Robert Johnson, the blues artist, sold his soul to the devil to make music. I've sold my soul to the chiropractor for my writing. After neglecting my back for so long, I finally started going to the chiropractor for adjustments. I'm not sure what he does exactly, but it seems to be working. I leave the place in alignment. I literally feel two inches taller as I walk out the door.
Unfortunately, when I go back to blogging or working on the new novel, I lose my alignment very quickly. I lose an inch after every blog. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere. I'm not really shrinking, I seem to grow back when I go back to living my life, yet I really do emerge from writing in a bit of localized pain. There is a spot on my back just below my left shoulder which seems like pain central. Some artists reach deep into their souls to put the emotion into their writing. I reach deep into a spot just below my left shoulder.
I do wonder if its my chair at home that is causing this chronic pain. I write in my late father's chair that he had in his office for twenty years as he built a successful insurance practice. My dad was six foot three, so perhaps I not only can't fill his shoes, I can't and shouldn't be trying to fill his chair.
I once went to the "Relax the Back" store in Los Angeles to look for the perfect writing chair. Unfortunately, the perfect writing chair started at two thousand dollars. I asked the salesclerk if he could guarantee a pay or play option deal with Sony. He suggested the three thousand dollar chair for that.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald drank for inspiration. Poe did opium. My own secret place for inspiration is the Brookstone store in the Coronado Mall. They have those vibrating massage chairs. Don't laugh, I was able to relax and outline a chapter or two last week during the fifteen minute massage cycle.
This week, I'm going to crank out a few blogs, and put the final touches on my science fiction novel. My next appointment for the chiropractor is on Friday...