My Guilty Writing Pleasure

Massages.

‘What does that have to do with writing?’ I hear you cry, torch in hand at the gates of my castle. ‘Shut your git massaged mouth and hop in my guillotine.’

It has plenty to do with writing. Not enough to claim it on my taxes (if I’d made enough this year to pay taxes, at any rate) but enough to kind of justify this blog.

Firstly, I’ve got crap posture. I’m a keyboard huncher, and I will be until the day they find my mouldy body half nibbled at by all the dogs I expect to eventually adopt, crazy-cat-lady-with-severe-cat-allergy-and-dislike-of-cats style. This crappiness of posture is fine for a few weeks, until the pain in my shoulders is so bad that the only way to comfortably write is flat on the floor with the screen suspended somewhere above my head. Which, unfortunately, isn’t a thing you can very well with a laptop, and can’t do at all with a desktop, which is all I now have.

Secondly, I get stacks of work done during my six-ish-weekly massage. It’s like shower thinking turned up to eleven. There you are, face down on a table, soothing music playing, with nothing to do but think. Or sleep. But I go more for the Chinese get-shit-done massage and it’s very hard to sleep when someone’s digging their elbow into your shoulder blade, so I get a lot of thinking done. And unlike other places where my mind wanders, like the train, or standing in line at the shop, my brain goes straight to whatever I’m working on, or about to work on, and it finds solutions to my plot and character problems. Somehow rubbing out the knots in my back makes me rub out the problems in my work. Which is very helpful, albeit quite painful.

So I leave my favourite Chinese massage parlour, $40 out of pocket, back fixed and ready to sink myself back into my work with a fresh brain.

It works for me!

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