Perhaps because I was one of those perpetually active kids—ice skating during winter days, playing kickball through the summer, racing my brother around the block, forever honing my tennis—I grew attached to the idea, rather early on, that writing and motion are true blood sisters: one cannot exist without the other. I can’t find new ideas or next scenes sitting down; it just doesn’t work. I’ve got to go out and take a walk, or stand up and start dancing, or climb aboard my very miniature exerciser.

It’s as if the movement floats my thinking forward. I hear rhythms, I feel stretch and pause, or rush and clamor; I get pointed north or east. It’s a beautiful thing, really, a privilege to climb inside that fluid space, look around, and see what I see.

I wonder if any of you have discovered this link between the body and the mind, the heart beat and the story?