The Loneliness of Long-Distance Writing

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From The Literary Hub:

“You are alone out there,” my college track coach said, pointing to the farmland that stretched to the horizon. Years later, I know his words also describe writing a book.

We were stretching on the hot track, and would soon head out on the country roads for a long-distance route. Coach Taylor didn’t want us talking during our runs. He said it slowed us down. Track is a team sport on paper, but in reality, running is an individual struggle. You against the rest of the field. You against yourself. You against time.

I liked running in the heat. Growing up, I never followed my parents’ advice to run early or late in the day—I loved afternoon runs in open fields, under the wide sun. The heat warmed me up, and it also wore me out, but it was a comfortable type of exhaustion. I was a middle-distance runner, a sprinter who wasn’t fast enough for the 100 or 200, a little slow for the 400, and without enough wind for the 1600. But the 800 was just right for me. There was a symmetry to it, a distinct first and second act.

Coach Taylor sold me on the idea that you have to train further than you race. I began running ten miles past the Amish selling rugs and pies, past old homes that were an arm’s length from the road, past tired cows and lazy pigs. Running is an acquired taste, but at some point I tricked myself into enjoying it. I fell in love with the silent drift of long-distance. I liked to be out there, hot and tired, and alone.

. . . .

You are alone out there, I think, a few miles into a run in the woods, with everything on my mind. Lately I’ve been thinking about my book manuscript, and I suspect other writers who run do the same. I once wrote an essay for The Atlantic about why writers run. It’s not surprising that this convergence is well-trod: writing and running are methodical, habitual actions. Rachel Toor, writing for The Chronicle of Higher Education, thinks the connection has to do with discipline: “You know some days will be harder than others, and on some you won’t hit your mark and will want to quit. But you don’t. You force yourself into a practice, the practice becomes habit and simply part of your identity.”

Later in her essay, she refines her connection between writing and running: “the state of vulnerability they leave you in. Both require bravery, audacity, a belief in one’s abilities, and a willingness to live the clichés: to put in one the line, to dig deep, to go for it. You have to believe in the ‘it,’ and have to believe, too, that you are worthy.”

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3 thoughts on “The Loneliness of Long-Distance Writing”

  1. Sadly bad knees keep me from even pretending to run, but there are many actions of solitude that allow the mind to run free. Mowing the lawn, skimming the pool, washing the dishes – anything you can ‘autopilot’ through.

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