I Had Writer’s Block, So I Ran a Marathon
How the habits of endurance running helped me overcome creative resistance
My goal wasn’t to run a marathon. I hated running. I had very little experience and was indisputably average at it. Still — here I was — four months into training for a 26.2-mile trail run.
I wasn’t running a marathon to get a six-pack. I wasn’t doing it to prove to a middle school bully that I wasn’t the 10-minute 32-second mile kid anymore (spoiler: I still was.)
No, I was running a marathon to get better at writing. Convoluted? Perhaps. Effective? Certainly.
Starting With an Impossible Task
Like many aspiring writers, I wake up most days in a sea of regret. Why didn’t I write yesterday? Will I write today? I lie there starting the day anew with a fresh outlook on my inevitable failure.
They say writers, write.
They also say writers write every day, they write at the same time, they write then rewrite, they embrace rejection, they write for the love of it. What they say about writers literally fills books.
I never checked all the boxes. I wasn’t a writer, I was an amateur. So, as all writers do, I avoided the problem and followed another lauded writing edict. Writers read.
I found solace in The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, a collection of brief vignettes that personify the creative resistance aspiring artists grapple with.
“Are you paralyzed with fear? That’s a good sign. Fear is good. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do.” — Steven Pressfield
I was indeed afraid. I was afraid of loving writing too much. Terrified of becoming someone who would spend the rest of their life talking about wanting to write. I scoffed at those people, but only because I knew we were so alike.
Embracing the fear
Embracing the battle of trying to become a writer was too real. I had no idea what it was like to conquer a seemingly impossible task. I had no skills, no experience with waking up every day with a singular goal in mind.
I didn’t want writing to be the first time I had desperately tried.
I needed a first take, a rough cut, a rehearsal. So, I fell into training for a marathon not because I loved running, rather, I chose running because it was a terrifying, impossible task.
If I could do something that was objectively more difficult for me than writing — running for 26.2 uninterrupted miles — in comparison, perhaps writing would actually be a respite.
Born to Run, Then to Write
There are three things that happen when you tell people you plan to run a marathon.
- Your non-runner friends will express the fears that constantly run through your mind. Oh wow, that’s really far. 26.2 miles? I wouldn’t be able to do it.
- Your competitive only-run-to-exercise acquaintances will start rattling off their high school cross country times and make excuses for why they haven’t run one already. I was planning to run one for charity but I figured I’ll just qualify in a few years anyway. Are even you trying for a sub-four?
- Finally, your supportive marathon-conquering friends will tell you to read a book. To be truthful, it will feel a lot like writing — you will feel comforted by the mere suggestion.
So, once again, I read a book — Christopher McDougall’s Born to Run.
The book gave an evidence-based account of how humans evolved to be and survived solely because we are born endurance runners.
Specifically, McDougall describes the uncanny running ability of the Tarahumara people, an indigenous tribe from the Chihuahua state in northern Mexico.
“They [the Tarahumara] remembered that running was mankind’s first fine art, our original act of inspired creation. Way before we were scratching pictures on caves or beating rhythms on hollow trees, we were perfecting the art of combining our breath and mind and muscles into fluid self-propulsion over wild terrain.” — Christopher McDougall
Running, it seemed, was the original art.
Writing Is Just An Endurance Sport
Four months later, I stood at the stove watching the eggs bubble in the pan. Two eggs whisked, a dash of water. The air was frigid in our old Eichler house. The sky outside the window was starless, the midnight blue that descends on the world just before dawn.
I had become one of those morning-run people I swore I never would.
In between working a full-time job and trying to have a life after 5 pm, it was difficult to find the time to run.
It’s an oft-said piece of advice from writers. Write at the same time every day. Write early in the morning. Write even when you don’t want to.
I scarfed down my eggs, did my stretching routine, tied my shoes just so. I stood in front of the house and visualized the route I planned to take. I started every run the same way.
While I ran, I focused on my breath. I never listened to music and I rarely looked at the time. It was block-by-block to the trailhead, tree by tree on the dirt path.
Writers and runners are kindred spirits
Over the past sixteen weeks, I had learned that running was more similar to writing than anything I’d ever known.
- Running had taught me to build a routine I refused to alter. Like any good writer, I always ate, said, and did things that were inexplicable and odd. They were my armor against resistance. Even if the run was sub-par or the words I put onto paper fell flat, I wasn’t vulnerable to the fear of failure in quite the same way as before.
- The hardest part of anything is starting; the more I ran, the better I got at the first mile. The less I cringed at the first few steps and the soreness in my legs. It didn’t get easier, just more familiar.
- My running progress was nonlinear, sometimes even bordered on regression. Some runs were rough drafts, other rewrites, some in the early stages of resembling something worthy of publishing. My ego never died, but it became accustomed to dips and valleys in my progress.
Race Day Was Just Another Run
Running the marathon was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Perhaps the hardest thing I will ever do. I will never do it again.
On race day, though, I surprised myself — I wasn’t nervous. I treated the run just like any other. I went through my routine, did my mental checks, focused on my breathing, rarely looked at my watch.
I had built a fortress of habits and grit that wasn’t impenetrable, but it was enough to finish a once impossible task. I ran a marathon because I needed to try.
I tried and I achieved, and now, I can try again.
Erika Noble is a Project Manager at a tech company in Silicon Valley. Connect with her on LinkedIn!