get to me fast.
I didn’t know about the “trek” part. If I did, I never would’ve taken this class. I don’t run, or, I didn’t run. Unless it’s from a dog or a bee. So when the instructor came in and asked if I was here for Trek and Spin and I said yes, I was both relieved and worried. Relieved because I couldn’t figure out why I was the only one in the spin room and now I knew why, and worried because not only did I not run at the time, but the treadmills are front and center in the cardio room at the gym. I don’t really do front and center.
But the instructor walked me to where she was going and I felt stupid telling her that I don’t run…that I can’t run. So I got on the treadmill and tried not to watch the clock or think about how fast my legs were moving.
Three years later and I am not happy if I can’t get to this class. I don’t know if I’d call myself a runner, and I am pretty scared every time I step on the treadmill. I think, Well, last time was just a fluke. Today, you won’t be able to run. But then the instructor shows up and she tells us to be brave and so I roll my shoulders back, flex my fingers a few times and turn up my mp3 player. I’m still afraid, but I think I’m not afraid enough to try.
I exercise on (almost) a daily basis but this class is my favorite. Partly because I am doing something that I didn’t think I could ever do but also because the instructor walks me through and encourages me along the way. I don’t think I’d work at the same intensity if I weren’t going to her class.
But now I think I might have to try. You see, during the time the class runs my girls are in school, and I’m thinking that maybe I should use that time to work on my reading and writing. Maybe it’s time to focus on the dream I have to be a writer. Besides, I can run around our neighborhood. Maybe the instructor taught me enough so that I can try to run on my own.
So the other day, I laced up my shoes, grabbed my headphones and started to run. Just around the block, I told myself.
(Just write three pages. That’s all you have to do.)
I begin to get winded and think about stopping to walk but I remember she says to move the energy around: shift it to the quads, pull in my abs, shake my head yes and no. I try these things and keep running.
“…being taken into story keeps us ‘dwelling in possibility.'”
(OK, you have a character sketch. Not bad dialogue right there. How about two more pages?)
I round a corner and tell myself if I can get to the Fire Station then I’ll walk. Except there’s a dog loose on my side of the street so I cross it and chuckle at what I’ll do to stay away from the beasts.
“For we do not, after all, simply have experience; we are entrusted with it. We must do something – make something – with it. A story, we sense, is the only possible habitation for the burden of our witnessing.”
(What about that scene? Did you see that coming? I thought this essay would be about something else. What to do now? Which direction to go?)
My instructor says to make sure we strike the pavement with the heel of our foot and I adjust my stride so that I do this. I’m intrigued by the shift in motion it brings. I think maybe I can run a little bit longer.
“Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air, a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody’s head off.”
(Watch your verb tense. Look how many times you’ve used “to be” verbs. Bring this guy out more.)
I walk up the hill to our home, shaking out my hands then resting them on my hips. That’s enough for today, I think. Sweat’s dripping into my eyes and down my back and I’m trying to slow my breathing down.
“…he told it things he thought could be true to see how they would sound if they were said.”
(My middle finger on my left hand hurts from holding my pen. I put the pen down and examine the blister. For years its appearance on my finger was a sign September was here, that work was being done. I flip open the book I’m reading, hoping that something from this author’s words will help me with mine.)
I don’t know if I’m ready to run on my own. I may go to the gym tomorrow.
“Come on now, you try it.”
**quotes from: Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies by Marilyn Chandler McEntyre, I Could Tell You Stories by Patricia Hampl, Lit by Mary Karr, All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy, and Brown The Last Discovery of America by Richard Rodriguez.
lindseycrittenden says
Loved this, Callie. I don’t do front and center at the gym, either (egads!!), and yet, you’ve reminded me how much good writing—true, honest, real writing—reveals. I hope you keep posting about what you’re reading–and where you’re running.
calliefeyen says
Thank you, Lindsey. I’m beginning to think that maybe exercise and writing are going to come up in my assignments in the next couple of years. I should figure out a way to carry a notebook while I run. 🙂
Annie Wald says
I loved reading this–but even better I loved how it stayed with me afterwards. It’s a piece with resonance. You run. You write. You rock!
calliefeyen says
Thank you very much, Annie. What a high compliment!
Anita says
Some insightful parallels here, and I like the way you weave in the quotes.
Who said, “A story, we sense, is the only possible habitation for the burden of our witnessing”?
calliefeyen says
Thanks, Anita! That quote comes from the book, Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies by Marilyn Chandler McEntyre. I highly recommend it. Every chapter is outstanding.
alison says
i loved this. such a creative format. i’m too tired (blaming this parasite) to be more specific… just know that i enjoyed it. even if it made me feel guilty for hating running. and nothing you can say will change it. no matter how good of a writer you are.
calliefeyen says
Dr. Hartemink, you freak me out when you write the word, “parasite.” Can’t you just say, “a bad flu” or geez, even “walking pneumonia” would work. You know what you should do? Run it off.
alison says
i was mostly referring to this human parasite who is sucking all energy out of me. do you think i can run her off?