fiction

As I contemplate (that's a fancy word for "doing nothing") writing in longer forms (that's code for the ever-frightening "book"), I (that's me) get a little freaked out.

This isn't an unusual pattern for anyone contemplating doing something large. Wrestling a large thing into a bunch of smaller things- chunking -is good for any large task. But I'm not looking for an organizational solution, but an emotional balm. I turn to Tiger Woods.

Tiger and his pro golfing buddies deal with the mental game of jumping out of the moment with a special kind of method: their routine. Routine is a refuge and comfort during times of extraordinary stress. When a golfer starts thinking about the outcome, "I've nearly won the Masters" rather than the mechanics of his swing, he's doomed. In the game of fine, precise motor adjustments that is golf, pumping yourself full of adrenline: bad idea.

Sure, golfers get excited and they deal with it by immersing themselve into their routine. Routine: good. The muscle memory that any athlete builds carries him methodically down the stretch. The routine is a focusing device that helps the body recover all those years of successful, grinding repetition.

Grinding repetition. That's one facet of becoming a writer. But just one and not the primary one for me anymore! This simple blog has helped immensely. When I sit down here, I have a bit of faith that somehow, something happens. Ah, routine. For my next trick, I hope to stretch routine into some stories. Since I've whispered the W word to myself, I've had a few ideas. Some are so wacky that you know that they are truly mine. For instance, there's one about Robert Siegel of NRP fame that is bent. That's probably where I'll start. You will probably never see that one.

I'm building a new routine now. My plan is to continue the blog, write more each day with a bit more focus, write on the weekends. Don't quite know what the routine will be yet but I will have one.

Thankfully, there aren't 10,000 of you watching over my shoulder as I type. How do golfers get anything done with the gallery's exuberence pressing on them during their final moment? Wait, I know this answer to this one.