Last summer I walked four miles virtually every day. I couldn't get any writing done (creatus interruptus occurs constantly with three kids), but I could successfully bribe one of the two teens to watch junior for sixty minutes so I could attempt to maintain sanity.
Then I wrote a first draft of a novel in October, and then another in November. Needless to say, no exercise happened during those months. And then it was December and I was domestically-inclined, decorating and ordering online from Amazon when I wasn't attending meetings of IEP teams or some sort of therapy.
It is January now, and so theoretically I should be writing. Instead I have done a lot of cleaning out drawers, giving to Goodwill, getting stuff hauled to the dump and scouring vintage stores for end tables and comfy chairs, since our basement pair of armchairs finally bit the dust. And now, running out of things to clean out (if I'm desperate I can start on the storage in the eaves), I'm begun walking my four miles a day again.
This is, of course, what I'm supposed to do. I'm supposed to exercise, get my heart rate up, and tone my butt enough to keep up my reputation for a decent ass. But whenever I start writing, things like exercise and, say, seeing anyone in addition to my nuclear family, goes out the window.
Not that I've been socializing at all unless forced to. I'm into isolation big time. I'm hoping this is because I'm incubating before an incredibly creative period, in which I will edit the hell out of the two aforementioned novels and finally find a publisher for the trilogy. It could work that way. I've mostly modelled my creative process along "incubate, incubate, incubate, do!" lines.
Meanwhile, walking is ideal procrastination. I get to listen to a book on audible while walking my butt off (literally), and anything that allows me to listen to a book is a good thing. I'm creeping my way up to crows and wolves and sixteen-year old biology buffs with a thing for werewolves.
Hope I get there soon.