Reading, Writing And Running

Robbie Williams (hypothetically): How do you rate the morning sun?

Me: About three.

RW: Really?

CJ: Sometimes, yeah.

RW: Out of ten, right?

CJ: Per cent.

RW: Wow.

So I haven’t been writing here much because of work and things, and I don’t pretend it’s 2005 any longer and blogging’s all there is. That particular train doesn’t call at as many stations it used to, which is a shame.

It really is, how the early bloggers don’t write the future as much as they used to. That’s the thing about movements, you don’t really recognise them while they’re going on. They need their place in time to give you that perspective. I don’t count myself among them, really, because I was late to the party myself. Just on that metaphor, I’ve moved to the couch with a bottle of wine, maybe someone has a number they won’t call and there are suggestions of coffee which I ignore as I’m talking unconvincingly about the government or where the next Olympics are going to be.

This isn’t a melancholy post, by the way. I’ve just been elsewhere. I have been working a lot and reading in the last couple of months, too.

I read Liverpool In The 1930s and The Blitz by Ron Garnett, partly out of research but also because I want to understand the world my dad grew up in and years on now it seems a different planet from 1970’s Pennsylvania where I grew up such as I did. It’s a tender memoir of the city after the first world war and on into the second. The author went to the same school as my dad, and I recognised stories he told me about teachers he had, and the day Oswald Mosley visited the ground outside the school and someone standing near my uncle hurled a brick at the guy. We talked about it last week and he’s reading through it now.

I also read The Wild Things by Dave Eggers, which was OK, but the first of his books that I didn’t necessarily love.

The Name Of The World by Denis Johnson, on the other hand, is a different story, literally (“Nice” – reader’s voice). It’s about an academic and his place in the world alone and how he works in an industry with people he’s not really into, and what becomes of the content outsider when forty hits? It’s a tender portrait and very well written.

Clive James argues against struggling through worthy books for the sake of virtue. He says: “Without enjoyment, there is no art” and that’s completely right. I try and switch up books between those I read for their literary prowess and other for sheer enjoyment. Occasionally there is a sweet spot where you hit both, but sometimes you have to take one or the other.

Right now I’m reading A Connecticut Yankee In King Edward’s Court by Mark Twain, and it’s tough going, because you’re reading a Missouran’s interpretation of medieval English, which slows me down a bit, but the man tells a story like no one else.

I read that on the back of  a fun one, a real romp and adventure. It was light, but I make no excuses – what’s been really buckling my swash these days is the Genghis Khan series by Conn Iggulden. I’m glad that the books are easier to read that his name, because they have a real pace and power to them that draws into view a remarkable era. I’m about to start the third and latest one of the series and they are brilliant.

I’ve been doing a lot of writing as well, trying to flesh out something of a story. They say everyone’s got a book in them. I don’t know if that’s true, but the other day I woke up and all my pencils and about 70,000 words were missing.

I don’t know if much will amount by it, but we’ll see and I’ll share the love here.

I’m also running, which I haven’t done in years. I know that doesn’t seem like a good idea because of my asthma, but I think that if it’s hard then it’s a sign you need to slow things down get better at it, or it’s always going to be difficult. I’ve set myself a goal that by September I’ll be able to run 30 minutes non-stop. This will be awesome.