Today is is rainy and windy and cold.
And I am getting out of bed to run a half-marathon (13.1 miles).
There are many obvious comparisons between running marathons and writing.
I have run 30 full (26.2 miles long) marathons in my life. Not too many half-marathons. This will be my third.
Running distance is dumb and it hurts. I have also done a 50-mile race.
Writing is also dumb and it hurts.
I think the attraction for me is the idea of doing something that the other 6-point-something billion people in the world would not choose to do, when given the opportunity to remain in bed.
Most people go back to bed after writing about a page and a half of prose, too.
The thing about running is that you are guaranteed to finish, as long as you do not die and keep moving forward.
You NaNo people should remember that, too.
Don't die and keep moving.
Get out of bed and write.
7 comments:
This is my favorite metaphor yet. It's also the most challenging. I can picture myself completing a half-marathon one day, but not necessarily a marathon. That makes me feel like I will be able to complete many half novels, but never finish.
This was going to be the year I started running again. I took last year off and have yet to get back on the trails. This was also going to be the year I finished a novel.
At this point the latter seems rather feasible. The former...well, I'd better not squander the time I have available to use the state of the art gym that's 0.8 miles (according to Foursquare) from my house.
To writing and running! To being dumbasses!!
I am a big proponent of doing dumb things that hurt.
I must be, because I keep doing them.
I know you will finish your race.
According to NPR the 7 billionth human was born in the Philippines the other day. No, not like the 7 billionth in history, the 7 billionth living, human.
I wonder what TV shows he'll end up liking.
That 7 billion thing kind of pisses me off. People at my work are all like, "OMG, we're overcrowding and everyone just wants to get through our borders." Um, well, A) We have pretty much the same number of neighbors as we had when WE were born. And B) every may be trying to come here (so not true), but I am trying to get the fuck out.
That is all.
Amen to that, Jon. Let's go to Blackpool. Or Canada.
I have had my eye on a seemingly comfy spot in Newfoundland.
Newfoundland we be so tight. We could write, grow mushrooms, and breed Newfoundlands. Also: writing books.
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