Getaway Snacks (1-31-24)
Nope, this post isn't about eating during a vacation, chase scene, or heist even. It's about a concept I'm borrowing from an exercise trend that promotes spurts of activity throughout the day along with full workouts.
Getaway snacks involve those few minutes I find here & there to pretend I'm doing something productive when all I'm really doing is taking five, like my dad used to say. I'm convinced a large percentage of smokers today & in the past were lulled into their habit by the ubiquitous cigarette break it affords.
I suppose a breath of fresh air is a suitable replacement—certainly a healthier one—although it does require admitting to actually taking a break.
But the underlying enjoyment of my getaway snack is its clandestine nature. When I take out the compost, I might stop while a flock of garrulous geese cruises overhead. Or if I need to put something on the front porch for a trip later to town, I might take a minute to listen to a red-headed woodpecker adding its solo riff to the jam session of rustling pine boughs & dried leaves.
Even though pauses like that are often viewed as practicing mindfulness & being in the moment & whatnot, I see them as breakaways from both the mundane & my writing.
Some might find it surprising that I go out of my way to escape from my writing rather than escape into it. The truth of the matter is that even though I'm only able to squeeze in an hour or two of writing on any given day, my writing spigot, so to speak, tends to stay wide open. Oddly enough, outside of designated sessions, I exert a fair amount of energy trying to slow the damn thing down a little or at least divert it, but like a rusty old fixture, it resists all but my sneakiest attempts.
Fortunately, I don't consider it an affliction & certainly don't suffer from delusions of grandeur. Throughout the years, I've viewed writing as simply a hobby & a steadfast ally that if placated enough with morsels & full-bore feedings will act less like that rusty spigot & more like the steely-eyed bull down the road with a full belly—watchful, but placid as I whistle & stroll on by.
Till next time.
Drew
Drew Faraday
Pearl Fields and the Oregon Meltdown
Getaway snacks involve those few minutes I find here & there to pretend I'm doing something productive when all I'm really doing is taking five, like my dad used to say. I'm convinced a large percentage of smokers today & in the past were lulled into their habit by the ubiquitous cigarette break it affords.
I suppose a breath of fresh air is a suitable replacement—certainly a healthier one—although it does require admitting to actually taking a break.
But the underlying enjoyment of my getaway snack is its clandestine nature. When I take out the compost, I might stop while a flock of garrulous geese cruises overhead. Or if I need to put something on the front porch for a trip later to town, I might take a minute to listen to a red-headed woodpecker adding its solo riff to the jam session of rustling pine boughs & dried leaves.
Even though pauses like that are often viewed as practicing mindfulness & being in the moment & whatnot, I see them as breakaways from both the mundane & my writing.
Some might find it surprising that I go out of my way to escape from my writing rather than escape into it. The truth of the matter is that even though I'm only able to squeeze in an hour or two of writing on any given day, my writing spigot, so to speak, tends to stay wide open. Oddly enough, outside of designated sessions, I exert a fair amount of energy trying to slow the damn thing down a little or at least divert it, but like a rusty old fixture, it resists all but my sneakiest attempts.
Fortunately, I don't consider it an affliction & certainly don't suffer from delusions of grandeur. Throughout the years, I've viewed writing as simply a hobby & a steadfast ally that if placated enough with morsels & full-bore feedings will act less like that rusty spigot & more like the steely-eyed bull down the road with a full belly—watchful, but placid as I whistle & stroll on by.
Till next time.
Drew
Drew Faraday
Pearl Fields and the Oregon Meltdown
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