When I’m criticized unjustly (from my viewpoint, at least), or when someone I’m sure will
understand me doesn’t, I go running for a little longer than usual. By running longer it’s like I can
physically exhaust that portion of my discontent. It also makes me realize again how weak I am, how
limited my abilities are. I become aware, physically, of these low points. And one of the results of
running a little farther than usual is that I become that much stronger. If I’m angry, I direct that anger
toward myself. If I have a frustrating experience, I use that to improve myself. That’s the way I’ve
always lived. I quietly absorb the things I’m able to, releasing them later, and in as changed a form as
possible, as part of the story line in a novel.
I don’t think most people would like my personality. There might be a few—very few, I would
imagine—who are impressed by it, but only rarely would anyone like it. Who in the world could
possibly have warm feelings, or something like them, for a person who doesn’t compromise, who
instead, whenever a problem crops up, locks himself away alone in a closet? But is it ever possible for
a professional writer to be liked by people? I have no idea. Maybe somewhere in the world it is. It’s
hard to generalize. For me, at least, as I’ve written novels over many years, I just can’t picture
someone liking me on a personal level. Being disliked by someone, hated and despised, somehow
seems more natural. Not that I’m relieved when that happens. Even I’m not happy when someone
dislikes me.
But that’s another story. Let’s get back to running. I’ve gotten back into a running lifestyle again. I
started seriously running and am now rigorously running. What this might mean for me, now that I’m
in my late fifties, I don’t know yet. But I think it’s got to mean something. Maybe not anything
profound, but there must be significance to it. Anyway, right now I’m running hard. I’ll wait till later
to think about what it all means. (Putting off thinking about something is one of my specialties, a skill
I’ve honed as I’ve grown older.) I shine my running shoes, rub some sunscreen on my face and neck,
set my watch, and hit the road. With the trade winds wafting against my face, a white heron up above,
its legs dutifully aligned as it crosses the sky, and me listening to my old favorite, the Lovin’
Spoonful.
As I was running I was struck by a thought: Even if my time in races doesn’t improve, there’s not
much I can do about it. I’ve gotten older, and time has taken its toll. It’s nobody’s fault. Those are the
rules of the game. Just as a river flows to the sea, growing older and slowing down are just part of the
natural scenery, and I’ve got to accept it. It might not be a very enjoyable process, and what I discover
as a result might not be all that pleasant. But what choice do I have, anyway? In my own way, I’ve
enjoyed my life so far, even if I can’t say I’ve fully enjoyed it.
I’m not trying to brag or anything—who in the world would brag about something like this?—but
I’m not the brightest person. I’m the kind of person who has to experience something physically,
actually touch something, before I have a clear sense of it. No matter what it is, unless I see it with my
own eyes I’m not convinced. I’m a physical, not intellectual, type of person. Of course I have a certain
amount of intelligence—at least I think I do. If I totally lacked that there’d be no way I could write
novels. But I’m not the type who operates through pure theory or logic, not the type whose energy
source is intellectual speculation. Only when I’m given an actual physical burden and my muscles
start to groan (and sometimes scream) does my comprehension meter shoot upward and I’m finally
able to grasp something. Needless to say, it takes quite a bit of time, plus effort, to go through each
stage, step by step, and arrive at a conclusion. Sometimes it takes too long, and by the time I’m