Writing a Novel is Not Like Running a Marathon

Writers don’t get free bananas.

Photo by Mārtiņš Zemlickis on Unsplash

“Writing a novel is like running a marathon” say a ton of people on the Internet who have written novels. Two years into writing my first novel, I’m starting to wonder whether any of these people who say writing a novel is like running a marathon have actually tried to run a marathon.

Because I have and I’m telling you right now writing a novel is nothing like running a marathon. At least it hasn’t been for me. It’s been much, much harder.

Here’s why.

A marathon takes about half a day. Tops.

Recently, Eliud Kipchoge, a 34-year old Kenyan runner, ran a marathon in under two hours. But even if you aren’t an elite athlete, you can finish a marathon, 26.2 miles, in about the same amount of time as the average American work day. Just under 9 hours. That’s if you walk the entire way.

Of course you’re not going to wake up one day and just do a marathon. You’re going to train.

Even still, most marathon training programs can be completed in about six months. A previously sedentary marathoner might want to take a bit more time to train to avoid injury, but a year is probably enough time.

Writing a novel, at least for a first-timer like me, has taken much longer.

Ideas have marinated, characters have been developed, outlines have been made (then scrapped), NaNoWriMos have been won, critique groups have been found, rewrites have been written, coaches have been hired, plots have been changed, workshops have been completed, online tutorials have been watched, story has been found then lost then found again. And so on into infinity.

The skill set is limited

The blessed among us who have strong, functional legs likely learned to walk before age two. Running probably came shortly thereafter. Most of us inherently know how to run (enjoying it is a different story), which is the foundational skill required to complete a marathon.

Yes, there are different strategies. There are pace calculators, run/walk plans, and optimal times for eating and drinking and taking bathroom breaks during a race. The basics, however, do not change. One foot in front of the other, no matter the pace, until you cross the finish line.

Writing a novel? Looks simple enough, right?

Lifelong readers can be lulled into the misbelief that we know how to write a story because we’ve been reading them since forever. We live and breathe stories. They are what keep us alive and sane and a little less lonely in this big, confusing world full of conscious great apes.

What I’ve learned during the process of writing my novel is that I don’t know how to write a story in the same instinctive way I know how to run.

I’m learning how to write a story while I’m writing a story. And I’m not a child with a spongy mind and an adaptable personality. Learning how to do something new when you’re not exactly a brand new human is hard.

It would be like signing up to run a marathon when you don’t know how to walk. Now that would be hard.

Someone’s right there with you every step of the way. Literally.

When you run a marathon there will be someone right next to you. And in front of you and behind you. There will be spectators on the sidelines with cowbells and silly signs. There will be volunteers handing you water and snacks. People will scream keep going and you can do this and I’m so proud of you, you big inspiration, you.

Training for a marathon can be solitary, sure. But there are ways to make it less so. When I trained, I tried to do most of my long runs with someone else. One time my friend rode her bike next to me for 20 miles because she wasn’t up for the run. If I was alone, I could listen to a podcast or a book for company.

Writing is different. You can write at a coffee shop or a library, but you’re still alone. No one can do it with you. It’s just you, your computer (pen/paper) and your picky, pesky, sometimes nasty, little brain.

It gets lonely. Sometimes I think a little cowbell would be nice.

The course is nonnegotiable.

There are a million ways to write a novel. You can plan, pants or plants. You can take a ton of wrong turns. You can write 10,000 words. 20,000 words. 50,000 words. Then throw them away.

When you run a marathon the course is not going to change on you.

I know. It’s 26.2 miles. That’s long. But that’s it. After you do it, it’s done.

The course is never going to get any longer. And you can study it in advance. You’ll know when the hills are coming and when it’s mostly flat. On race day, you can know with certainty there will be no surprise mountains to scale or rivers to cross. After you run 18 miles, no course official will jump out from behind a group of spectators, put a bag over your head and take you back to the starting line.

You start. You run. You finish.

When you finish, there’s a medal.

Okay, so I have zero experience on this part, but I’ve talked to writers, read craft books and skimmed many an article about how to write a novel. Nowhere did I hear or read anything about getting a medal when you finish.

Or even a stinking banana.

When you finish a marathon, you get a medal and a free banana.

I know one thing for sure. I’m going to write more days than I’m not going to write. I’ll keep plugging away at my novel. One word after another after another.

And I’ll never compare writing my novel to running a marathon. At least not until I get a free banana.

Or a little cowbell.