Or, Why My Fitness Tracker Thinks I’m a Novelist on the Run

#writingcommunity #booksky #amwriting #writing Unfetterred Treacle

Are any of you what I call kinetic writers?

You know the type. The kind who can’t seem to stay in a chair for more than ten or fifteen minutes without having to stand up and discharge all that built-up story static. That’s me. I’m the person pacing the hallway mid-scene like I’m troubleshooting a spaceship, or standing at the window like I’m waiting for the plot to physically arrive outside.

It’s not even a conscious choice. I have to move. Especially when the writing is really flowing. The more intense the scene, the faster the charge builds, like the words themselves are sending voltage back up through the keyboard and into my nervous system. Conservation of energy, or witchcraft. Jury’s still out.

When the prose gets hot, I turn into a twitchy ball of narrative energy. It’s not exactly graceful. I spring up, do a lap around the room, maybe mutter something cryptic like, “Okay, but why is the goat talking?” to a bewildered dog, who thought she was going to get to go outside, then drop back into the chair like nothing happened.

This may sound like a productivity nightmare, but honestly? It’s how I know the work is alive. I call it Ants-in-the-Pants Syndrome, and for me it’s a feature, not a bug. The story’s clicking. Something’s on fire. The act of walking it off isn’t an interruption, it’s a pressure release. Like letting your gun barrel cool after you’ve unloaded half a dozen magazines. You don’t want a jam.

If I’m in a situation where I can’t get up, say, trapped in a café chair or buckled into a plane seat, that energy backs up. My brain starts buffering. The words slow. I stall. If I’m lucky, I can sneak a note into my phone, or whisper an idea into a voice memo before it disappears forever into the mental trash compactor.

I’ve learned to live with my low word-per-hour count. I don’t type fast, I get distracted easily, and sometimes my muse wears roller skates. I’ve hit that golden thousand-words-an-hour mark on occasion, sure. But more often it’s half that, and only if the stars align, the coffee is just right, and no one has mentioned waffles.

So, if you ever see someone pacing like a caffeinated ghost between writing sprints, know this, the scene is probably going really well. Or I’ve forgotten where I left my phone again.

Either way, I’ll be back in the chair shortly. Turtle speed. Caterpillar ambition. Static discharge at regular intervals.

It’s not elegant. But it’s how I write.