'It’s a marathon, not a sprint.'

What marathon running inadvertently taught me about writing a book.

Eleven years ago I ran the New York marathon. It was the best day of my life, though I’m aware it probably won’t sound like it was. Before I tell you this story though, I need to set some context. I am not in the slightest bit athletic. Or even vaguely adventurous. I am however easily suggestible and don’t like being left out. So it’s thanks to my younger, fitter and considerably more adventurous friends (shout out here to Olivia,

Faye Blakes

and Maddy) that I ended up climbing mountains, running marathons, and trekking in the Arctic, all of which are stories for another day and all of which involved me at some point in a crying heap wailing ‘Why the hell did I say I would do this!’

I was supposed to run the New York marathon with the partner of one of those aforementioned ‘friends?!’ but due to illness he wasn’t able to fly, so it was just me running, with Faye and another friend Chloe there to cheer me along. It was my second marathon, so I (kind of) knew what I was doing, which made it feel less daunting in some ways, and more in others.

My first had been the Amsterdam marathon, chosen for its flat terrain, which I was reminded of by a recent post about her own first half marathon from the brilliant

Daisy Buchanan

, as I actually cried at the expo BEFORE the marathon even started. Everyone in Holland is tall, lean and athletic (or so it appeared to me) and I felt so intimidated by all the long legs in front of me as I went to collect my number I very nearly headed home immediately. Luckily, Faye, Maddy and Olivia were there to make sure I didn’t, and while it was HARD, I did it.

Anyway, back to New York. We arrived on a chilly day, but with bright sunshine and a continued forecast for the same. But on the day of the marathon it dropped to 2 degrees, with the windchill factor making it feel like -5. I was NOT prepared for those sorts of temperatures. At marathons of the size of New York, runners are separated into groups (called waves) I was in the slow (and I mean slow!) wave - which meant arriving at the marathon village at 6.30 am and hanging around until my wave set off at 10.30am. In the freezing cold. With no shelter.

Those four hours were torture. All the people who had experience of the changeable New York temperatures had bin bags with them and stayed close to each other, using their body heat to keep themselves warm. I just had my running top and fleece and had to keep moving (slowly) so I didn’t seize up, or use too much energy, and kept drinking hot water from a Dunkin’ Donuts stand that was my saviour. Incidentally, it was the same Dunkin’ Donuts stand that was responsible for the hat I am wearing in the photograph, which they gave out for free. It’s a hat I still treasure to this day. HOW COLD DO I LOOK?!

When our wave finally set off mid-morning I started crying immediately (NB I cry a lot). Not because of the cold, or because I had 26.2 miles of running ahead of me, but because I couldn’t quite believe I was there, doing this amazing thing, in this amazing place. I GENUINELY only have wonderful memories of the day from that moment on. We ran through every single borough, with thousands of New Yorkers cheering us on, and with Faye and Chloe popping up every few miles, screaming my name and hugging me hard. I continued to cry a lot. Not from pain or tiredness (though I know both were present) but from sheer joy. It remains one of my most treasured memories. I don’t remember what time I did, I just know it was an incredible experience.

And so that brings me to writing. I often hear people saying that it’s a marathon not a sprint, and just recently I’ve started to see how comparable the two are. I remember when I was first running, I used to listen to various marathon training podcasts and I heard it repeated often that ‘90% of running a marathon is mental. The other 10% is mental,’ and with my second novel, I can see how the same is true.

Yes, of course you have to train (learn and practice your craft), take advice from experts who’ve done it (reading writing books, listening to other writers speak) and make sure you are fuelling yourself (for me that’s reading lots, and widely) but the real battle when the going gets tough is in your mind. That little voice that told me ‘you’re not a runner’ in Amsterdam, is the same voice that tells me ‘You’re not a writer,’ when I struggle to put words on a page. The little voice that said ‘You should have been better prepared for the weather’ in New York is the one that says ‘You’re not qualified to be a writer.’ It’s the strength/folly/sheer bloody-mindedness to carry on anyway, regardless of what that little voice says, that means the race gets run and the book gets written.

It’s also important for me to have people to cheer me on, in the moments where that bloody-mindedness falters. In Amsterdam Faye’s incredible family (The Andrewses we call them) were there, waving union jack hands every few miles. The sight of them gave me strength when I was flagging. Faye’s brother Chris even ran with me when I was really wobbling. In New York it was Faye (again!) and Chloe, waving hysterically every time they saw me. During the writing of my second novel it is

Samuel Burr

(author of the BRILLIANT Fellowship of Puzzlemakers ) I turn to on an almost daily basis as we cheer each other on through each milestone, and my debut group who I wrote about a few weeks ago.

When I think back to the New York marathon ALL I can remember is the joy. When I think back to writing The List of Suspicious Things I feel the same. When this second novel is done, will I even remember the angst, and the heartache, and the doubt? Or will I remember those wonderful moments of flow, when I know I’m onto something, and writing feels like the best thing in the world. My marathon experience tells me it’s the latter.