Every morning when I write, words and worlds collide. So we run. We run the neighborhood, sometimes a mile, sometimes four, past the unhoused man who lives in a station wagon with his cat, flip-flops lined up in the parking lot like soldiers on a battlefield, past the half-dead assisted living place, past the Chevron 50 cents a gallon higher than anywhere, past the McDonald’s that reeks of rancid sausage grease, through the soaking grass, air shrill with Max’s rabbit-sighting yips, arms sore from leash pulls and—
as we run we build the worlds
then write them word by word.
For more on running, check out trail runner Adam Lee’s newsletter.
write. run. repeat