I was going to write about Health & Safety for Writers at length, since right now the issue is quite relevant to me, and I think many writers take their back’s health for granted. What’s more normal than sitting for hours and hours on end, agonising on that last paragraph, the ideal beginning, the right ending? Well, those hours and hours on our backside make our backside fragile (and probably rotund), with a number of dire consequences looming in the future: from an annoying sore back to the extreme subluxations of slipped (or herniated, or prolapsed) discs (what I have). Sciatica is just the beginning.
Something like this seems to be incredibly useful and beneficial, a ‘zero’ gravity chair where the weight on the back is virtually eliminated:
(and if you know where I can try/find one similar to this one, please let me know)
So, Writers beware: exercise a little, take that walk, watch the diet, keep working your outside shell as you do your brain.
But instead of going on and on about my backpain (ahem), I’ll mention that I made a connection this morning about Sartre, abjection and abhumanity, liminality, Gothic body horror, slime and the appeal of films such as The Blob (1958):
This was a good day.
I’m enjoying writing my ‘Cronenberg-does-Victoriana’* novel (first draft and all that), I’m not enjoying the backpain that comes with it. And it comes full circle (the post).
*D. Bishop says so!