ON PACING

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I was zipping through my emails when I noticed an announcement for a writer’s workshop. The subject was: On Pacing. There was no subtitle. I began to wonder how one would teach pacing. First of all the instructor would need a large room so the writers could walk back and forth without bumping into one another. Would the instructor teach them to pace with their hands clasped in back or with their arms swinging at their sides? And then it occurred to me, does anybody pace anymore, including writers?

We live in a world of hyper active people. Just look outside. People are jogging, bicycling, running, or they’re driving cars at a very high rate of speed. And most of these people have objects stuck in their ears with names on them like Bluetooth and iPods. If you didn’t know what they were doing you’d think they were running from a major disaster or a 1950s movie monster attempting a comeback.

I can imagine Sir Arthur Conan Doyle pacing. But he was born in a different slower era. Plus, he’s English and has a Sir in front of his name. Knighted Englishman always pace, don’t they? But Sir Paul McCartney? I don’t think so. Well, maybe, after the divorce. How about Agatha Christie? She’s English and has a Dame in front of her name. No I think she would have taken long walks and tried not to go mysteriously missing. Dorothy Sayers might’ve paced with a cup of tea in her hand. But what about contemporary writers? The only one I can think of is James Ellroy. I can see him leaping up from his chair, darting back and forth for a few seconds, then sitting back down at his desk. But that might not considered pacing.

I decide to give it a try. I walk slowly down the hallway. I turn and walk back. I’m beginning to understand that it’s an action that has no aim or destination. This is difficult for a goal driven person. I turn and start back down the hall. I bump into my husband who has rushed in from our library.

“Sorry.”

“No damage done.” I continue my slow pace.

“What are you doing?”

“Pacing.”

“Are you worried about something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you pacing?”

“I’m testing it out. Wondering why writers don’t pace anymore? Why they need a workshop to learn how to do it.”

He goes into his office and sits down. He’s staring at me.

“I can’t pace if you’re watching me.”

Years of marriage darken and drag down his face as he turns to his computer.

Pacing is beginning to bore me. I realize that to balance this repetitive action the pacer must have a problem to fix, and idea to explore. I, alas, am thoughtless. Pacing is an activity exclusively for the mind. Watch a pacing tiger. The big cat slinks back and forth in a whipping motion. Look in its eyes. That tiger is thinking while pacing. And he’s thinking about you.

The dogs are now following me, hoping I’m going somewhere that includes them. I’m leading a furry parade. I step on Watson’s tail. He yelps. Zelda sits down and I almost fall over her. She’s biting her ass. I can hear my husband snickering. I give up my experiment and return to my office.

I wonder how my co-bloggers would pace. John, being a southerner, would have slow smooth gait belied only by his dark southern gothic thoughts. Leigh, hat pushed back on his head, might take long loping strides with a slight hitch. He’d be amused by his thoughts. I determine that Steve would be a quick absorbed pacer, his mind shifting vast amounts of data and facts. Deborah would pace like a Persian cat, but she’d be unable to keep herself from walking straight to a destination of some kind. Rob would wander, more than pace, down book lined aisles thinking about a murder involving the Dewey system. James, due to the way he writes, thinks, and talks, is the perfect stereotype for the erudite pacer. But does he really pace? Do any of us?

Pacing is a lost art. And therefore it should be taught. Unless of course the subject of the workshop was about that other kind of pace. The one that makes an essay go slow or fast as it creeps or hurdles toward its end.