What Can Writers Learn from the New York Marathon?
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Back in 2006, I ran the New York Marathon. It changed my life. For years, I would go to the finish line and find myself with moist eyes, tearing up from looking at the faces of the people completing the race. Then I ran it and it was an even more emotional and esteem-building experience than I'd imagined. This Sunday, there I was, back in Central Park, watching it again. I live about a block away from the park so I feel intimately involved in the marathon experience.
This year the weather was optimal: sunny and cool. The top three male finishers all beat the course record. They ran in a pack until the last four or five miles. The women's race was much more interesting. A few miles in, one woman, Mary Keitany of Kenya, took the lead and ran most of the way without any serious competition. Then a follower caught up to her and passed her in the last two miles to win the race: Firehiwot Dado. Then a second woman passed Keitany and won second place. All these women gave a spectacular performance. I feel so inspired by their example!
We can draw lessons from the Marathon for how we conduct our creative lives.
How is writing a book like a marathon? First, let's say we do put our hearts out there and step ahead of the pack. If we are the one who is taking the lead in a particular subject area, we may feel alone. The people watching may ask if we are making a mistake to set ourselves apart with no one to pace us. They may not know the conditions we sense that inform us internally that the way we are racing is appropriate. Common wisdom is that we should only do the same as others. On the sidelines, they'll wonder if we have the stamina to finish the race we have defined for ourselves. Some will cheer for us, hoping we can pull it off. Some will hope we crash and burn. The lone runner out in front of the herd has to run in a manner that's based on instinct, training, and intention. It definitely takes heart and will power to be out front on your own.
Writers and entrepreneurs define our own goals. It's vital that we sense the rightness of our own speed for the distance we are traveling. How can we run the best race in stride with our purpose, abilities, and resources? In some respects we are visionaries and must learn to see the course in front of us through our own eyes. No one can run the race for us. It's a moment by moment experience. They can't live our lives; they cannot write our books. Even when I have worked as a ghostwriter, I could not define the vision for my clients, because at the end of the day I had to pass the material over to them to market. They had to live it as their truth and use it to help them realize their goals, not mine. I have great respect for the boundaries involved in ghostwriting.
When I write my own books, the parameters around my achievement are self-motivated. That's different. Often I see opportunities where others do not. Dare I run the course with those ideas? How far am I willing to go--and how fast--without being surrounded by peers? Can I sustain my vision and bring it to completion under my own steam? I don't enter the race of every idea.
Second, even if we are not in the lead on an idea, we must nonetheless trust that we can win the race we've set for ourselves. If we keep putting one foot in front of the other as writers, we eventually cross the finish line. There are rewards for coming in first, yes. But this does not detract from the rewards of running the race for its own sake. Or, like Firehiwot Dado, coming along second while we're putting a book together on a familiar subject does not mean we won't win in the end.
Third, we sometimes need help to cross the line. One of the most moving moments on Sunday was when I saw a competitor who had lost the strength to complete the final half-mile lifted by four race volunteers and two policemen and carried through the remaining course and over the finish line. There was so much humanity reflected in that moment. Those volunteers understood how important it was to come that close and make it all the way, even if it was not on foot.
I saw a woman whose left knee had been taped at a first aid station hobble the final distance with a crutch in hand, determined to finish her race. I saw senior citizens finish. I saw blind people finish. I saw people in wheelchairs do the race successfully with their arms alone. Writing has its own challenges, which are not physical, but we sometimes think we can't make it because of a limitation, perceived or real, that we let stop us. It doesn't have to. And there is help available to get you across the finish line: You could hire a coach, an editor, or a writer. You could ask friends, colleagues, and family for support. You do not have to go the distance alone.
Ignorant spectators yelled out, "Go, go, go," as if the racers they saw walking across the finish line were not trying hard enough. I knew they didn't understand how walking across the line at the end of the race reflected the runners' tremendous commitment, and was the culmination of months, perhaps years, spent training. If the runners could have continued to run, they would have. They weren't "lazy" for God's sake, they had just run 26 miles! They were exhausted, depleted, spent.
For myself, I tried to be encouraging, clapping and yelling, "You're home. Good job. You can do it with a smile on your face." I understand that crossing the line is the main event, more than how you get there.
A fourth lesson from the Marathon is this: When you're writing, don't let critics and bystanders dictate how your process looks. Remember, you're doing a great and meaningful thing! You're expending the effort while they are on the sidelines. Let them lace up their own shoes and try to do better than you if they think they're so knowledgeable. Most people don't know squat!
I loved the runners who waved to the crowd and asked for applause and mutual celebration. Some raised their arms in triumph and approached the line with a smile on their faces. When they did, the spectators roared for them. It reminded me of my own ability to endure challenges. This lesson is obvious. Persistence in anything you do in life and art is a key to success. You may stagger and fall, but as long as you then crawl, walk, or otherwise move in the right direction--for writers that could be one sentence or two paragraphs at a time--you are not defeated.
Writing a book will introduce you to your own character. This is the aggregation of personality traits that make up the whole of your identity--your strengths and weaknesses, your desires and fears, your courage and ethics. Perhaps my favorite aspect of writing is discovering more about myself in the process. Doing a book is a transformational process, and it can be liberating! You can free yourself from false beliefs, embrace your shadow, and resolve your past through writing. Just as a runner meets the voice of survival that lives inside the head, so will you. You can push through "the wall" of negativity or you can succumb to its wishes. It's up to you.
Back in 2006, I ran the New York Marathon. It changed my life. For years, I would go to the finish line and find myself with moist eyes, tearing up from looking at the faces of the people completing the race. Then I ran it and it was an even more emotional and esteem-building experience than I'd imagined. This Sunday, there I was, back in Central Park, watching it again. I live about a block away from the park so I feel intimately involved in the marathon experience.
This year the weather was optimal: sunny and cool. The top three male finishers all beat the course record. They ran in a pack until the last four or five miles. The women's race was much more interesting. A few miles in, one woman, Mary Keitany of Kenya, took the lead and ran most of the way without any serious competition. Then a follower caught up to her and passed her in the last two miles to win the race: Firehiwot Dado. Then a second woman passed Keitany and won second place. All these women gave a spectacular performance. I feel so inspired by their example!
We can draw lessons from the Marathon for how we conduct our creative lives.
How is writing a book like a marathon? First, let's say we do put our hearts out there and step ahead of the pack. If we are the one who is taking the lead in a particular subject area, we may feel alone. The people watching may ask if we are making a mistake to set ourselves apart with no one to pace us. They may not know the conditions we sense that inform us internally that the way we are racing is appropriate. Common wisdom is that we should only do the same as others. On the sidelines, they'll wonder if we have the stamina to finish the race we have defined for ourselves. Some will cheer for us, hoping we can pull it off. Some will hope we crash and burn. The lone runner out in front of the herd has to run in a manner that's based on instinct, training, and intention. It definitely takes heart and will power to be out front on your own.
Writers and entrepreneurs define our own goals. It's vital that we sense the rightness of our own speed for the distance we are traveling. How can we run the best race in stride with our purpose, abilities, and resources? In some respects we are visionaries and must learn to see the course in front of us through our own eyes. No one can run the race for us. It's a moment by moment experience. They can't live our lives; they cannot write our books. Even when I have worked as a ghostwriter, I could not define the vision for my clients, because at the end of the day I had to pass the material over to them to market. They had to live it as their truth and use it to help them realize their goals, not mine. I have great respect for the boundaries involved in ghostwriting.
When I write my own books, the parameters around my achievement are self-motivated. That's different. Often I see opportunities where others do not. Dare I run the course with those ideas? How far am I willing to go--and how fast--without being surrounded by peers? Can I sustain my vision and bring it to completion under my own steam? I don't enter the race of every idea.
Second, even if we are not in the lead on an idea, we must nonetheless trust that we can win the race we've set for ourselves. If we keep putting one foot in front of the other as writers, we eventually cross the finish line. There are rewards for coming in first, yes. But this does not detract from the rewards of running the race for its own sake. Or, like Firehiwot Dado, coming along second while we're putting a book together on a familiar subject does not mean we won't win in the end.
Third, we sometimes need help to cross the line. One of the most moving moments on Sunday was when I saw a competitor who had lost the strength to complete the final half-mile lifted by four race volunteers and two policemen and carried through the remaining course and over the finish line. There was so much humanity reflected in that moment. Those volunteers understood how important it was to come that close and make it all the way, even if it was not on foot.
I saw a woman whose left knee had been taped at a first aid station hobble the final distance with a crutch in hand, determined to finish her race. I saw senior citizens finish. I saw blind people finish. I saw people in wheelchairs do the race successfully with their arms alone. Writing has its own challenges, which are not physical, but we sometimes think we can't make it because of a limitation, perceived or real, that we let stop us. It doesn't have to. And there is help available to get you across the finish line: You could hire a coach, an editor, or a writer. You could ask friends, colleagues, and family for support. You do not have to go the distance alone.
Ignorant spectators yelled out, "Go, go, go," as if the racers they saw walking across the finish line were not trying hard enough. I knew they didn't understand how walking across the line at the end of the race reflected the runners' tremendous commitment, and was the culmination of months, perhaps years, spent training. If the runners could have continued to run, they would have. They weren't "lazy" for God's sake, they had just run 26 miles! They were exhausted, depleted, spent.
For myself, I tried to be encouraging, clapping and yelling, "You're home. Good job. You can do it with a smile on your face." I understand that crossing the line is the main event, more than how you get there.
A fourth lesson from the Marathon is this: When you're writing, don't let critics and bystanders dictate how your process looks. Remember, you're doing a great and meaningful thing! You're expending the effort while they are on the sidelines. Let them lace up their own shoes and try to do better than you if they think they're so knowledgeable. Most people don't know squat!
I loved the runners who waved to the crowd and asked for applause and mutual celebration. Some raised their arms in triumph and approached the line with a smile on their faces. When they did, the spectators roared for them. It reminded me of my own ability to endure challenges. This lesson is obvious. Persistence in anything you do in life and art is a key to success. You may stagger and fall, but as long as you then crawl, walk, or otherwise move in the right direction--for writers that could be one sentence or two paragraphs at a time--you are not defeated.
Writing a book will introduce you to your own character. This is the aggregation of personality traits that make up the whole of your identity--your strengths and weaknesses, your desires and fears, your courage and ethics. Perhaps my favorite aspect of writing is discovering more about myself in the process. Doing a book is a transformational process, and it can be liberating! You can free yourself from false beliefs, embrace your shadow, and resolve your past through writing. Just as a runner meets the voice of survival that lives inside the head, so will you. You can push through "the wall" of negativity or you can succumb to its wishes. It's up to you.
Labels: book publishing, endurance, ny marathon, persistence, transformation, writers
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