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Runity: Backity!

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IMG_2182I’m back!

And if you’re reading this, so are you!

Isn’t this nice? Us, together, here in this space of running, vanity, honesty, and accountability? Let’s stay here as long as we can.

Since my last post, the world has spun into agonizing extremes of flame and beauty. Volcanoes spewed and snow crushed and guns exploded and babies drew their first breaths and people graduated and made art and got new jobs and earned promotions and pledged to spend eternity together, while other people watched their planned eternities in residences or jobs or marriages or promotions or aspirations or all of those things burn to the ground.

What a world, what a world.

Version 2Here in the 9-2-0, since February, I got kissed on the top of my head by R.L. Stine during the annual book festival I help organize (important note: this moment was emphatically non-creepy, and R.L. Stine is one of the most generous, funny, and kind writers I’ve ever encountered). That’s probably the high point. I mean, what else could there be?

Other highlights: I got to listen to, work with, and teach other exceptional writers, both nascent and acclaimed. The campus press I’m founding is coming together. I WROTE NEW FLASH FICTION!! (Details and publication forthcoming in August). A dear friend visited and shared with my colleagues how she changes lives through teaching and writing. My kids sang and performed and my mother shared her wisdom and my father shared his support and my husband experienced new life as an administrator—and all the while, good friends kept me surrounded by laughter, great stories, entertainments, and alcohol.

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The cats were therapeutic as well. They do good work, these cats.

And through it all, I didn’t run. And then I did run. And I had a strange back/neck/injury diagnosed now as “tennis elbow,” which is cute considering I don’t play.

“It could be caused by sleep,” one expert told me. Which fits, because sleeping is my best sport.

Oddly, the elbow/forearm feels better after I run! “Circulation helps,” three out of three experts agreed. Isn’t the human body is a marvel and a mystery?

All the while, for the purposes of RUNITY, this very blog, I took running /walking selfies every day, and chronicled the change of seasons from the bullsh*t snow to the tenacious spring to the humid insanity of now.

Cue the April-May-June montage!

Runity5.jpegWhat are you seeing here? I see a fair amount of walking. I see some cruddy runs. I also see some great runs—including my first 5.3 miler and first 6 miler of the season (last week, rah!) I also see a person who ate a lot of bugs. Someone who applied ample amounts of Aveda’s Foot Relief Creme to toes and arches and heels.  (Tip: this is a wonder lotion. I swear by it.) Someone who applied ample amounts of thigh lube, and still chafed anyway.

RUNITY STATUS REPORTS

Mileage, volume, pace

As of June 29, I’m averaging 3 runs per week.

I run every other day or every two days. Yes, I have gone over a week without running a least a few times.

Specifically, I’m doing two runs of 3 or 4 miles plus one “long slow distance run” per week. The longest of these LSDs so far was last week’s 6-miler. It was long and slow, indeed.

I am not keeping track of my pace, but I’d guess it’s around 10:30 to 11 minutes/mile. Maybe even 12-12:30 min/mile.

 Plans and goals

I like what I’m doing now. If I feel like it, I’ll try to increase my LSD by small increments over many weeks. That’s generally how summer running goes for me. Maybe, if I want to, I’ll reach a long run of 9 or 11 miles by summer’s end.

 Or not! Nine miles is the distance that, to me, feels like a true churn, and running only gets harder and more boring as I go longer. This is chiefly because I am  S.      O.          

S.                  L.                         O.                              W. 

We’ll see.

 What’s in my earbuds

“My Favorite Murder” podcast—this is on whenever I’m running and often when I’m not running. I’ll say more on this podcast in another post. I adore it. I just joined the Fan Cult. I’ve bought merch.  (Thanks to my student Jordan for this life-changing recommendation!)

“Fresh Air” podcast— most recently Terry Gross’s interview with David Sedaris, who makes some pretty dark, cold, and funny pronouncements. He’s always a wonderfully candid guest on that show.

“The RFK Tapes”—a podcast which I never normally would ever care about. Like, if you said to me, “Hey! The RFK Tapes podcast is really great!” I’d normally tell you to leave me alone, ya fruitcake. But here I am, listening and eagerly awaiting the next installment (two weeks from now?!)

Audiobook— Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain, as read by the author. This is my first experience with Bourdain, who I only decided to listen to because of all of the positive, nearly ecstatic reviews of his life, work, and writing after his death. So far, I love this book, I love his writing, and his reading voice is a gritty, self-deprecating, incisive pleasure as I plod along.

Other motivators

Cute running shorts!

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A basket full of cute running shorts!

Also: my route is so green and lush and lovely. I can only run outdoors, not on tracks or treadmills, and this is why.

Also: it’s fawn season! And turkey season! I’ll say more on the new wildlife around here later.

Teaser: What kind of baby bird did I rescue/terrify/menace before my Wednesday run? (see below)

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I’ll tell you later!

Meanwhile, I feel for you, baby bird. You’re out of the nest with few skills, unable to see above the grass, with only the chirps of your parents (and one fumbling human) to guide you.

The one thing you do have, though, is a helluva voice. And boy, do you use it, despite how tiny and vulnerable you seem.

What a world, what a world.

Hope this fledgling makes it.

Hope you are making it, too.

Yours in Runity,

Rebecca

Runity: Dogged

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IMG_0599 (1)February has been a month of doggedness.

Earlier in the month, I was called a “pitbull.” No offense to anyone, but I don’t like pitbulls. They’re just not my dog of choice. So I took this word with me into my run later that same day to…sure, chew it over.

In my mind, pitbulls are all teeth and jaw and untrustworthy, according to my mother— or unfairly maligned, according to other people.

Either way, it’s not like being called a Collie, or a greyhound, or Golden Retriever. You are not called a pitbull because you’re snuggly or pet-able.

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Vigil

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Months after one of the last worst school shootings ever, I dropped my children off at elementary school, and found I couldn’t leave. I had to keep vigil. My kids’ grandparents, their friends’ parents, their family, their teachers—for us, every school day requires routine, radical imagination and faith.

My story, “Vigil,” a flash nonfiction piece, originally appeared in Carve magazine, Winter, 2013.  Click here to read “Vigil” in .pdf.

I would love nothing more than never to post this again.

 

 

 

Runity: On Banana Peels and Fussiness

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Along today’s run, I took lots of pictures for you. I wanted to rave about the surprising colors of nature in winter. And they are really great! But the most apt of my snaps was this:

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A banana peel in the road.

If you look closely, just a few feet from the banana peel appears to be the word “HA.”

Why share this image first? Because this week, I’ve been the fussiest, frettingest, ball of stressing-est version of myself. If you know me personally, you might be thinking, There’s a more intense version? Really?! She goes to 11? 

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Runity: Both/And

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IMG_0508 (1)You can’t tell by this photo, but it’s melting here. The snow, I mean. Below my shoes is snow and slush, puddles and patches—which means the road is both clear and sneakily icy.

Late January in Wisconsin is a time of both/and. There are sunny days so cold all you can do is scream obscenities through your scarf, and your nose hairs freeze and break, as you waddle the parking lot to your f-uh-fuh-fuh-freezing car.

And there are days like today: a real feel of 42 degrees F. Running requires a single layer of clothing and normal, toothless shoes.

It’s the kind of day you want to push you want to push yourself, linger a while, go fast and far—but you’re also out of shape and edging towards your (dear God) 50s and so you decide a little push is good enough. I took the 3.4 mile route and ran most of it.

Winter running is a spectacle of the beautifully dead. Look at these dried grasses with their big, feathery hats.

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Runity: Slow Burn, Slow Freeze

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IMG_0455What is there to do when it’s veerrryyyy cold outside?  Why, you can go running, of course.

As usual, the cats said, Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out! 

Oh, cats! I appreciate their lack of sentiment. It is far easier to stay inside with all your mousies and loll on sunlit stairs.

But this week, I worked from home and binge-watched docudramas on Netflix. When I ventured out for meetings on Friday, I returned with $100 of sushi, most of which I ate. My mind and stomach had an excellent week, but my legs and heart and brain needed brisk thoughts and bracing air.

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Runity: Sunshine and Failure, Linked

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Sunshine! Sunshine! Sunshine!

The cats and I could not get enough! But while they stayed inside and stalked chickadee-dee-dee-dees, I basked in the glow—it was glowing! see below!— of a real feel of 24 degrees F.

I wore my superhero shoes again and they felt wonderful. Dressing for running in the 20s is tricky, especially if you plan to walk, then run. Walking, you’re just a bit freezing; running, you burn up.

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Runity: A Journal of Running + Vanity + Accountability + Honesty

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IMG_0395What motivates us? I ask this of my undergrad novelists-to-be, as I find ways to motivate them towards a 50,000-word draft goal. Not all our motivations are virtuous or attractive, I say. We might be motivated by doing a job well, or by the shame of failing a class. Or both.

As a writer, I admit my motivations are usually both pretty and petty, at once open-hearted and full of fangs. A story or chapter can spring from these two forces equally, as in:

a) Neat! A new idea!(Oooh, shiny overheard conversation! Or, let’s solve this structure puzzle!) and

b) Screw you, buddy (I could totally write that book better than [imaginary nemesis], and I could totally win that contest).

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Four Stories about Craig Jones, My Local Book Seller, In Memoriam

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Craig Jones in The Reader's Loft, DePere, Wisconsin

Craig Jones in The Reader’s Loft, DePere, Wisconsin

I.

My first story about Craig begins in 2005, when Reader’s Loft was in its old location and I was promoting my first book. I was giving a reading at the store, complete with a reception and snacks— shrimp on skewers!— I mean, not just snacks, but fancy snacks.

The story I’d chosen to read was maybe not the best way to sell my book: a short, sad, how-to guide about anorexia, including tips on how to vomit.

I finished reading. The crowd sat in respectful, puzzled silence.

Then, Craig announced it was time for the reception: “All right! Let’s all go and stuff ourselves, and then we’ll all throw up!”

Darkly funny, irreverent, the consummate showman: Craig Jones was more than a local bookseller. For me, it was love at first bite.

II.

My second story about Craig takes place at my workplace, the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay.

We were far from the stacks of books and polished bookcases that I, like my children, sometimes assumed was Craig’s actual home. (I mean, didn’t he sleep on a vintage couch beneath a purring blanket of cats?)

Because for so many of us, books are home: a place of wonder, imagination, comfort, secrets, nightmares, mistakes— agonizing departures and tearful reunions.

Walking into the Reader’s Loft and seeing Craig was always, always like coming home.

On this day, for a campus panel on feminism, Craig and I discussed our actual homes—the ones with mortgages— and the people in them. I learned about Craig’s deep love of his wife, how long distances and harrowing commutes couldn’t keep them apart. How he nurtured his sons when they were babies. What he thought about masculinity, fatherhood, husband-hood, power, generosity.

Was he wearing a t-shirt with the word “Feminist” on it? I think he was. Let’s say he was.

As always, I said goodbye to Craig that afternoon feeling enriched, empowered, edified. Welcomed in, yet nudged outward.

III.

My third story about Craig may be your story of Craig. You’re a reader. You’re a writer. You’re a lover of leather bindings and advanced reading copies and special orders and hand-sewn journals. You’re looking for something new to split your brain wide open. You’re looking for something old to remind you that life has always teemed with villains and heroes, heroines and quests, chest-pounding promises, heart-stopping twists. You’re looking for Garfield to wallop Odie. You’re looking for a first edition of Beloved. You’re looking for that one book you heard about on NPR that had the word “night” in the title. You’re looking for the way to fall into a thrall that suspends your afternoon.

You’re looking for Craig Jones to guide you. And when you’ve finished reading, you’re looking for Craig Jones to talk with about the best part, the worst line, the stupid kiss, the genius paragraph— because Craig Jones helped you to see it clearly, because Craig Jones allowed you to dwell inside the magic of stories for as long as you had time.

IV.

My last story about Craig Jones brings us full circle: A reading at “the new” Reader’s Loft, in March 2014. I was promoting my dark, irreverent second book with a reading and reception.

For the record, there were no skewered shrimp— which, given my writing, I totally get. There was Amy and Kathy and Craig and a wonderful crowd of people—some who had never been to Reader’s Loft, and who now are lifelong customers.

Before the event, I met up with Craig. Would he help me by reading some lines from a story?

The story was about an exhibit on Coney Island in 1904. I needed the voice of a carnival barker.

As you can imagine, Craig Jones was the perfect literary carnival barker. (I mean, of course.)

To this day, I can hear nothing but his voice in that story, one of my favorite stories to write, whenever I read it again. Every single time.

Craig’s voice in my words is an agonizing departure. It’s a tearful reunion. A chest-pounding promise. A heart-stopping twist.

And I am so lucky. I will always have Craig Jones’s voice in a book, in a home, in my favorite place to be—beckoning us to keep reading and writing and talking about the things we hold most dear.

Lucky, too, because when we read books, time stops. In the flip of old pages, in the crack of new covers, we can hear Craig calling— always, forever, any time we wish: Come inside, Ladies and Gentlemen! Take a look! Don’t delay! Step right up!

*

Craig Jones died on Feb 12, 2015 at age 65. He was “the face of the Reader’s Loft” in DePere for more than two decades. He will be deeply missed.  Read more about Craig at Shelf Awareness. Watch him talk book selling and books on CSPAN here.